“My Son Moved Back Home After His Divorce, and My Apartment’s a Mess”: I Hope He Finds Love Again, He’s Only 30

Living as a single mother had its challenges, but I always found strength in my son, Justin. From the moment he was born, he was my beacon of hope. His father, Charles, left us when Justin was barely two, leaving me to navigate the trials of parenthood alone. We managed in our modest two-bedroom apartment in a quiet suburb, and despite the cramped space and financial constraints, there was love, plenty of it.

Justin was a sensitive child, keenly aware of our circumstances. He grew up with a resolve to better our lives. He excelled in school, went on to college, and landed a decent job soon after. When he married Evelyn, a kind-hearted teacher, it seemed he had finally found his footing. He even started helping me financially, a secret he kept from Evelyn to avoid any marital strife.

However, the fairy tale crumbled faster than it was built. After five years of what seemed like a happy marriage, cracks began to show. The issues ranged from financial disagreements to Evelyn’s growing resentment towards Justin’s covert support to me. It wasn’t long before they decided to part ways, and just like that, my son was back at my doorstep, his life packed in a few boxes.

The return was supposed to be temporary. “Just till I find my feet, Mom,” he had said. But weeks turned into months, and the small apartment felt smaller with each passing day. Justin, once meticulous and organized, seemed to have lost his will. The living room, once neat and tidy, now resembled a storeroom of discarded dreams. Pizza boxes and dirty laundry became part of the décor. My once sanctuary was turning into a chaotic mess.

I tried to talk to him, to understand his pain, but he had erected walls I couldn’t breach. Nights were the hardest, hearing him talk in his sleep, restless and troubled. The son who had promised to make my life easier was now, unintentionally, complicating it further.

As months dragged on, I saw less of the son I raised and more of a stranger battling his demons. Friends suggested therapy, but Justin resisted. “I’m fine, just figuring things out,” he’d say, but the clutter in the apartment mirrored the clutter in his life.

One evening, as I tried to clear the living room, I found a photo album buried under a pile of magazines. Pictures of Justin and Evelyn, smiling, hopeful. My heart ached for him, for the life he lost, for the life we both lost. I left the album on the coffee table, hoping it would remind him of better times, of the possibility of love and happiness.

But the next morning, the album was gone, thrown in the trash. It was then I realized that some wounds are too deep to heal with just hope. My son was lost to his grief, and as much as it pained me, I had to accept that perhaps this was his journey to walk alone. Maybe, just maybe, this was how he had to learn to stand up again, even if it meant falling first.