My Son Started Having Nightmares After His Mother Died—What My Wife Said to Him Shattered Me

Three weeks ago, my ex-wife passed away in a car accident, and everything in our world shifted overnight. Even though we had been divorced for years, she was still Jake’s mother—his constant, his emotional home base. Jake is fourteen, already taller than me, his voice cracking with adolescence, but since the funeral he’s seemed smaller somehow, as if grief folded him inward.

At first, he tried to act like nothing was wrong. He went to school. He nodded politely when teachers offered sympathy. When I asked how he was doing, he shrugged and said he was fine.

Then the nightmares began.

The first night, I heard him screaming my name like he was drowning. I ran into his room and found him curled into himself, shaking so violently the bed rattled. He was gasping for air. His eyes were open, but they weren’t really seeing me—like part of him was still trapped somewhere dark. I stayed with him until morning, saying nothing, just making sure he wasn’t alone.

The next night, it happened again.
And again the night after that.

By the fourth night, I stopped telling myself this would pass on its own. I grabbed a blanket and pillow and slept on the floor beside his bed. When he woke up screaming, all he had to do was look down and see me there. It helped. He calmed faster. Sometimes he’d whisper, “You’re here,” and drift back to sleep.

My wife, Sarah—who I’ve been married to for two years—didn’t say anything at first. She watched from a distance, her mouth set tight. I assumed she understood.

I was wrong.

On the fifth night, she snapped.

“This needs to stop,” she said sharply when she saw me picking up my pillow. “This is unhealthy. He’s fourteen.”

I told her I didn’t care if Jake was four or forty. He needed me. Right now, more than anything.

She stared at me like I’d said something offensive, then turned and went to bed without another word.

A few hours later, I woke up to a feeling that something was off. The house was too quiet. Jake’s bedroom door was open.

I heard Sarah’s voice.

My heart started pounding as I stepped closer. She was sitting on Jake’s bed in the dark, holding his hand. Her voice was low and controlled.

“Let’s keep this just between us,” she said. “Your mom wasn’t even around that much anyway. And now you’re making your dad choose.”

I froze in the doorway.

“You’re not a little kid anymore,” she continued. “Boys your age don’t act like this. You need to stop.”

Jake’s shoulders were tense. He wasn’t crying. He was staring at the wall like he was bracing himself, like he’d learned this was something he had to endure.

Something inside me broke.

Sarah noticed me then. Surprise crossed her face, followed quickly by irritation.

“I was trying to help,” she said. “You’re making it worse by babying him. He needs to grow up.”

I told her—quietly, because Jake was right there—that she had no right. Not now. Not ever.

She scoffed. “You’re letting a teenager emotionally manipulate you. He’s doing this for attention.”

That was the moment everything became clear.

I told her she was wrong. That grief doesn’t have an age limit. That my son lost his mother. And that I would choose him every single time.

She crossed her arms and said, “Then you’re choosing him over our marriage.”

She packed a bag that same night and said she was going to stay with her sister “until this whole strange phase is over.”

After she left, I sat down on Jake’s bed. He didn’t say a word. He just leaned into me the way he used to when he was small, and I wrapped my arms around him and held on.

Now, in the quiet that followed, I’ve realized something I never expected.

I don’t miss her.

I don’t know if I even want her back.

Because anyone who sees a grieving child as competition is not someone I trust in my home—or anywhere near my son’s heart.