I forbade my son from attending his girlfriend’s funeral, thinking it would save him from her toxic influence. He defied me, and I locked him out forever.

My twenty-year-old son, Noah, has always been the focal point of my life. For a long time, it was just the two of us. Noah’s father, Mark, left when he was ten, and I was the one who kept things together. I worked two jobs, made sure he had all he needed, pushed him to earn good grades, and helped him plan for college. I was strict, but I needed to be. I was not going to let my only child waste his future.

Then he met Maya, a nineteen-year-old girl. She was in his senior year at the same high school and came from what I can only characterize as a broken family. Her mother, Karen, was constantly changing jobs, and her father, David, was not present. From the moment I met her, I had the impression she intended to bring Noah down to her level. She was always outgoing, passionate, and emotional about everything — the type of girl who thrived in chaos.

She’d show up at our house in ripped jeans and unkempt hair, calling me “Mrs. Reed” as if we were pals. I told Noah right away that I did not approve of her and that she was not the type of girl he should be serious with at his age. But he didn’t listen. He claimed I didn’t understand her. They were inseparable for more than a year.

I began to notice that his grades were slipping. He’d stay out late, stop checking in, and arrive home smelling like her perfume. I told him he was becoming someone I didn’t recognize. We fought almost weekly. I even tried to put my foot down by telling him he was not permitted to see her under my roof. He called me controlling and claimed I didn’t want him to be happy. It wasn’t that. I wanted him to be protected.

I recognized my own mistakes in him. I too became pregnant at twenty with a man who abandoned me before the ink on the birth certificate dried. I’d spent half my life digging out of that hole. I did not want Noah to repeat history with a girl who had no future.

Then the accident occurred.

It was Sunday morning. Maya and her friends were traveling home from a late-night concert when the driver fell asleep behind the wheel. The car flipped. Four kids were hospitalized, and Maya didn’t survive. Noah was at work when he received the call from one of her friends, and I’ll never forget his reaction when he heard it. He collapsed right in the kitchen.

For four days, he barely ate or slept. I tried to console him, but he refused to let me approach. He just sat in his room, sobbing over her pictures. I reminded him that while I understood his sadness, he couldn’t let it destroy him. I told him he needed to move on, focus on the future, and not wallow in grief over a girl who had made all the wrong decisions.

Then he informed me he wanted to attend the burial. I said no.

He lost it. He yelled that I was callous, that she meant everything to him, and that he couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t say goodbye. I told him funerals were for family and that she wasn’t his wife. He described her as more of a family member than I ever was. That one stung. I told him he couldn’t go because it would merely reopen wounds and that he should focus on college applications rather than languishing in grief.

He went off and slammed his door, and I assumed that was the end of it. The next morning, I awoke to find his bed made and his shoes gone. His phone was still charging on his desk, but his car keys were gone. I contacted his friends, but nobody answered. Later that afternoon, I saw some photos on social media. He stood at the casket, grieving in front of everyone. Someone had tagged him.

My heart sank, and I felt ashamed, as if I had been publicly disobeyed by my own son. I was waiting when he got home that night. I told him to go. If he believed he was so mature, he could live like an adult. I said I’d had enough of being insulted in my own home. He raged at me, saying I was evil and that she would hate me even more now. I told him to go. He walked out the door without another word. I locked it behind him.

That night, I gathered his clothes, posters, and computer. I donated most of it the next day. I threw away a handful of his personal items — letters, photographs, keepsakes from that girl. I didn’t want them in my home. I convinced myself I was ridding the house of negative energy — the toxic influence that had turned my son against me.

When neighbors and family inquired, I said Noah had left. I told them he’d packed everything and gone because he wanted a fresh start. I even told my sister Rachel he was probably staying with Maya’s family. That made them stop asking questions. It did.

That was ten days ago. I haven’t heard a single word from him. No calls, no messages. Noah’s best friend Ryan texted that he was safe but didn’t say where. I told him to tell Noah that I’d changed the locks. He never replied. I’m not sure what I expected — that he’d come back begging or at least call once he realized how foolish he’d been. But now the house feels empty. The silence is terrible. I keep checking my phone for messages, but they never come.

I still believe I was right not to let him attend that funeral. That girl damaged him, and if I hadn’t intervened, he would have followed her road straight into disaster. But now, I’m beginning to wonder if I went too far. My sister thinks I’m cruel. She said if Mom were still alive, she’d call me a monster. It hurts. I did everything for that boy. I devoted decades of my life to raising him alone. I only wanted to prevent him from falling into the same trap I did. I used to believe that being firm meant loving someone. I figured keeping him away from her would save him. Instead, it feels as if I buried them both.

Everyone online calls me callous. One of Maya’s friends even made a Facebook post about me, writing: “She banned her son from mourning.” People are messaging me, calling me names. I don’t think anyone realizes how terrible it is to watch your child spiral into something you know is bad for them. Perhaps I went too far, but I don’t believe I was wrong to try to protect him. I still haven’t slept. Every time I close my eyes, I hear him shouting, “You buried me with her.” I keep seeing his face in that funeral photo. He looked older, broken — as if I had lost him long before that night.

I leave the porch light on, just in case. I don’t know if he’ll ever return.