Margaret sits in her small flat in Manchester, staring at the old television humming in the corner, but it does nothing to fill the silence that has settled over her home. Her wrinkled hands tremble as she clutches her phone—no new messages. She has just called her son, William, and her daughter, Emily, with the same plea: “Please, let me live with you. I can’t manage alone.” Their answers, though polite, cut deep: “There’s no room, Mum,” or “Now isn’t the right time.” Margaret sets the phone down and weeps, the crushing weight of loneliness wrapping around her like a cold embrace. At 67, she doesn’t know how to go on.
Her life has been one of hard work and sacrifice. Margaret raised William and Emily alone after their father passed from a heart attack when they were ten and eight. She worked as a seamstress, stitching late into the night so they had warm coats and schoolbooks. She denied herself everything—new dresses, trips to the seaside, even simple rest—so they would want for nothing. William became a solicitor, Emily a teacher, and Margaret swelled with pride as if their success were her own. But now, as her strength fails and her health falters, she finds herself unwanted.
She never meant to be a burden. She tries to manage—simmering soups, dragging herself to the shops despite aching knees, dusting the flat even when her hands barely obey. But every day is a struggle. The stairs to her third-floor flat feel like a mountain, grocery bags weigh like lead, and the nights stretch on endlessly. She’s terrified of falling, of falling ill, of lying helpless in this empty flat where no one would hear her call. She dreams of living with her children, watching her grandchildren grow, of feeling like part of a family. Yet every refusal is a fresh wound, a reminder that her life no longer matters.
William lives in Bristol with his wife and two children. When Margaret calls, he sighs, “It’s cramped here, Mum—the kids are loud, you’d hate it.” She hears the irritation in his voice and knows he won’t change his life for her sake. Emily, in Leeds, is gentler but no less painful: “We’ll think about it, but work’s mad right now.” Margaret imagines them discussing her like a nuisance, calling her a “problem” behind her back, and it breaks her heart. She doesn’t ask for much—just a corner, a voice, a place to belong. Even that is too much.
One evening, after yet another rejection, she sits down to write a letter. She wants to pour out her hurt, but all she manages is: “I love you. But I’m scared. If you don’t want me, just say so.” She sends it to William and Emily, but there’s no reply. The silence is worse than any words. She gazes at their photos on the wall and wonders, “Where did I go wrong? Why have they shut me out?” She remembers holding them, singing lullabies, giving up everything—how could love lead to this?
Neighbours try to help. Mrs. Thompson from downstairs brings scones; the young man in Flat 4 carries her shopping. But their kindness only highlights the emptiness—strangers care more than her own flesh and blood. She joins a local pensioners’ club, singing in the choir and taking up knitting. There, she smiles and jokes, but returning home, the silence swallows her again. Her grandchildren, whom she sees once a year, are growing up without her, and the thought is a knife to her chest. She longs to bake them biscuits, tell them stories, but instead, she sits alone, counting the days.
Now, she tries to find purpose in small things—enrolling in a computer class, hoping to video call the grandchildren, planting flowers on the windowsill to brighten the gloom. But in the sleepless nights, she still cries, asking, “Why me?” She clings to the hope that William or Emily will change their minds, that one day the phone will ring with the words, “Come live with us, Mum.” But with each passing day, that hope fades. Margaret doesn’t know how much time she has left, but she wants to spend it in warmth, not solitude. Until then, she’s learning, for the first time in 67 years, how to love herself.
