“Mum, you don’t need to call me every day”—words that shattered my heart.
“Mum, what could possibly be new in a single day? Why even call daily?” My son’s voice was calm, detached, like he was discussing the weather. My own flesh and blood, just brushing me off.
Those words clung to me like a bad smell. I’d been strolling through the park with my friend, Margaret. We do that often—nattering about aches, grievances, small joys. The usual chatter of two women of a certain age. Then her phone rang. She stepped aside, talked for a solid ten minutes, and returned glowing.
“Emma—my daughter-in-law! My grandson’s first tooth came through while she was feeding him! My eldest granddaughter took ages, but this little one’s ahead of the game. Isn’t that lovely? I’m off to Marks & Spencer later for a cake, then round to theirs for a little celebration. She invited me herself.”
“And you talked that long about a tooth?” I asked, unable to hide the sting of envy.
“Oh, not just the tooth. Life, family, silly little things. We chat nearly every day, her and me. And my son—always finds a moment. With Emma, one topic tumbles into another—never quite remember where we started. We’re thick as thieves, really.”
But not me. Not like that.
My son and his family live in the very flat I handed over when I moved to the countryside after my husband passed. He’s got his job, his wife’s on maternity leave with their little girl. No rows, no grudges—just polite indifference. And every time I try to bridge the gap, I hit a cold, brick wall.
“Mum, same old. Work, eat, sleep. Wife’s fine, baby’s fine. What’s the point in calling daily?” That’s the full extent of it.
I don’t bombard them. Don’t pry. Just want to know how they are. How my granddaughter’s growing. How their health holds up. But when I call, he either brushes me off—”Busy”—or answers in clipped, irritated tones. If his wife picks up, it’s a perfunctory “Fine,” “No,” or “All good.” No warmth. No life in it.
Margaret’s off to the shops now, cake in hand, ready to celebrate with her family. And me? Silence. I didn’t even know when my granddaughter’s first tooth appeared—found out later, through the grapevine. No one told me. No invite. My hints about visiting? Dismissed. Like I’m background noise.
Once, I mustered the courage. Baked an apple crumble, put on my best dress, and turned up unannounced. My daughter-in-law opened the door like I’d come to read the gas meter. We ate the crumble, sure, but the air was thick with awkwardness. Like I was a stranger, not family. Later, my son pulled me aside and murmured, almost apologetically, “Mum, next time… maybe give us a heads-up before dropping by?”
A *heads-up*? To see my own son? My grandchild? The family I scraped and saved for? I went without so he could have everything, and now I’m the inconvenient guest.
Two months of calls to arrange a visit. Always an excuse—”She’s poorly,” “Bad timing,” “Not now.” Then I learned her parents live abroad and barely video-call their granddaughter. And yet my daughter-in-law doesn’t pine for them. Doesn’t ache. Of course not—she’s cut from the same chilly cloth. And my son? He’s become just like her. Distant.
“Mum, you’re always complaining. Nothing’s ever good enough. You drag me down. You’ve got friends—talk to *them*. I can’t focus after your calls. Honestly, what’s there to say every single day?” No shame. No remorse.
So here I sit, in my quiet little home. No calls, no visitors, no cake, no grandchild. If something happened to me, who’d even tell him? Unless Margaret thought to ring. She’s woven into her family’s lives, while I’m left with memories—of a son who once said “Mum” with love, not resentment.
So I carry on. Quietly. Hurting.
