“Don’t call me every day, Mum” — the words that shattered my heart.
“Mum, what could possibly be new in a single day? Why even call every day?” my son said calmly, coldly, down the phone. My own blood, my only child.
The words hit me like a bullet. I’d been walking through the park with my friend, Margaret Jenkins—we often meet for strolls, sharing our joys, grievances, and ailments. Just the usual chat between two older women. Then her phone rang. She stepped aside, spoke for ten minutes, and returned beaming.
“My daughter-in-law called, can you believe it? The baby’s first tooth came out! She noticed while feeding him. My older granddaughter took her time, but this little one’s early! We’ve been so worried. I’ll pop by the shop after our walk, grab a cake, and head over—we’re celebrating. She actually invited me.”
“And you talked about that for so long?” I asked, my voice thick with envy.
“Oh, not just the tooth. Life, family, silly little things. We chat almost every day, her and me. And my son—he always finds time to call. But with my daughter-in-law, it’s like talking to my own kin. One minute we’re on about one thing, the next, something else. Sometimes I can’t even remember how we got there.”
But not me. It’s not like that for me at all.
My son lives in the very flat I left to him when I moved to the countryside after my late husband’s passing. He works; his wife stays home with the baby. There’s never been any row between us—just polite distance. No warmth. And whenever I try to bridge the gap, I meet a wall of ice.
“Mum, same as always. Work, eat, sleep. Wife’s fine. Everything’s fine. Why call every day?” That’s the whole conversation.
I don’t pester them morning till night. I don’t interfere. I just want to know how they are. How my granddaughter’s growing. How they’re keeping. But when I call, my son cuts it short: “Busy.” Or answers sharply, annoyed. If I get through to my daughter-in-law—it’s just “yes,” “no,” and “all good.” No soul, no warmth.
Margaret walks with me—on her way to pick up a cake, off to visit her daughter-in-law. A celebration. And me? Silence. I didn’t even know when my granddaughter’s first tooth came in. Found out later—from someone else. No one told me. No one invited me. Their indifference stings.
Once, I mustered the courage. Baked an apple pie, put on my best dress, and went unannounced. My daughter-in-law opened the door—utterly bewildered. We ate that pie, yes, but the air was thick with tension. Like I wasn’t coming home, but intruding. Later, my son pulled me aside, almost apologetic.
“Mum, please—next time, give us a heads-up before dropping by.”
A heads-up? To my own flat? To my son? My granddaughter? The family I gave everything for? I sacrificed, scraped, saved—for him. Now? I’m an outsider. Unwanted.
Two months I spent calling, trying to arrange a visit. Always excuses—”we’re ill,” “bad timing,” “not now.” Then I learned my daughter-in-law’s parents live abroad—don’t even video call their grandchild. Yet she doesn’t rush to them, doesn’t seem to miss them. Cold, like her. And my son? He’s just like her now. Distant.
“Mum, you’re always complaining. Nothing’s ever good enough. You put me in a rotten mood every time. You’ve got friends—talk to them. I can’t focus after your calls. Honestly, what’s there to say every day?” No shame. No sympathy.
And so here I sit. Alone in my silent flat. No calls, no visitors, no cake, no granddaughter. If something happens to me, I doubt he’ll even know—unless some acquaintance thinks to call him. Margaret lives in her children’s world, her grandchildren’s laughter. And me? I live in memories—of a son who once called me “Mum” with love. Now he just asks me not to ring.
So here I am. Silent. And in pain.
