“Mum, please don’t call me every day”—words that shattered my heart.
“Mum, what could possibly be new in just one day? Why even call daily?” My son’s voice was calm yet icy through the phone. My own flesh and blood, my only child.
Those words struck like a gunshot. I’d been strolling through the park with my friend, Margaret. We often walk together, sharing joys, grievances, and aches—just ordinary chatter between two elderly women. Then her phone rang. She stepped aside, spoke for ten minutes, and came back glowing.
“My daughter-in-law called—imagine that! My grandson’s first tooth came through! She spotted it while feeding him. My eldest granddaughter teethed much later, but this one’s early, can you believe it? We were so worried! I’ll pop by the shop after this, grab a cake, and head over—they invited me to celebrate.”
“You talked that long just about a tooth?” I asked, a pang of envy twisting inside me.
“Oh, not just the tooth. Life, family, silly little things. We chat nearly every day, her and I. My son rings me too—always finds a moment. With my daughter-in-law, we talk about anything under the sun. Start on one topic, end up on another. Half the time, I can’t even remember how we began. We’re like family.”
Not like me. Not like me at all.
My son lives with his family in the very flat I left him when I moved to the countryside after my late husband passed. He’s got his job, his wife’s on maternity leave with their little girl. There was never any falling-out between me and my daughter-in-law—everything was polite, civil. But there was no closeness either. And every time I try to bridge the gap, I hit a wall of ice.
“Mum, same as always. Worked, ate, slept. Wife’s at home, all fine. Why call every day?” That’s the whole conversation.
I don’t bombard them. I don’t intrude. I just want to know how they are. How my granddaughter’s growing. How their health is. But if I call, my son either cuts me short—”Busy”—or answers tersely, irritated. If I reach my daughter-in-law, it’s “yes,” “no,” “all fine.” No warmth. No soul.
I walk with Margaret—she stops at the shop for a cake, heads to her daughter-in-law’s to celebrate. A proper family moment. And me? Silence. I didn’t even know when my granddaughter’s first tooth came in. Found out later, through someone else. They didn’t tell me. Didn’t invite me. My hints about visiting? Ignored. As if I wasn’t speaking. As if they didn’t understand. Or pretended not to.
Once, I gathered my courage. Baked an apple pie, put on my best dress, and turned up unannounced. My daughter-in-law opened the door, baffled. We ate that pie, yes—but the air was stiff. Cold. Like I wasn’t coming home, but stepping into a stranger’s house. Later, my son pulled me aside and murmured, almost apologetic,
“Mum, next time, please give us a heads-up before you come over.”
A heads-up? To my own flat? To my son? To my granddaughter? To the family I broke my back for all my life? I denied myself everything so he could have more. And now? A stranger. Unwanted.
For two months, I called to arrange seeing my granddaughter. Always an excuse—”we’re ill,” “bad timing,” “not convenient.” Then I learned my daughter-in-law’s parents live abroad and don’t even bother with video calls. Yet their own daughter doesn’t rush to see them. Doesn’t miss them. I understand now—she’s just as cold. And my son? He’s become like her. Distant.
“Mum, you’re always complaining. Nothing’s ever good enough. You drag me down with these calls. You’ve got friends—talk to them. After speaking to you, I can’t even focus. Honestly, what’s there to say every single day?” He said it outright. No shame. No sympathy.
So here I sit, alone in my silent flat. No calls. No visitors. No cake. No granddaughter. I know if something happens to me, he won’t even realise. Not unless someone thinks to ring him. Margaret lives in her children’s and grandchildren’s lives, while I live in memories—of a son who once called me “Mum” with love… and now just asks me not to call.
So I carry on. In silence. And in pain.
