How swiftly life had flown by… And how quietly we became unnecessary to our own children.
Margaret Elizabeth had always been a strong woman—composed, with a gentle voice and kind eyes. She’d raised three children, married them off, sent them into the world. Now she sat by the window of her cottage, gazing at the autumn sky, sifting through old letters, postcards, yellowed photographs. A woolen blanket draped over her lap, and beside her, a box holding all she treasured: snapshots of her children, birthday cards from grandchildren, newspaper clippings where the family was mentioned, however briefly.
Her eldest son lived abroad, having left young, just after his service. Years had passed since then. Never once had he visited. Only distant online photos, sparse letters, the occasional stiff message with polite greetings. Margaret Elizabeth didn’t blame him. She understood—life, work, family, responsibilities. Still, her heart ached. Terribly.
Her middle daughter, Emily, had married a soldier. Constant relocations, hurried phone calls, rushed visits. Sometimes they came, but rarely, and never for long. Her husband, William, had always respected the union, proud their daughter had made something of herself. When they visited, Emily’s eyes shone with happiness. And that, perhaps, was enough.
But her youngest—Lucy—was the one who worried her most. After the divorce, Lucy had moved to London, leaving her little boy in his grandmother’s care. “You’re still young, still lovely,” Margaret Elizabeth had said then. “Go, make a life for yourself. I’ll look after him.” And so Lucy had gone, studied, found work. A few years later, she took the boy back.
When she’d come to collect him, he’d clung to Margaret Elizabeth’s skirt, silent tears streaking his cheeks. She’d bitten her tongue and let him go. She hadn’t dared object.
Three years passed. Her heart tugged harder for her daughter and grandson. One morning, she could bear it no longer.
“William, I’m going to visit Lucy. Just for a couple of days. Something doesn’t sit right.”
He nodded. He worried too, but the autumn chill had worn him down. At dawn, he saw her to the station, pressed a parcel of pasties into her hands, and kissed her forehead.
“Take care, Maggie. Call when you get there.”
The journey was hard, but she made it. Two bags of treats hung from her shoulders, a sack of pickles, jam, and knitted socks in hand. She’d called Lucy an hour before arriving. The reply was clipped:
“Mum, why didn’t you tell me sooner? I’ve got work, school runs, shopping—it’s not the countryside here! Everything’s different!”
“Sorry, love,” Margaret Elizabeth murmured. “Wanted to surprise you.”
Her grandson met her at the door. A lanky teen now, broad-shouldered, resembling his grandfather—but his eyes were distant. Careful. Dim.
“Hi, Gran,” he said politely, without warmth. The hug was stiff.
The flat was sleek, modern, and cold. Lucy made soup, set five tiny cutlets on the table. Margaret Elizabeth ate one. Reached for a second—then stopped. Shame prickled. She remembered boiling vats of stew for holidays, watching her children eat till they groaned. Here, everything was measured.
That evening, she and her grandson watched old videos, school play recordings. He was polite, but a stranger. Lucy kept vanishing—errands, “meeting a friend,” “work emergencies.”
Three days passed. Margaret Elizabeth felt like an intruder. Unwanted. In the way. Then she heard her grandson ask:
“Mum, when’s Uncle Tony coming? He promised to take me to the match.”
“Soon,” Lucy replied. “Once Gran’s gone, he’ll come.”
And Margaret Elizabeth understood. Completely. Painfully.
She packed in silence. Dressed. Stood by the gate. Lucy stepped out of the kitchen.
“Mum, where are you going? Your train’s tomorrow!”
“Leaving early. Don’t fuss. Tell your boy his grandad sends his love. No need to see me off. I got here—I’ll get back.”
She said nothing on the way to the station. On the train, she stared into the night. Tears fell unchecked.
How quickly life had slipped away… How much given—and how easily unneeded. They were grown. They had their lives. And we, the parents… we were left by the roadside.
William waited on the platform. He pulled her close, held her tight.
“Maggie, where’ve you been? I’ve been beside myself. Lost half a stone worrying.”
She smiled. Eyes brimming—but now from warmth.
“Let’s go home, Will. Home… That’s where we’re still wanted.”
