**December 24th**
My name is Margaret Whitmore. My son, Edward, was the centre of my world. The two of us lived together in Manchester after he finished school. I never interfered in his personal life, though plenty of young women came and went from our home over the years. A couple of times, it nearly led to marriage, but something always fell through.
Edward always wanted a proper family, but it seemed not every woman he met felt the same. The last one outright told him she wouldn’t live with a “mummy’s boy.” That stung—I’d never meddled in their affairs, never imposed my opinions, never pried. But I suppose just my presence became a problem for her.
It dawned on me then: as long as we lived together, Edward would struggle to build his own life. So I made the hardest choice I’ve ever made—I moved back to my parents’ cottage in the countryside to give him space. A year passed. In that time, he got married, and they were expecting a baby by late January. Though he never invited me over, I didn’t take offense. Newlyweds need time alone, I thought.
Christmas was coming, so I decided to visit early—in mid-December—not just to see them, but to help. Maybe they needed things ready for the baby, or his wife might want advice. I packed bags of treats—homemade jam, a knitted blanket, little gifts—hoping to surprise them. I imagined we’d share Christmas Eve together, that I’d stay a week to help out while his wife rested. A mother should be there when she’s needed.
But Edward’s welcome shattered every hope. He opened the door and said flatly, “Mum, you should’ve called. We’ve got no room. Emily’s mother, Mrs. Thompson, is coming—she’s helping us. Sorry, but you can’t stay.” He didn’t even invite me in. Just stood there, cold as a stranger, like I was some bothersome acquaintance who’d turned up unannounced.
I insisted on coming inside, sat at the kitchen table for a while with a cuppa. Edward pretended everything was fine, asked how I’d been. But he checked his watch every five minutes. The message was clear. He hadn’t wanted me there. Didn’t even try to hide his irritation.
Later, he carried my bags to the bus stop and put me on the last ride home. On Christmas Eve. A night meant for family. That night, I wept harder than I did at my husband’s funeral. Because this time, it wasn’t loss—it was erasure. A mother, no longer needed. No place left for me in his life.
A week has passed. No call. No message. No apology. As if I never came. As if I don’t matter. After all the years I gave him—working two jobs so he could study, scraping by so he’d have a better life. Now, I’m not even worthy of a simple “thank you” or a seat at his table.
I don’t know what I did to deserve this. Has a mother’s love lost all meaning? Must every sacrifice end with walking home alone, heart heavy, feeling like a burden?
**Lesson learned:** Love doesn’t always guarantee a place in someone’s life—even if you built that life with your own hands.
