The bitter December wind cut through my coat as I stood on the doorstep, my heart pounding. They called me Margaret Wilkins. Once, my son Thomas had been my whole world. We’d lived just the two of us in Manchester ever since he finished sixth form. I’d tried not to meddle in his relationships, though our little flat had seen its share of girlfriends. A few times, it seemed wedding bells might ring—but something always fell apart.
Thomas had always wanted a proper family of his own. Yet somehow, his choices never stuck around. The last one had spat the words “mummy’s boy” at him before walking out. That stung—I’d never interfered, never forced my opinions on them. But my mere existence had become an obstacle.
So I made the hardest decision of my life. I moved back to my childhood cottage in Cornwall, giving him space. A year passed. In that time, he married, and a baby was due in late January. Not once did he invite me over, but I didn’t complain. Newlyweds deserved time alone, I reasoned.
When Christmas loomed, I packed my bags early—homemade mince pies, a knitted blanket, little gifts. I’d arrive in December, I decided, to help. Maybe his wife needed advice, or an extra pair of hands. I was his mother; of course I’d be there when needed.
But the way Thomas greeted me shattered everything. The door cracked open, and his voice was ice. “Mum, you should’ve called. We’ve no room. Emily’s mum’s coming—we arranged it ages ago. Sorry, but you can’t stay.” He didn’t even step aside. Just stood there, a stranger in my son’s face.
I pushed in anyway, sat at their kitchen table with tea I didn’t taste. He asked after me mechanically, eyes flicking to the clock. Every minute screamed the truth: I wasn’t wanted here.
Later, he carried my bags to the bus stop in silence. The last bus to Cornwall. On Christmas Eve. The night families gathered—but not ours. I wept that night, harder than I had at my husband’s funeral. Because this wasn’t just goodbye. It was erasure.
A week passed. No call. No text. As if I’d never come. As if I were nothing. After a lifetime of sacrifices—double shifts so he could study, going without so he’d have better—this was my reward? Not even a “thank you,” not even a chair at their table.
What had I done to deserve this? Was a mother’s love worth so little now? Must every ounce of devotion end with a lonely journey home, a heart too heavy to bear?
