Had I truly become a stranger?
That morning began with a heaviness in my chest. I stood at the doorstep of my son Edward’s home, barely able to believe I had to ask permission to enter. In my hands was a small bag of belongings, and in my heart—a mix of weariness, hurt, and hope. The journey had been long, nearly six hours in a stuffy coach, and all I wished for was a wash, a bite to eat, and a moment’s rest before visiting the resting place of my late mother, Eleanor Whitmore. Yet the words I spoke to Edward still ache when I recall them: “My dear, might I come in for just an hour? I’ll freshen up, have a bite if your wife allows, then make my way to the churchyard to light a candle. Have I truly fallen so low?”
Edward looked at me with an odd expression. His eyes held love, unease, and perhaps a flicker of guilt. He nodded quickly and said, “Mum, of course, step inside—what sort of question is that?” But I knew it wasn’t just about him. His wife, Charlotte, had always been kind and polite, yet in recent years I’d noticed my presence seemed to unsettle her. Not that she ever said so outright, but I felt it: my longer visits, my tales of village life, my recollections of the past—none of it sat well with her. And so there I was, a mother, nearly pleading to be let into her own son’s home.
Once inside, I moved as quietly as I could. Charlotte was in the kitchen, preparing supper. She smiled, greeted me, and offered tea, but I refused—I didn’t wish to trouble her. Instead, I asked to use the washroom. Edward showed me the way, brought a fresh towel, and said, “Mum, don’t fret, it’s perfectly all right. Take your time.” But I saw him glance toward the kitchen, as if checking whether Charlotte had overheard. Another sting to the heart. Once, Edward and I had been so close, sharing everything—now I felt like a guest who mustn’t overstay.
After washing up, I gathered myself. Sitting at the table with a bowl of hot soup Charlotte had insisted I eat, I thought of how much had changed. When Edward was a boy, I’d worked two jobs to give him all he needed. We lived humbly, but I made certain he lacked for nothing. I remember him, barely twelve, promising, “Mum, when I’m grown, I’ll build you a grand house, and you’ll never want for anything.” I’d smiled, ruffled his hair, and told him I needed nothing but his happiness. Now here he was—a man, successful, with a family, a fine home, and a good position. And I stood at his door, asking to be let in.
After the meal, I readied myself for the churchyard. That had been the true purpose of my journey. My mother, Eleanor Whitmore, had passed five years prior, and since then, I made a point to visit at least once a year—tending the grave, lighting a candle, and sitting awhile, remembering her kindness and wisdom. Edward offered to drive me, but I declined, needing solitude. The walk was short, and the crisp air helped steady my thoughts. At the graveside, I cleared away dead leaves, set fresh flowers, and lit the candle. Sitting there, I spoke to her in my heart: “Mum, have I become a stranger to my own son? Or is it just my own foolish worrying?”
Returning to Edward’s house, the air felt warmer. Charlotte insisted I stay the night, but I wouldn’t intrude. I thanked her for her hospitality, embraced Edward, and promised to visit again soon. His eyes held true affection, yet also a quiet sorrow. Perhaps he too felt that unseen wall between us?
On the coach back to the village, I pondered how swiftly life shifts. Children grow, start families—it’s only natural. Yet how it wounds a mother’s heart to realise she must ask leave to cross her son’s threshold. I blame neither Edward nor Charlotte—they have their lives, and I’m glad they fare well. But deep down, I cling to hope that one day we’ll be close again. Until then, I’ll visit, tend my mother’s grave, hold my son dear, and trust the love between us remains.
