Diary Entry: Tuesday, 28th March
Susan Williams cornered me by the post boxes downstairs this morning, waving her phone. “Margaret, just look at this beauty!” She practically shoved photos in my face. “Our new holiday cottage in Devon! And this is my son’s car, an absolute fortune, don’t you know? And my granddaughter at her piano recital—top of her class at the Royal Academy!”
“Lovely, Susan,” I murmured, sorting my letters. “But I really must dash…”
“Dash where?” She tutted. “We’ve been neighbours for twenty years, and you’re always rushing! Look, this is Brian and me in Spain last month. Five stars, all-inclusive! When did you last have a proper holiday?”
I sighed, meeting her gaze. Weariness flickered in my grey eyes. “I don’t take holidays, Susan. There’s no time.”
“No time?” She looked baffled. “But your children are grown! You’re retired!”
“They are grown,” I agreed quietly. “But they live far away.”
“So? My lad works in London, but he visits every weekend! And his salary—good heavens!” She tapped her screen. “See? He bought me this new mink coat!”
I walked upstairs without another word, leaving her scrolling through her proofs of happiness.
Home greeted me with its familiar silence. The two-bed flat, once cramped for four, now echoed. Only the African violets on the sill felt alive. I whispered to them, “Well, my dears. At least you’ve stayed.”
I turned on the telly—background noise, really. The news droned about pension credits and cost-of-living payments. I almost laughed. My pension covers the essentials, nothing more.
The phone rang. My heart leapt—Nicholas? Or Eleanor?
“Mrs. Davies?” An unfamiliar voice. “Housing services. We’ve no record of your last council tax payment…”
“Of course I paid,” I insisted. “It cleared last week!”
“You’re flagged for non-payment last month…”
I tried explaining, rattling off the reference number, but the dial tone hummed in my ear.
By evening, I sat at the kitchen table with tea, old Polaroids spread before me. There Nicholas stood, age seven, solemn-faced in primary uniform clutching marigolds. Eleanor beamed in her Sixth Form gown. All of us together at Mother Davies’ cottage in Cornwall, back when Peter was still…
“Where are you now?” I asked the photos. “How did it come to this?”
Susan accosted me again in the courtyard next morning, arms laden with Harrods bags. “Margaret! My granddaughter rang—she got into Oxford! On a full scholarship! My son’s buying her the latest iPhone to celebrate!”
“How wonderful,” I said.
“And yours? Grandchildren?” Her tone was politely hollow.
“I’ve no grandchildren,” I replied softly.
“None? But your two?”
“Nicholas and Eleanor. They’re… very busy. Nicholas works in Germany, computers. Eleanor married and settled in Boston…”
“Brilliant!” Susan chirped. “You should be proud! Successful children abroad!”
“I am proud,” I lied.
“They send money, then? Help out?”
“They do,” I lied again.
Truth was, Nicholas last sent £20 for my birthday months ago. Eleanor never did—”Mortgages and car loans, Mum,” she’d sighed over the phone.
Later, I fired up the ancient PC Nicholas left behind. Skype showed him online: *Busy*. Eleanor hadn’t logged on in weeks. I typed: “Darling, how are you? How’s your health? Miss you x”
He replied hours later: “Fine, Mum. Work’s mad. Text me on Telegram? I don’t use Skype anymore.”
I’ve no clue what “Telegram” is. I tried finding it but gave up amid the pop-ups.
I rang Eleanor. No answer. Finally, a groggy voice: “Mum? It’s 2 AM here!”
“Sorry, darling. Forgot the time difference. Just wanted to hear your voice…”
“Can’t chat now. Big presentation tomorrow. Call weekends, yes?”
“Yes,” I said, but the line was dead.
The weekend passed. She never called.
At the GP surgery today, I bumped into old Val Matthews from our old estate. “Margaret Davies! Fancy seeing you! How are you?”
“Blood pressure,” I sighed. “You?”
“Smashing!” Her smile widened. “My daughter’s had a baby! A granddaughter—Matilda! I mind her while Helen works. Pure joy, Margaret.”
“I can imagine,” I whispered.
“And your two? Nick and Ella? Sweet kids!”
“Good kids,” I said. “Nicholas is near Frankfurt, programming. Eleanor’s in America.”
“So you’re a granny?”
“Not yet.”
“Will they?”
“We… they’re busy. Distant.”
Val patted my arm. “Still. Parents should know things. Helen and I talk daily, even if it’s just five minutes.”
Afterwards, at Tesco, I bought bread, milk, eggs, veg—the basics. The woman ahead had a trolley overflowing: steaks, fresh salmon, chocolates, toys. “Grandkids visiting from Edinburgh,” she told the cashier. “Must spoil them rotten!”
At home, I placed the few groceries in the near-empty fridge. I put the kettle on and crossed off another day on the calendar. My birthday’s in a month.
Last year, I sat alone waiting for calls. Nicholas rang late, apologising—”Meetings, Mum.” Eleanor texted: “Happy Birthday! Health & happiness x” A cake emoji.
I baked a tiny Victoria sponge, lit one candle, and wished: *Please let them visit. Just one*.
The wish burned out.
The phone jolted me later. I grabbed it.
“Mrs. Davies?” A warm voice. “Olga from Silver Line. We keep isolated elders company…”
“I’m fine,” I cut in.
“But sometimes a chat helps…”
“I’m *fine*,” I snapped, hanging up.
I almost called back. But then—no. I have children. They’re simply succeeding abroad. It’s what good parents want, isn’t it?
That photo surfaced again: us at London Zoo. Nicholas, ten, pointing at elephants. Eleanor giggling. Peter and I, holding hands.
“Where did that go?” I asked the frozen smiles. “When did you stop needing me?”
Darkness fell. I made beans on toast and tea. The neighbour’s child upstairs practised scales on the piano. Below, a telly blared football commentary.
Here, only silence.
Later, I typed: *How to connect with distant adult children?* The articles said it plainly: *Don’t be needy. Let them live. Call weekly at most.*
I rarely call. Yet still, I feel like a burden.
Sleep wouldn’t come. Tomorrow will mirror today. And every day after.
This morning, Susan’s voice shattered the quiet: “Margaret! My granddaughter got straight As! My son’s buying her a Mini Cooper!”
“Delighted,” I said, hanging up.
I stood by the window. Sunlight dappled the courtyard. Children’
I turned the watering can gently over my African violets, listening to the quiet rhythm of the house punctuated only by the distant hum of neighbours and the faint, persistent hope for a phone call she knew wouldn’t come today.
