The front door clicked shut, swallowing Margaret Wilson into the familiar silence of her two-bedroom flat. The rooms, once echoing with the shouts of children, now seemed cavernously empty. On the windowsill, African violets bloomed – the only life remaining. “My girls,” she murmured, touching a soft leaf. “At least you stay.” The television flickered, a newsreader earnestly discussing state pensions and cost-of-living allowances. A hollow laugh escaped Margaret; her pension stretched only to essentials.
The shrill ring jolted her. Could it be Nicholas? Or Anna? Hope surged, then faltered.
“Mrs. Wilson?” An unfamiliar, brisk voice. “Housing association here. We show an outstanding payment for last month’s service charge…”
“Outstanding?” Margaret protested, bewildered. “I always pay on time!” She fumbled for the receipts, her explanations tumbling out, but the dial tone hummed in her ear before she could finish.
Dusk settled over the kitchen. Steam curled from a cup of tea cradled in her hands. Beside it lay faded photographs. Nicholas, solemn in his first school uniform, clutching a giant bunch of flowers. Anna, radiant at prom. The whole family, years ago, smiling at her mother-in-law’s cottage in the Cotswolds, back when Henry was alive. “Where are you now?” she whispered to the images. “How did it happen that I’m so alone?”
Next morning, the neighbour, Anne Thompson, bustled into the lobby, arms laden with supermarket bags. “Margaret! Wonderful timing! Just heard – Emma, my granddaughter, got into university! On a full scholarship! And my son is buying her the new iPhone to celebrate!”
“Congratulations,” Margaret managed.
“And yours? How are your grandchildren?”
Margaret’s voice was quiet. “I don’t have any.”
“No grandchildren?” Anne’s surprise felt faintly accusatory. “Your children?”
“They’re… very busy. Nicholas is a software developer in Munich. Anna lives in America now, married.”
“Perfect!” Anne chirped. “Children settled abroad! You should be proud! I expect they send money?”
“They do,” Margaret lied. “Of course they help.”
At home, she sat before Nicholas’s old computer, the one he’d left behind. Opening Skype, she saw his status: ‘Busy’. Anna hadn’t logged in for weeks. Her fingers trembled slightly as she typed: “Nicholas darling, how are you? I miss you terribly.”
The reply took hours: “Hi Mum. All fine. Working flat out. Text me on Signal, I never use Skype anymore.” Margaret searched for ‘Signal’, the unfamiliar menus frustrating her until she gave up. She tried Anna. Fatigue thickened her daughter’s voice. “Mum? What is it? It’s past midnight here.”
“Sorry, love. I forgot the time difference. Just wanted to hear your voice.”
“Can’t talk now, Mum. Big presentation early tomorrow. Weekend, okay?” The line went dead before Margaret could reply. The weekend came and went. No call.
A visit to the NHS clinic for her spiking blood pressure turned into a reunion. “Valerie! Goodness, years!” Valerie beamed, clutching a worn handbag. “How are you?”
“Just the blood pressure,” Margaret sighed. “Heart plays up. You?”
“Blooming!” Valerie’s smile widened. “Daughter just had a little girl! Evie! Such a darling! Mind her every day while Charlotte works. Pure joy, Margaret, pure joy.”
“I remember,” Margaret said softly. “Joy indeed.”
“And your two? Nicholas? Anna? Lovely children!”
“Lovely,” Margaret agreed. “Very. Nicholas in Munich, software. Anna married in America.”
“How marvellous! So you’re a grandma?”
“Not… not yet.”
“Planning?”
“I don’t know. We… don’t speak much. They work so hard…”
“Well, understandable,” Valerie nodded. “But parents need to know. Charlotte and I talk daily, even if it’s just a minute amidst her work chaos.” The words stung. *Five minutes. Even on Signal.*
At the supermarket, she filled her basket: bread, milk, eggs, a few vegetables. Essentials. Behind her, a woman unloaded a trolley piled high – meat, fish, exotic fruit, sweets, toys.
“Grandkids visiting,” the woman confided to the cashier. “Over from London for half-term. Spoiling them rotten!” Margaret’s sparse groceries seemed meagre in comparison.
Back in her quiet kitchen, the kettle whistled. She crossed off a day on the calendar. A month until her birthday. Last year, she’d waited alone. Nicholas had called late, rushed apologies about a conference call. Anna sent a WhatsApp: “Happy Birthday Mum! Health and happiness! 🎂”. Margaret had baked a small cake, lit a single candle, made a wish – just for one of them to visit. The wish remained unfulfilled.
The phone shattered the silence again. “Mrs Wilson? It’s Sarah, from the charity ‘Silver Companions’. We support older people who feel isolated…”
“I don’t need support,” Margaret cut in sharply. “Everything’s fine.”
“But perhaps just someone to talk to? Many feel…”
“I said I’m fine!” She slammed the phone down. Then sat for a long time. Maybe she should call back? Find someone who might understand this ache? *Nonsense. I have children. Far away, busy. That’s how young lives are.*
She opened a wooden box, pulling out a photo brown with age. The London Zoo, years ago. Nicholas, ten, Anna, seven, laughing at an elephant, she and Henry beside them, utterly happy. “Where did that time go?” she asked the picture. “When you needed me?”
Darkness fell. She cooked a plain omelette, ate silently. Sounds filtered through the thin walls – a clumsy piano scale from upstairs, a television laugh track downstairs. Her own flat was steeped in quiet.
Later, hunched at the computer, she typed: “How to connect with children living abroad.” The advice was bleakly consistent: *Don’t crowd them. Let them live. Call only weekly.* She called less than that. Still, she felt like an intrusion. That night, sleep wouldn’t come. The weight of the predictable tomorrow, the endless next week, pressed down. Only the thought of a call offered light amidst the sameness.
The ringing phone jolted her awake. *Nicholas?* Her heart pounded.
“Margaret!” Anne Thompson’s voice blared, triumphant. “Can you believe it? Emma not only got into university, she got top marks in her A-Levels! And my son is now buying her a car for graduation!”
“Congratulations,” Margaret murmured. She replaced the receiver slowly.
Rising, she went to the window. A new day dawned. Sunlight splashed the courtyard where children were beginning to play. The world moved on. Only her own life seemed suspended in waiting. Waiting for a call that refused to come.
“I have everything,” she told the violets, their leaves straining towards the light. “My health, a roof, food. All I need… except the only things that matter. Except you. My darlings.” The flowers offered only silence. Like the silence from her children.
