“You didn’t even say thank you,” Margaret began.
“Mum, don’t start that again!” Oliver snapped irritably, eyes glued to his mobile. “I told you, I’m busy!”
“Busy he is!” Margaret slapped her wet cloth on the kitchen table. “Nearly forty years old and still behaving like a schoolboy! Oliver, I’m asking you, please visit Gran. She phoned yesterday complaining she feels poorly!”
“Mum, I’ve got a meeting in an hour! An important meeting!” Oliver finally looked up from the screen. “I’ll go later, this evening or tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow, the day after…” Margaret sighed wearily, sinking onto the chair opposite him. “Your Gran is eighty-three, and you always find reasons not to see her.”
“Don’t start that tune!” Oliver stood, shoving his phone in his pocket. “I work, understand? Earning money! Not like some who only know how to moan!”
Margaret flinched at his harshness but held her tongue. She was used to these talks. Oliver had always been sharp, especially about family obligations.
“Alright,” she said quietly. “Then I’I’ll go myself. Trouble is, the car’s at the garage, and the bus takes two hours each way…”
“So?” Oliver pulled on his coat. “Take the bus, what’s wrong with that? Or call a taxi!”
“Taxis cost too much, son. You know my pension’s small.”
“I know, I know!” Oliver was already at the door. “Listen, Mum, let’s chat later, yeah? I really must dash!”
The door slammed. Margaret remained alone in the kitchen, where the smell of the cottage pie she’d cooked for him still lingered. Oliver hadn’t touched a bite.
She approached the window, watching her son get into his shiny new diesel car. A lovely, expensive car. Oliver was proud of it, often telling mates all its specs. Yet he couldn’t find time to drive his mother to his Gran.
Margaret fetched her worn purse, counting the notes. A taxi to Gran’s *was* dear. She’d have to take the bus.
Grabbing the bag of treats for her mother-in-law, she wrapped a scarf around her head and went out. It was fifteen minutes to the bus stop. Margaret walked slowly, pausing now and then to catch her breath. Her heart had been acting up lately, but she hadn’t seen a doctor. Never the time, and the money, well.
At the stop, she waited half an hour. The bus arrived packed; Margaret squeezed on board. It was a long journey with changes. Younger folk sat plugged into headphones, glued to their phones. No one offered their seat to the elderly woman.
Finally, she reached the small town where Oliver’s Gran lived. A shabby terraced house stood on the edge, its tiny garden overgrown. Margaret unlatched the gate and walked the path to the door.
“Gran?” she called, knocking. “It’s me, Margaret!”
The door opened slowly. Edith Davies, her late husband’s mother, stood leaning on a walking stick. The old lady had noticeably thinned since their last visit.
“Margaret, love!” she beamed. “How lovely to see you! Come in, come in!”
“How are things, Gran?” Margaret hugged her mother-in-law, kissing her cheek. “You’ve gotten terribly thin.”
“Ah, well…” Edith showed her into the sitting room. “No appetite at all. Sleeping poorly too. Always aches somewhere…”
“You saw the doctor?”
“Went, went.” Edith gestured dismissively. “Said it’s my age. What can you do, eighty-three after all.” She motioned for Margaret to sit at the small table. “Will you have tea?”
“Oh, yes.” Margaret unpacked bags of food. “Brought you some cottage pie, sausages, and some pasties.”
“Ooh, thank you, dear!” Edith smiled. “But where’s my Oliver? Haven’t seen him lately.”
Margaret paused, pouring the tea.
“He’s working lots, Gran. Big projects.”
“Right,” Edith nodded. “A man must work. It’s just…” She hesitated, then added softly. “It’s just I miss him so. He’s my only grandson.”
“I know, Gran. He misses you too, just hasn’t got the time.”
“No, Margaret, love,” Edith shook her head. “He doesn’t miss me. If he did, he’d make time. You found some.”
Margaret didn’t know what to say. She’d often thought the same. Oliver *could* find time for Gran if he wanted. But he didn’t. Sitting in the old musty house, listening to tales of ailments and the past held no interest for him.
“Tell me how *you* are,” Margaret asked instead.
“Well…” Edith shrugged. “I get up, have breakfast, potter around. Neighbour Mary pops in sometimes, we natter. Otherwise, alone. Watch the telly, but it’s all such dreadful news…”
“How’s your health?”
“Poor, love. Dreadful. Heart pains, stabbing my chest. Often dizzy. Yesterday I fell right over in the kitchen, thank goodness I caught the table.”
“Gran!” Margaret gasped. “Why didn’t you say? Should we have called an ambulance?”
“Ambulance? They’d come, prod me, say ‘age’. Pills cost so much, pension doesn’t stretch.”
“Don’t worry about the money. We’ll help with medicines.”
“Will Oliver help?” Edith asked hopefully.
“‘Course he will,” Margaret lied. She knew she’d have to explain it to her son, persuade him, and he’d be annoyed at the expense.
They sat together until evening. Edith spoke of neighbours, her illnesses, missing her late son. Margaret listened, nodded, cooked supper in the tiny kitchen.
“Margaret,” Edith said as it got dark. “Could you stay the night? It’s frightening alone…”
“‘Course I’ll stay, Gran. Not going anywhere.”
The next morning, Margaret took Edith to the local GP. The young doctor looked tired. He examined her quickly, wrote prescriptions.
“Take these exactly as it says,” he told her. “Call an ambulance if she worsens.”
“Doctor,” Margaret asked timidly. “Is it serious?”
“At her age, any condition is serious,” he replied. “Heart’s weak, blood pressure swings. Needs regular care.”
Walking back, Edith held Margaret’s arm.
“Thank you, dear,” she murmured. “You’re like a daughter to me. Better than my own might have been.”
“Don’t say that, Gran. We’re family.”
“Family…” Edith echoed sadly. “But Oliver doesn’t count me as family.”
“Don’t speak like that. He’s still young, doesn’t understand.”
“Forty is young?” Edith stopped walking. “No, Margaret. He understands. He just doesn’t care.”
That evening Margaret packed to leave. Edith walked her to the gate.
“Come again, please,” she pleaded. “It’s so nice having you…”
“I will, Gran. I’ll bring Oliver.”
“Don’t promise if you’re not sure. Best be honest.”
“I’ll bring him,” Margaret stated firmly. “I will.”
“You didn’t even say thank you.”
“Mum, must you start this again?” Nigel snapped irritably, eyes glued to his phone. “I told you I’m busy!”
“Busy he says!” Joan slapped her damp cloth down. “Nearly forty and still like a schoolboy! Nigel, please visit Gran – she rang yesterday feeling poorly.”
“Mum, I’ve a crucial meeting in an hour!” He finally looked up. “I’ll go this evening or tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow, always tomorrow…” Joan sank onto a chair. “Your gran’s eighty-three, yet you avoid her.”
“Don’t start that tune!” Nigel pocketed his phone. “I’m working! Earning proper money – not nattering like some!”
Joan flinched at his harshness but stayed quiet. She knew his temper, especially about family duties.
“Fine,” she said softly. “I’ll go myself. Car’s in the garage, and the bus takes two hours each way…”
“So?” Nigel shrugged on his jacket. “Take the bus or a taxi!”
“Taxis cost too much, son. My pension’s tight.”
“I know!” He was already at the door. “We’ll talk later – I’m rushed!”
The door slammed. Joan stood alone as the scent of beef stew she’d cooked hung uneaten. He hadn’t touched a bite.
She watched through the window as her son slid into his new Jaguar. Shiny and expensive – he bragged about it constantly. Yet his own grandmother? No time.
Joan counted notes from her worn purse. A taxi to Gran’s would dent her budget. The bus it was.
She packed treats into her bag, wrapped a scarf over her hair, and stepped outside. The bus stop was fifteen minutes’ walk. Joan paused to catch her breath – her heart had been troublesome lately, but doctor’s fees? Too steep.
She waited thirty minutes. The crowded bus arrived; she barely squeezed in. Youth buried in phones offered no seats.
Finally, she reached Margaret’s village. The cottage stood at the edge, garden wild and overgrown. Joan pushed open the gate.
“Gran?” She knocked. “It’s Joan!”
The door opened slowly. Margaret leaned on her stick, frailer than last time.
“Joanie love!” Margaret beamed. “Come in!”
“You’re too thin, Gran,” Joan kissed her cheek.
“Oh… no appetite,” Margaret sighed. “Sleep’s poor too. Pains everywhere…”
“Saw the doctor?”
“Says it’s age.” Margaret waved a bony hand. “Tea?”
“Please.” Joan unpacked stew and apple pies. “Where’s our Nigel? Gran misses you.”
Margaret’s smile faded. “He’s busy.”
“A man must work. But…” Margaret’s voice dropped. “I miss him. My only grandson.”
“He misses you too – just hectic.”
“No, love.” Margaret shook her head. “If he missed me, he’d come. Like you do.”
Joan stayed silent. Nigel could visit if he cared. But Gran’s stories bored him.
“How’s Mary next door?” Joan asked quickly.
“Oh, same. Dropped by yesterday. TV’s all murder shows now…”
“And your chest?”
“Worse. Dizzy spells too. Fell yesterday – caught the table just in time.”
“Gran! Why not call an ambulance?”
“What for? They’d blame old age. Medicines cost too much.”
“Don’t fret about money. We’ll help.”
“Nigel will?” Hope lit Margaret’s eyes.
“Of course,” Joan lied, dreading Nigel’s complaints about costs.
They chatted till dusk – village gossip, aches, memories of Joan’s late husband. Joan cooked supper.
“Stay tonight?” Margaret pleaded as darkness fell. “It’s lonely…”
“Course I will, Gran.”
Morning brought a grim-faced GP at the local clinic. “Weak heart. Needs constant care,” he declared after a brief exam.
On the walk home, Margaret clung to Joan’s arm. “You’re better than a daughter to me.”
“Family’s family, Gran.”
“Family? Nigel doesn’t see me as family.”
“Don’t say that! He’s young.”
“Young?” Margaret stopped. “He knows. He just doesn’t care.”
That evening, Nigel ate reheated shepherd’s pie as Joan returned.
“Gran alright?” he mumbled.
“Failing, Nigel.”
“How bad?”
“Heart weak. Needs near-daily checks.”
“And you want me to ferry you weekly?” He pushed his plate away. “I’m working!”
“She’s your grandmother!”
“And I’ve my own life!” He stood. “Send her to hospital if she’s poorly.”
“Are you hearing yourself?” Joan paled.
“Be practical! She’s eighty-three – how long’s she got?” His voice rose. “Why waste money?”
“Get out,” Joan whispered.
“Gladly!” The door banged shut.
Alone, Joan remembered Nigel at ten – Gran reading him Beatrix Potter, nursing his fevers. What changed?
Next day, Joan returned. Margaret’s face glowed. “Where’s our lad?”
“Working. But he sent medicine money.”
Margaret clasped Joan’s hand. “Thank him for me!”
She didn’t admit the £30 came from her savings – why hurt Gran?
That evening, Nigel waited sheepishly. “I was thinking… Maybe visit Gran monthly?”
“Monthly?” Joan’s voice was flat. “How generous.”
“I’m trying!”
“Remember when you had pneumonia? Nine years old? Gran stayed up three nights.”
“So?”
“She needs that care now. Not when it suits you. Cherish her while you can
