**Alone Among Family**
*Monday, 12th June*
“Mum, stop fussing!” snapped Emily, barely glancing up from her phone. “So what if they didn’t come for your birthday? People have their own lives.”
“What lives?” Mum—Margaret—asked quietly, twisting a napkin in her hands. “Sarah promised to bring the kids. Jack said he’d make time. Even Tom told me he’d already bought a gift.”
“So what?” Emily finally looked up. “Sarah’s kids are ill, Jack’s swamped at work, and Tom’s stuck in Edinburgh. No one’s doing it on purpose.”
Mum silently laid the table in the dining room—the good china, the embroidered runner, saved for special occasions. Seventy years. Wasn’t that special enough? She’d spent the week shopping, cooking their favourites: roast beef for Sarah, toad-in-the-hole for Jack, a Victoria sponge for Tom.
“Em, maybe we could call them again?” she asked. “Just in case?”
“Mum, enough!” Emily stood, grabbing her bag. “I need to get home. David’s been with the kids all day—he’ll be exhausted.”
“But we’ve barely eaten—”
“It’s just nibbles. I’ll have a proper meal at home.”
Mum watched as her youngest hurried out, as if late for something far more important. A quick peck on the cheek, the click of the door. And then—silence. Just the tick of the grandfather clock, the one Dad had given her for their thirtieth anniversary. How many celebrations had they held around this table? Birthdays, Christmases, graduations, weddings…
She packed the leftovers into Tupperware—the beef for Mrs. Carter next door, the toad-in-the-hole into the fridge, the cake sliced and stored. So many slices.
Later, curled in Dad’s old armchair, she scrolled through unread messages:
*”Mum, happy birthday! So sorry we couldn’t make it. The kids are poorly—high fevers. We’ll visit this weekend. Love you.”* From Sarah.
*”Happy birthday, Mum. Work’s a nightmare—might get sacked. Gift’s with Emily. Take care.”* Jack, as blunt as ever.
*”Mum, happy 70th! Stuck in Edinburgh—flight cancelled. Will make it up to you. Love you loads.”* Tom, her baby.
Everyone was sorry. Everyone loved her. Everyone would come *later*. Mum tucked her phone away and closed her eyes. The exhaustion hit like a weight.
The next morning, Mrs. Carter knocked with a bouquet of roses.
“Margaret, happy belated birthday!” she chirped. “Sorry I missed it—had my grandson’s football finals.”
“Thank you, love,” Mum said, accepting the flowers. “Come in, I’ll put the kettle on.”
“How was the celebration? Did the kids visit?”
Mum filled the teapot and said nothing. Mrs. Carter didn’t need words.
“They couldn’t make it again?”
“Work. Sick children. You know.”
“Did you tell them how much it meant to you?”
“Why? They’re grown. They should know.”
Mrs. Carter shook her head. “Should doesn’t mean do. Mine are the same. Won’t click until you spell it out.”
They drank tea with leftover cake. Mrs. Carter praised the sponge, asked for the recipe, chattered about her grandkids. Mum listened, realising it was easier to talk to her neighbour than her own children.
“You should join a club,” Mrs. Carter said suddenly. “The community centre does painting, choir, even ballroom dancing.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Why not? The kids are grown. Time to live for *you*.”
After she left, Mum thought about that. *Live for herself?* How? She’d spent her life caring—first for her parents, then Dad, then the kids. Even after Dad passed, she’d kept giving: babysitting grandkids, cooking meals, washing their laundry when they dropped it off.
That evening, Sarah called.
“Mum, how was your birthday?”
“Fine.”
“Emily said it was just you two. I *did* explain—Ben’s fever, Lily’s cough. We had the doctor in.”
“I understand, love. The children come first.”
“Mum, don’t say it like that. You know I adore you. It just… didn’t work out.”
“I know.”
“Listen, could you pop by Saturday? Just for a few hours? I’ve a doctor’s appointment—can’t bring sick kids.”
Mum hesitated. “…Alright.”
“You’re a star! Love you!”
After hanging up, Mum sat by the window, watching kids play in the courtyard. A normal evening scene—yet it felt strangely distant.
On Saturday, Ben whinged for attention; Lily clung to her, begging for stories.
“Nana, why don’t you visit every day?” Lily asked, snuggling into her lap.
“Why would I?”
“So we can be together. Mummy’s always busy, Daddy’s at work. But you’re fun.”
Mum hugged her tighter. At least *someone* needed her.
Sarah returned three hours later. “Mum, you’re a lifesaver! Doctor says it’s just a cold.”
“That’s good.”
“Could you come tomorrow? I’ve work, and Mark’s away on business.”
“Tomorrow’s Sunday.”
“I know. So?”
Mum almost said *I’d like a day to myself*. But Sarah looked exhausted, so she nodded. “Alright.”
On the bus home, she thought about Lily’s question. *Why not visit every day?* What kept her at home? An empty flat, the telly, the occasional call?
At her doorstep stood Jack, holding a bag of gifts.
“Sorry about yesterday,” he said, hugging her. “Got caught up.”
“It’s fine, love.”
He set down the gifts—a tea set, a plush robe, chocolates.
“You seem down,” he said. “Still upset about your birthday?”
Mum sat across from him. “Jack, be honest. Do I matter to you?”
“*What?* Of course you do!”
“How? What do I give you now, as an adult?”
Jack fumbled. “You… help. Babysit for Sarah, advise Emily. You’re *Mum*.”
“And if I stopped? If I wanted to *live*—travel, go to the theatre, meet people?”
Jack gaped. “Are you… *dating* someone?”
“I’m seventy, not dead.”
“But—what about *us*? The grandkids?”
“You’re adults. You’ll manage.”
Jack floundered. “Mum, are you ill?”
“No. I’ve just realised I’ve spent my life serving others—and forgotten myself.”
“But you’re retired.”
The word stung. *Retired.* Meant to sit, wait, be grateful for scraps of attention.
“When did you last ask how *I* was?” Mum pressed. “Not what I could do for you—just *me*?”
Jack flushed. “New Year’s, maybe?”
“That was six months ago.”
“But we *know* you’re fine! You never complain.”
“What if I did?”
“About what?”
“Loneliness.”
Jack shifted uncomfortably. “You’re not lonely. You’ve four children, *nine* grandkids.”
“Whom I see *maybe* once a month.”
“But we *call*!”
“When you need something.”
Jack stared at his hands. “I didn’t realise…”
“Neither did I,” Mum said softly, “until now.”
Later, Emily rang. “Mum, Jack said you’re upset.”
“I’m not angry. Just tired of being an afterthought.”
“*What?* We *adore* you!”
“Do you? When did you last wonder what *I* dream about? What I fear?”
Emily hesitated. “…What *do* you dream about?”
Mum smiled—the first real one in ages. “The seaside. Painting. Maybe a little dog.”
“A *dog*?”
“Company, love.”
“You’ve *us*!”
“Quantity doesn’t cure loneliness.”
The next day, Mum visited the community centre. Mrs. Carter was right—she needed to *live*.
At the painting class, she met Dorothy, another grandmother whose children only called when they needed a babysitter.
“They genuinely think we’re content like this,” Dorothy sighed over tea. “That we don’t *want* more.”
Mum nodded. “And then wonder why we’re sad.”
That evening, Tom called.
“Mum, how’s things?”
“I’ve started painting.”
“*Why?*”
“For *me*.”
“Right. Listen—could we stay over next weekend? Renovations at ours. Maybe a week or two?”
Ah. Not a visit—a *favour*. Cooking, cleaning, endless babysMum took a deep breath and said, “No, but you’re welcome for Sunday lunch—just this once,” and hung up with a strange, quiet pride, setting her teacup down as the first real chapter of her own life began.
