I Came to Visit Because I Missed You, But My Grown Children Feel Like Strangers – A Mother’s Story of Longing and Disappointment

Author Emily TaylorReading 4 minViews 2

I came to visit because I missed you, but children feel like strangers now.

Parents always worry about their children. Sometimes, though, parents find themselves disappointed or heartbroken by the adults their children have become. This is the story of one such English mother.

Barbara raised three children, all grown up now and out living their own lives. Her eldest, John, has settled abroad with his family. During the holidays, he sends snapshots from sunlit parks and the occasional postcard. Barbara treasures these keepsakes, fingering the edges and reminiscing every so often.

We miss you terribly, John. Perhaps you could visit sometime? Weve yet to meet your wife and little ones, she writes, her longing woven through each word.

Her middle daughter, Harriet, married a man in the Royal Navy. Theyre always on the move, raising a daughter in far-flung corners of the country. From time to time, they pop in for a brief visit. Barbaras husband, David, speaks warmly of his son-in-lawa good, steadfast man.

Her youngest daughter, Abigail, leads a different kind of life. Once married with a son, her husband walked out. Abigail took Barbaras advice and moved to London to start afresh. She found work stitching garments in a bustling factory, bringing her boy along.

One chill March morning, Barbara packed her bags and told David, Will you be alright without me for a week? I want to see Abigail and the little onemake sure theyre managing.

David walked her to the platform, glancing worriedly at her laden bags. Be safe, Barb.

Barbara spent hours in a draughty second-class carriage, heart pounding at the thought of reuniting with her daughter after three long years.

When she arrived, she dialled Abigail from the busy station.

Mum, why didnt you call to say you were coming? Im at work, cant get away until late.

Im sorry, love. I just wanted to surprise you, Barbara replied, fighting disappointment.

Can you wait there until tonight?

Ill manage, Barbara forced cheer into her voice.

After what felt like ages, she grew restless, shouldered her bags, and made her own way across the city.

At Abigails door stood her grandson, tall and broad-shouldered like David in his youth.

Hello, my dear boy! Barbara exclaimed, arms open for a hug.

Alright, Gran, thats enough, he wiggled free, awkward in her embrace.

The flat smelled of something cooking. Abigail, visibly worn, regarded her mother with a hint of annoyance. Why didnt you say you were coming sooner? Ive just finished cleaning, set the table, left work early to make shepherds pie and fry those chicken cutlets you like.

Barbaras mobile rang, and she quickly reassured David she was settled in, that Abigail had made up a meal ready on the table.

They sat, soup steaming in their bowls. How many cutlets would you likeone or two? Abigail asked, eyes tired.

Out of sheer hunger and fatigue, Barbara could have eaten three, but thought better of it. Just pop them all here, darling, well see how we get on.

There were only five cutlets on the platehardly the feast Barbara remembered from kinder days. The mothers heart tightened; perhaps money was short. She resolved to help out where she could.

But at dinner, Abigail asked abruptly, So, Mumwhen are you heading back?

Barbaras heart stung with hurt. Well, if Im in the way, I can leave tomorrow, she answered icily.

The next day was quiet and lonely. Barbara spent hours alone as the others busied themselves behind closed doors. In the evening, her grandson slipped off to see the neighbours, while Abigail left for drinks with friends. Barbara remained, a solitary guest in a flat now holding no place for her.

She overheard her grandson asking, Whens Uncle John visiting? Werent we going to the football?

As soon as Grans gone, Abigail replied in a low voice.

Cold despair swept over Barbara. She quietly packed her bags and let herself out, not bothering with goodbyes.

Meeting her at the train station, Davids face lit with warm relief. He missed her, missed the life theyd built together. In that moment, Barbara realised: after all the love and care, she and David had given, their own children somehow no longer needed them.

I’ll Remind You — “Miss Mary, look, I just can’t get this curl right,” little Tom whispered sadly, poking his paintbrush at a stubborn green leaf on his flower painting that just wouldn’t curl the way he wanted. — “Don’t press so hard on your brush, darling… Like this—paint as if you’re tickling your palm with a feather. There! Well done! That’s not a curl, that’s a masterpiece!” smiled the elderly teacher. “And who’s the lucky person getting such a beautiful picture?” — “It’s for my mum!” Tom beamed, proud now that he’d conquered the stubborn leaf. “It’s her birthday today! This is my present!” His voice was tinged with a touch of pride at the teacher’s praise. — “Oh, your mum’s a lucky lady, Tom. Wait a minute—don’t close your sketchbook yet. Let the paint dry so it won’t smudge. When you get home, carefully tear the page out. Your mum will love it, you’ll see!” Miss Mary watched the small, dark head bent so intently over the drawing, then smiled to herself and returned to her desk. A present for mum! Mary couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen such a beautiful gift. Tom really did have a talent for art! She must call his mum and suggest signing him up for art classes—you can’t let a gift like this go to waste. It might be nice to ask her old pupil if she liked the present too. Mary herself couldn’t tear her eyes from those flourishing leaves and curling stems on the paper. It almost seemed as if they might rustle to life at any moment. Ah, he takes after his mother! Just like her. Larissa was a gifted little artist at his age too… ***** — “Miss Mary, this is Larissa, Tom’s mum,” came the evening call in the teacher’s flat, the young woman’s voice strict through the receiver, “Just phoning to say Tom won’t be in tomorrow.” — “Hello, Larissa! Is something wrong?” Miss Mary asked gently. — “Wrong? He ruined my whole birthday, that’s what! And now he’s lying in bed with a fever—the ambulance only just left!” — “A fever? But he left school perfectly well—and he was bringing you his present…” — “You mean those splodges?” — “What splodges, Larissa? He painted you flowers! I was just about to call you, to suggest art school for him…” — “I don’t know about flowers, but I certainly wasn’t expecting a scruffy heap!” — “A heap? What are you talking about?” Miss Mary was at a loss, frowning more deeply as she listened to Larissa’s agitated explanations. “Larissa, do you mind if I come over for a bit? I’m not far…” A few minutes later, with her former student’s consent—now, somehow, her pupil’s mum—Miss Mary was out the door, carrying an old album full of faded photos and remembered children’s drawings from her very first, long ago, beloved class. Larissa led her guest into a bright but chaotic kitchen. Clearing cake and dirty plates, she started to explain: How Tom arrived home late, caked in mud and water from his bag and clothes… How he pulled a drenched puppy from his jacket, reeking of rubbish, the poor creature thrown into a puddle by older boys—and how Tom had scrambled after him. How ruined textbooks and stained paintings were all that remained, the album on the radiator, nothing left of the flowers but a mess. How the guests left without tasting cake, and how the doctor had scolded her, a careless mother letting her child fall ill… — “So I took the puppy back to the dump once Tom fell asleep. The album’s still drying, but there’s nothing left. I can’t bear to look at it.” She didn’t notice how each word made Miss Mary grow sterner, nor how she darkened completely when Larissa recounted the puppy’s fate. Miss Mary stroked the ruined album and, quietly now, spoke— She talked of green curls and living flowers, of a child’s diligence and bravery beyond his years. Of a boy’s kind heart and about the bullies who’d thrown a helpless puppy into that puddle. Then she stood, took Larissa’s hand, and led her to the window: — “See there? That puddle? Tom could have drowned instead of the puppy. Do you really think he thought about that? Perhaps he was thinking of the flowers on his painting, hoping not to ruin his gift for you? Or have you forgotten, Larissa, how you once cried on a school bench in the old days, hugging a stray kitten you saved from bullies? How the whole class gathered, waiting for your mum? How you didn’t want to go home, blaming your parents when they tossed that ‘scruffy ball of fur’ out… Good thing you changed your mind in time! Well, let me remind you! And Tiddles, the one you couldn’t part with, and floppy-eared Max, that puppy, always by your side until university. Even the rook with a broken wing you nursed in our class pet corner…” From her yellowed album, Miss Mary took an old photograph—a slim girl in a white pinny, clutching a kitten and beaming at the crowd of classmates—and continued, voice gentle but firm: — “Let me remind you of the kindness that once blossomed in your heart in bright colours, against all odds…” An old drawing fluttered from the album onto the table—a little girl holding a scruffy kitten, her other hand clutching her mother’s. — “If it were up to me,” Miss Mary went on more sternly, “I’d shower that puppy and Tom both with kisses! I’d frame those colourful splodges! Because there’s no better present for a mother than raising a child who turns out a decent person!” The teacher didn’t notice Larissa growing paler, worrying glances thrown toward Tom’s bedroom, or the way her fingers clutched that ill-fated album… — “Miss Mary! Please, could you keep an eye on Tom for just a few minutes? I need to—please, I’ll be quick!” Under her teacher’s kind but watchful eyes, Larissa hurried into her coat and rushed out. Not caring about her soaked shoes, she ran back to the dump in the distance, calling and searching beneath cardboard boxes and through rubbish bags, anxious eyes straying again and again towards home… Would he forgive her? ***** — “Tom, who’s that with his nose buried in the flowers? Is that your friend—Digger?” — “That’s him, Miss Mary! Looks just like him, doesn’t he?” — “He does! And the white star on his paw—you painted it perfectly! I remember helping your mum scrub those paws, you know,” the teacher laughed kindly. — “I wash Digger’s paws every day now!” Tom said proudly. “Mum says, ‘If you have a friend, you take care of him!’ She even got us a special bath for him!” — “Your mum’s wonderful,” smiled Miss Mary. “Are you working on another present for her?” — “Yep! Going to put it in a frame. She’s still got those splodges on the wall, but now when she looks at them, she smiles. Can you smile at splodges, Miss Mary?” — “Splodges?” The teacher chuckled. “Maybe… if the splodges are made from the heart. Tell me, how are you getting on at art school? Is it going well?” — “Brilliantly! Soon I’ll be able to paint my mum’s portrait! She’ll love that! But for now—here.” Tom reached into his bag and handed her a folded piece of paper. “This is from my mum—she paints now, too.” Miss Mary unfolded the sheet, squeezing his shoulder gently. Smiling up from the page in a scatter of colourful paints was a beaming Tom, his hand resting on a black-and-white mongrel gazing at him adoringly. On the right stood a petite, fair-haired girl in an old-fashioned uniform, hugging a fluffy kitten… On the left, behind a desk laden with books, sat Miss Mary herself, smiling, her impossibly wise eyes watching over the happy children. In every brushstroke and dab of colour, Miss Mary felt the warmth of a mother’s pride. Tears sparkled, but she smiled as she noticed, in a quiet corner edged with flowers and curling green stems, a single word, lovingly written: “Remember.”