The Mother Who Walked Away
Edith Thompson set her teacup down so sharply that it sloshed onto the doily. The tinny voice of her neighbor, Margaret Higgins, still crackled through the receiver.
“Edie, how can you turn your back on your own grandchildren? They’re little ones—what harm have they ever done you?”
“That’s none of your concern, Margaret,” Edith replied curtly. “Everyone has their reasons.”
“What reasons could you possibly have against children? Emily’s only four, and little Oliver just turned two. They miss their gran!”
Edith sighed and gazed out the window. Neighbourhood children played in the courtyard, and for a moment, she could see her own grandchildren there—Emily begging for a push on the swing, Oliver toddling after pigeons with unsteady steps.
“Margaret, I haven’t the time for this. Goodbye.”
She hung up and marched to the kitchen. Fridge magnets still held childish scribbles—blotches of crayon Emily had proudly called “a portrait of Gran.” Edith pulled them down and tucked them into a drawer.
The doorbell startled her. Peering through the peephole, she saw her son, James, laden with shopping bags.
“Mum, let me in, please,” he said wearily.
She opened the door but didn’t step aside.
“If you’ve come to wheedle me into babysitting again, you may as well turn around.”
James set the bags down and rubbed his temples.
“Mum, don’t be childish. Claire’s come down with fever—nearly forty degrees. I’ve work, and there’s no one to mind the kids.”
“Find a nanny. You’ve money to spare.”
“On such short notice? Mum, they’re your grandchildren!”
“My grandchildren?” Edith scoffed. “Was that what they were six months ago when you packed me off to a bedsit?”
James winced. They’d had this row too many times.
“Mum, we explained—we needed space. A two-bed flat’s too cramped for four.”
“Space. Right. So it’s perfectly fine to shunt your aged mother into rented rooms?”
“We send you funds—”
“Pittance!” Her voice rose. “Twenty years I gave your family. Raised your children while you and Claire worked. Scrubbed, cooked, cleaned. And the moment they grew older and I was no longer useful—out I went!”
“Mum, we had no choice—”
“You had choices! A three-bed home, for starters. But no, you lot fancied a new motor and holidays in Spain instead.”
James fell silent. He knew she was right, but pride sealed his lips.
“Listen,” he said at last, quieter, “I know we handled it poorly. But the children—they love you.”
“And I love them,” Edith admitted. “That’s why I won’t let them see how their parents treat me. Let them remember a kind gran, not watch you lot take advantage.”
“We’re not using you!”
“Aren’t you? Who rings weekly for free childcare? Who dumps them here when they’re too ill for nursery? Who whisks off for weekends while I mind your brood?”
James opened his mouth, but she pressed on.
“And when my heart gave trouble last month, who came? Margaret Higgins—a neighbour! Not my son. Not my daughter-in-law. A stranger.”
“Mum, we’ve jobs, the kids—”
“So does everyone. Decent folk don’t cast their parents aside.”
Edith stood firm in the doorway. James knew he wouldn’t sway her today.
“Fine,” he muttered, hefting the bags. “But it’s wrong, Mum. Emily asks why Gran doesn’t love them anymore.”
The words stung, but Edith didn’t flinch.
“Tell her Gran’s tired of being convenient.”
When he left, she leaned against the closed door, throat tight. She swallowed the tears and retreated to the armchair where she’d once read Emily bedtime stories.
The bedsit had been hers for six months—a cramped one-room flat on the outskirts, far from their old neighbourhood. The landlady was decent, but it wasn’t home. Someone else’s walls. Someone else’s smells.
It had begun with a hushed conversation over supper. James and Claire, heads bent, thinking she couldn’t hear from her room.
“Perhaps it’s time your mother found her own place?” Claire had said. “The children need their own rooms.”
“I don’t know,” James muttered. “She helps with the kids.”
“Helps? At what cost? Never satisfied, spoiling them rotten, criticising me. Last night she let Emily watch telly till eleven—you know I don’t allow that.”
“Should we talk to her?”
“About what? She acts like we owe her. It’s our flat, James. Our children. We decide how they’re raised.”
Edith hadn’t slept that night. By breakfast, Claire made it official.
“Edith, James and I think it’s best you find separate lodgings.”
She’d choked on her tea.
“Come again?”
“You’re an independent woman. And we’re feeling a bit squeezed.”
“Squeezed?” Edith echoed. “Twenty years wasn’t too long?”
“The children were small then—we needed help,” James cut in. “Now they’re older.”
“I see. So while I was useful, I stayed. Now I’m not, out I go.”
“Mum, don’t twist it!” James bristled. “We’re suggesting you live separately.”
“On what? My pension of eight hundred quid?”
“We’ll chip in,” Claire assured. “At first, certainly.”
At first. As if she’d asked for a temporary loan, not given them her life.
“Very well,” Edith had said. “I’ll find a place. But mark this—with the flat, you lose the babysitter.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” James frowned.
“Exactly what it sounds like. No more Gran at your beck and call. Wanted independence? You’ll have it in full.”
Claire and James exchanged glances. This consequence hadn’t occurred to them.
“Mum, the children adore you,” James tried. “You won’t cut ties?”
“I’ll see them. Sundays. An hour or two. Like any gran who lives apart.”
“And if we need a full day? Or fall ill?”
“Hire help. Use a nursery.”
Claire paled.
“That’s dear—”
“My labour was free,” Edith reminded. “Twenty years of it. More than enough.”
They’d pleaded, claimed no offence meant. But Edith stood firm. She’d understood the truth—she’d been used. Tolerated while needed, discarded when not.
The bedsit came quickly. The landlady, an older widow, took pity on “the gran her kin cast out” and lowered the rent.
Moving day was grim. James helped shift her things in guilty silence. Emily had wept, clutching Edith’s skirt.
“Gran, don’t go!”
“Darling, I’m not leaving you. Just living elsewhere.”
“Can I visit?”
“Always.”
But Emily never did. James called at first, proposing visits. Then the calls dwindled, then stopped.
Edith knew why. Claire wanted no ties to a “difficult” mother-in-law. And James, as ever, obeyed his wife.
The worst came a month later. A midweek call, James’ voice strained.
“Mum, we’re in a bind. Claire’s feverish, and I’ve critical meetings tomorrow. Can you take the children?”
“No.”
“What? Mum, they’re your grandchildren!”
“Your children. You wanted independence—here it is.”
“But you love them!”
“I do. But I won’t be a stopgap for those who tossed me aside.”
James had shouted then, called her heartless. Edith listened silently, recalling his rants when she’d dared correct the children in front of Claire.
The pleas continued. Claire’s migraines. Nursery closures. Weekends away. Each time, Edith refused.
“Mum, don’t be petty!” James fumed. “We’re family!”
“Family? Family doesn’t turf out their elders.”
“We didn’t dump you in the streets!”
“Didn’t you? A rented room isn’t a home.”
James fell quiet. Their “help” had been token—two hundred quid monthly against rent of nine.
Today, he’d come begging again.
Edith rose and went to the window. Children played below, one girl’s blonde curls just like Emily’s.
Her chest ached. She missed them more than she’d admit—Emily’s endless “why”s, her fridge-art masterpieces. Oliver’s sleepy weight in her arms.
The phone rang again. “James” flashed on the screen.
“Mum, I know we messed up,” he began bluntly. “But the children suffer. Emily asks for you daily. Oliver’s forgotten your name.”
That struck home. Edith shut her eyes.
“What do you wantShe took a deep breath, turned away from the window, and picked up the phone—not for his sake, not for theirs, but for the quiet whisper of love that still lingered in her heart.
