Alone in a Crowd of Family
“Mum, what are you worrying about now?” snapped Emily, barely glancing up from her phone. “So what if they didn’t come to your birthday? People have their own lives.”
“What lives?” whispered Margaret, clutching a napkin in her hands. “Sophie promised to bring the kids, Daniel said he’d make time, and even Robert mentioned he’d already bought a gift.”
“So what?” Emily finally looked up from her screen. “Sophie’s kids are sick, Daniel’s swamped at work, and Robert’s stuck on a business trip. No one’s doing it on purpose.”
Margaret silently set the table in the living room. Her best china, the embroidered tablecloth—reserved for special occasions. Seventy years—wasn’t that special? She’d spent the whole week shopping, cooking their favourite dishes since morning. Prawn cocktail for Sophie, roast potatoes with mushrooms for Daniel, a Victoria sponge for Robert.
“Emily, maybe we could call them again?” she asked. “Perhaps they could still make it?”
“Mum, enough!” Emily pushed back her chair. “I need to get home. Sam’s alone with the kids—he’ll be exhausted.”
“But we haven’t even eaten properly…”
“What’s here? Just little salads. I’ll eat properly at home.”
Margaret watched her youngest daughter gather her things—hurriedly, as if afraid of missing something far more important.
“Alright, Mum, don’t be sad. Next time, they’ll all come, you’ll see.”
A quick kiss on the cheek, the click of the door. Margaret sat alone at a table set for six.
She lingered, staring at the empty plates. The flat was silent except for the ticking of the wall clock—the one her late husband had given her for their thirtieth anniversary. How many celebrations had they hosted at this table? Birthdays, Christmases, graduations, weddings…
Margaret rose and began clearing up. Packed the prawn cocktail into a container—she’d take it to her neighbour, Helen, tomorrow. The potatoes went into the fridge. The cake, sliced into portions, was wrapped and stored. So many portions.
When everything was tidied away, she sank into her husband’s favourite armchair and checked her phone. Unread messages glowed on the screen.
“Happy birthday, Mum! So sorry I couldn’t make it. The kids are poorly, temperatures through the roof. I’ll visit this weekend. Love you.” From Sophie.
“Mum, happy birthday! Work’s a nightmare—might get the sack. Can’t step away. Emily’ll bring your gift. Stay well.” Daniel, as brief as ever.
“Mum, happy 70th! Stuck in Manchester—flight cancelled. I’ll make it up to you. Love you loads.” Robert, the youngest.
Apologies, love, promises to visit later. Margaret set the phone aside and closed her eyes. Weariness pressed down, sudden and suffocating.
The next day, a knock at the door. Helen stood there with a bouquet of roses.
“Margaret, happy belated birthday!” she beamed. “Sorry I missed it—grandson’s football finals.”
“Thanks, Helen. Come in for tea.”
“How was your celebration? Did the kids come?”
Margaret filled the kettle in silence. Helen understood without words.
“Again?”
“They’ve got things on. Work, sick kids…”
“Margaret, have you told them how much it meant to you?”
“Why? They’re not children—they should know.”
Helen shook her head.
“Should, but don’t. Mine are the same. Won’t click unless you spell it out.”
They drank tea with leftover cake. Helen praised it, asked for the recipe, chatted about her grandchildren. Margaret listened, realising it was easier to talk to her neighbour than her own children.
“Margaret, why don’t we join a club?” Helen suggested. “The community centre does line dancing, book groups…”
“Oh, Helen. I’m not up for it.”
“Then what are you up for? Your kids are grown—living their lives. Why not live for yourself?”
After Helen left, Margaret pondered those words. Live for herself? How? She’d spent her life serving others—first parents, then her husband, then her children. Even after his death, she lived for them. Babysitting, cooking, laundry drop-offs.
That evening, Sophie called.
“Mum, how are you? How was your birthday?”
“Fine,” Margaret replied.
“Emily said it was just you two. I did explain—it’s chaos here. Jack’s feverish, Lily’s coughing. Had to call the GP.”
“I understand, love. The kids come first.”
“Mum, don’t say it like that. You know I adore you. Things just didn’t line up.”
“I know.”
“Listen, could you come Saturday? Just a few hours with the kids? I’ve a doctor’s appointment—they won’t take sick children.”
Margaret hesitated.
“Of course.”
“Thanks, Mum! You’re the best!”
After hanging up, Margaret sat by the window, watching children play in the courtyard. Ordinary, yet tonight it felt distant, unreachable.
On Saturday, she went to Sophie’s. The kids were poorly but improving. Jack whined for attention; Lily clung to her, begging for stories.
“Nana, why don’t you come every day?” Lily asked, settling on her lap.
“Why every day?”
“So we can be together. Mummy’s always busy, Daddy’s at work. But you’re fun.”
Margaret hugged her granddaughter tight. At least someone needed her.
Sophie returned three hours later.
“Mum, thank you so much!” She looked drained. “Doctor says it’s just a cold.”
“That’s good.”
“Listen, could you come tomorrow too? I’ve work, and Steven’s away.”
“Tomorrow’s Sunday.”
“Yeah. So?”
Margaret almost said she’d like a day for herself too. But seeing Sophie’s tired face, she nodded.
“Alright.”
On the bus home, she thought about Lily’s question. Why didn’t she visit daily? What kept her home? An empty flat, the telly, occasional calls?
A surprise waited—Daniel on her doorstep, gifts in hand.
“Hi, Mum!” He hugged her. “Sorry about yesterday. Mad at work.”
“It’s fine, love. Come in.”
He set the gifts on the table—a teacup set, a fleece dressing gown, chocolates.
“Thanks. Lovely.”
“Mum, why so down? Still upset about your birthday?”
Margaret sat opposite him. Daniel had his father’s grey eyes, the same frown when thinking.
“Daniel, be honest. Do you need me?”
“Mum, what kind of question? Of course!”
“For what?”
He faltered.
“What d’you mean? You’re our mum.”
“I know. But beyond that. What do I give you now, as adults?”
He hesitated.
“Well… You support us. Help Sophie with the kids, Emily with errands. Advise me.”
“And if I stopped? If I lived for myself?”
“How d’you mean?”
“Travel. Theatre. Meet new people.”
Daniel stared.
“Mum, are you… seeing someone?”
“Could I not? I’m seventy, not dead.”
“Course, but…” He shifted. “What about us? The grandkids?”
“You’re adults. You’d manage.”
Clearly thrown, he stammered, “Mum, are you ill?”
“No. Just realised I’ve lived by others’ needs, not my own.”
“But you’re retired.”
The word stung. Retired—so she should sit idle, await scraps of their time?
“Daniel, when did you last ask how I am? Not what I can do for you—how I feel?”
He flushed.
“Mum, we know you’re fine. You never complain.”
“What if I did?”
“About what?”
“Loneliness.”
He squirmed.
“How can you be lonely? Four kids, seven grandkids.”
“Whom I see monthly, if that.”
“But we call!”
“When you need something.”
Silence. Daniel studied his hands.
“Mum, I didn’t think… I mean—”
“That knowing you’re well was enough?”
“Yeah. Isn’t it?”
Margaret stood.
“Perhaps once. Not anymore.”
“What changed?”
“I did. I stopped living through others.”
Daniel rose too.
“Mum, we didn’t mean to. We’re just used to you being there.”
“Exactly. Taken for granted.”
He hugged her.
“Sorry. I never realised you felt this way.”
“Not ‘this way’—lonely.”
“What can we do?”
Margaret paused. What did she want? Their attention—not as caretakers, but as family.
“Call just to chat. Visit without needing help. Share your lives, ask about mine.”
“Alright, Mum. We will.”
After he left, she put the gifts awayMargaret booked a painting holiday in Cornwall, packed her bags, and left the key with Helen—no explanations, no apologies, just the quiet certainty that for the first time in decades, she was finally choosing herself.
