Lonely in a Crowd of Family
“Mum, honestly, why are you making such a fuss?” snapped Emily, not even glancing up from her phone. “So what if they didn’t make it to your birthday? People have their own lives, you know.”
“What lives?” murmured Margaret, clutching a napkin in her hands. “Sarah promised to come with the kids. James said he’d get the evening off. And little Jack even told me he’d already bought my present.”
“And?” Emily finally looked up. “Sarah’s kids are ill, James is swamped at work, and Jack got stuck on a business trip. No one’s doing it on purpose.”
Margaret quietly set the table in the dining room—her best china, the linen tablecloth reserved for special occasions. Seventy years old—wasn’t that special enough? She’d spent the whole week shopping and all morning cooking their favourites: prawn cocktail for Sarah, toad-in-the-hole for James, and a Victoria sponge for Jack.
“Em, maybe we should give them another call?” she asked. “Perhaps they could still make it?”
“Mum, enough!” Emily stood abruptly. “I need to get back. Mark’s alone with the kids—he’ll be exhausted by now.”
“But we’ve barely touched the food…”
“It’s just a few salads. I’ll eat properly at home.” Margaret watched as her youngest daughter stuffed her bag in a hurry, as if she were late for something far more important.
“Alright, Mum, don’t sulk. Next time everyone will come—you’ll see.”
A peck on the cheek, the slam of the door, and Margaret was left alone at a table set for six.
She sat for a long time, staring at the empty plates. The flat was silent except for the ticking of the clock on the wall—the one her late husband had given her for their thirtieth anniversary. How many celebrations had they held at this table? Birthdays, Christmases, graduations, weddings…
With a sigh, she started clearing up. The prawn cocktail went into a Tupperware for her neighbour, Barbara. The toad-in-the-hole in the fridge. The cake, sliced into generous portions, followed. So many slices.
When everything was packed away, she sank into her husband’s old armchair and pulled out her phone. Unread messages glowed on the screen.
*Happy birthday, Mum! So sorry I couldn’t make it. The kids are poorly—temps through the roof. I’ll pop round this weekend. Love you!* —Sarah.
*Mum, happy birthday! Work’s a nightmare—might get the sack. Can’t talk now. Pressie’s with Emily. Take care.* —James, brief as ever.
*Mummy, happy 70th! Stuck in Manchester—flight cancelled. I’ll make it up to you! Love you loads.* —Jack, the baby of the family.
All apologising, all loving, all promising to visit later. Margaret tucked the phone away and closed her eyes. Exhaustion hit her suddenly, thick and suffocating.
The next morning, the doorbell woke her. Her neighbour Barbara stood there with a bouquet of daisies.
“Happy belated birthday, love!” she beamed. “Sorry I missed it yesterday—had my grandson’s football finals.”
“Thanks, Babs,” Margaret took the flowers. “Come in, I’ll put the kettle on.”
“How was the party? Did the kids come?” Margaret filled the teapot in silence. Barbara didn’t need words. “Again?”
“They’ve got their own things. Work, sick kids…”
“Marg, have you ever told them how much it matters to you?”
“Why should I? They’re not children—they ought to know.”
Barbara shook her head. “Ought to, but don’t. Mine are the same. Won’t get it unless you spell it out.”
They drank tea with leftover Victoria sponge. Barbara raved about the cake, asked for the recipe, chattered about her grandkids. Margaret listened, realising it was easier to talk to her neighbour than her own flesh and blood.
“Marg, why don’t we join a club or something?” Barbara suggested. “There’s that pensioners’ group—knitting, bingo, even ballroom dancing.”
“Don’t be daft. I’m not one for all that.”
“What *are* you for, then? The kids are grown, living their lives. Why not live a bit for yourself?”
After Barbara left, Margaret mulled over her words. *Live for herself?* How? Her whole life had been for others—first her parents, then her husband, then the kids. Even after he’d passed, she’d carried on for them: babysitting, cooking, washing their laundry when they dropped it off.
That evening, Sarah rang.
“Mum, how’re you doing? How was the party?”
“Fine,” said Margaret.
“Em said it was just you two. I *did* explain—Noah’s got a fever, Lily’s coughing. We had the doctor in.”
“I understand, love. The kids come first.”
“Mum, don’t say it like that! You know I adore you. It’s just rotten timing.”
“I know.”
“Listen, could you come over Saturday? Just a couple hours—I’ve a doctor’s appointment, and they won’t take me with sick kids.”
Margaret paused. “Of course.”
“You’re an angel! Best mum ever!”
After hanging up, she sat by the window, watching the kids play in the courtyard. A normal evening scene, but tonight it felt distant, like a painting she couldn’t touch.
On Saturday, she went to Sarah’s. The kids *were* poorly, though recovering. Noah whined relentlessly; Lily clung to her, begging for stories.
“Nanny, why don’t you come every day?” Lily asked, settling on her lap.
“What for?”
“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.
Sarah returned three hours later. “Mum, you’re a lifesaver!” She looked wrecked. “Doctor says it’s just a cold.”
“That’s good.”
“Listen, could you come tomorrow too? I’ve got work, and Tom’s away on business.”
“It’s Sunday.”
“Yeah… So?”
Margaret almost said she’d like a day off too. That she had needs. But she took one look at Sarah’s exhausted face and nodded. “Alright.”
On the bus home, she thought about Lily’s question. *Why don’t you come every day?* Really, why not? What held her back? An empty flat? The telly? The odd phone call?
A surprise waited at home. Her son James stood on the doorstep, gift bags in hand.
“Hey, Mum!” He hugged her. “Sorry about yesterday—got in over my head.”
“It’s fine, love. Come in.”
James set the bags on the kitchen table. “Got you bits—new teapot, a dressing gown, chocolates.”
“Lovely, thank you.”
“Mum, why so glum?” He studied her. “Still upset about the birthday?”
Margaret sat opposite him. James had his father’s grey eyes, the same crease in his brow when he was thinking.
“James, be honest. Do you lot actually need me?”
“Mum, what kind of question? ’Course we do!”
“For what?”
He faltered. “You’re our mum.”
“I know that. But beyond that—what do I *give* you now? In your grown-up lives?”
James hesitated. “Well… You’re there for us. Help Sarah with the kids, tidy up for Em. Give me advice.”
“And if I stopped? If I wanted to live for *me*?”
“How d’you mean?”
“Travel. Go to the theatre. Meet new people.”
James blinked. “Mum, are you—seeing someone?”
“Why not? I’m seventy, not dead.”
“You can, obviously, but… What about us? The grandkids?”
“You’re adults. You’ll manage.”
James looked thrown. He was used to her always being available, never saying no.
“Mum, are you ill or something?”
“No. I just realised I’ve spent my life on everyone else’s terms. I don’t even know my own.”
“What *terms*? You’re retired.”
The word stung. *Retired.* Meaning she should sit quietly, wait for scraps of their time, and be grateful.
“James, when did you last ask how *I* was? Not what I could do for you—how I *felt*?”
He frowned. “I… did, recently.”
“When?”
“Christmas, maybe?”
“Six months ago.”
James reddened. “Mum, we *know* you’re alright. You never complain.”
“What if I did?”
“About what?”
“Being lonely.”
He shifted uncomfortably.
“How can *you* be lonely? Four kids,”And then, with a quiet smile, Margaret picked up her paintbrush and began her first stroke—not for them, but for herself.”
