**Diary Entry**
I woke with a heavy heart that morning. Standing on the doorstep of my son James’s house, I could hardly believe I had to ask permission to step inside. In my hands was a small bag with a change of clothes, and in my chest—an ache of exhaustion, hurt, and stubborn hope. The journey had been long—nearly six hours on a stuffy coach—and all I wanted was a shower, a bite to eat, and a moment’s rest before heading to the cemetery to visit my late mother, Margaret. But the words I spoke still sting when I think of them: *”Love, just let me in for an hour. I’ll wash up, have a bite if your Emily doesn’t mind, then be on my way to light a candle by Mum’s grave. Have I really come to this?”*
James looked at me with an expression I couldn’t quite place. There was affection there, but also discomfort, maybe even a flicker of guilt. He nodded quickly. *”Mum, of course, come in—don’t be silly.”* But I knew it wasn’t just about him. His wife, Emily, has always been kind, but these past few years, I’ve noticed how my visits make her tense. Not that she says it outright, but I sense it—the long stays, the stories about life in the village, the reminiscing. And now here I was, a mother, nearly begging to be let into her own son’s home.
Inside, I tried to make myself small. Emily was in the kitchen, fixing supper. She smiled, offered tea, but I refused—didn’t want to trouble her. I asked only to use the loo. James handed me a clean towel and said, *”Don’t worry, Mum, it’s fine. Take your time.”* But I caught him glancing toward the kitchen, as if checking whether Emily had heard. Another little knife to the heart. We used to be so close—shared everything. Now I’m a guest who mustn’t overstay.
After a wash, I felt a bit more myself. Sitting at the table with a bowl of hot soup (Emily insisted), I thought about how things had changed. When James was a boy, I worked two jobs to keep us afloat. We had little, but I made sure he wanted for nothing. I remember him, barely twelve, promising, *”Mum, when I’m grown, I’ll buy you a proper house—you’ll never want for anything.”* I’d smile, ruffle his hair, and say all I wanted was his happiness. Now here he is—successful, settled, with a lovely home and a good job. And here I am, on his doorstep, asking to be let in.
Later, I left for the cemetery. That was the real reason I’d come. My mum, Margaret, passed five years ago, and I try to visit once a year—to tidy the grave, light a candle, and talk to her in my head. James offered to drive me, but I walked. Needed the air. At the graveside, I swept away leaves, laid fresh flowers, and lit the candle. Sitting there, I whispered to her: *”Mum, have I become a stranger to my own son? Or am I just imagining it?”*
When I returned, the house felt warmer. Emily even asked me to stay the night, but I said no—didn’t want to intrude. I thanked them, hugged James tight, and promised to visit again soon. In his eyes, I saw love, but also a quiet sadness. Maybe he feels that wall between us too.
On the coach back to the village, I thought about how life shifts. Children grow, build their own families—it’s natural. But it hurts, knowing the woman who gave everything must now ask just to step inside. I don’t blame James or Emily. They’ve their own lives, and I’m glad for them. Still, deep down, I hope one day we’ll be close again. Till then, I’ll keep visiting—lighting candles, holding my boy, and trusting that love doesn’t just vanish.
**Lesson:** Time changes things, but it shouldn’t have to steal what matters most.
