*”Have I really become a stranger?”*
That morning weighed heavy on my heart as I stood on the doorstep of my son Edward’s house, hardly believing I had to ask permission just to step inside. In my hands was a small bag with my things, and in my soul—a mix of weariness, hurt, and faint hope. The journey had been long, nearly six hours on a stuffy coach, and all I wanted was to wash up, have a bite to eat, and rest a little before visiting my late mother’s grave. Margaret had passed five years ago, and I made it a point to come at least once a year to tidy the plot, light a candle, and simply sit with her memory. But the words I muttered to Edward still echoed bitterly in my chest: *”Let me in for just an hour, love. Let me clean up, eat something if your Emily allows it, then I’ll go to the churchyard. Have I really come to this?”*
Edward looked at me with an odd expression—affection, unease, maybe even a flicker of guilt. He nodded quickly. *”Mum, of course, come in—what are you on about?”* But I knew it wasn’t just up to him. Emily had always been kind, polite, but these past few years, I’d noticed my presence tighten the air. Not that she ever said anything outright, but I could feel it—the long visits, my stories about village life, my reminders of the past. None of it sat right with her. And now here I was, a mother, nearly pleading to be let into my own son’s home.
Inside, I kept quiet, tiptoeing like a visitor. Emily was in the kitchen, fixing supper. She smiled, offered tea, but I declined—didn’t want to be a bother. Instead, I asked to use the loo. Edward led me there, handed me a fresh towel, and said, *”Don’t fret, Mum. Stay as long as you need.”* But I caught him glancing toward the kitchen, as if gauging Emily’s reaction. Another small wound. We’d once been so close, shared everything—now I was a guest who had to mind her place.
After a wash and a hot bowl of soup (which Emily insisted on), I sat turning it all over in my mind. When Edward was a boy, I’d worked two jobs just to keep him fed and clothed. We’d had little, but I made sure he wanted for nothing. I still remember him, barely twelve, promising me, *”When I’m grown, I’ll buy you a fine house, Mum. You’ll never lift a finger again.”* I’d ruffled his hair and laughed, saying all I wanted was his happiness. Now here he was—grown, successful, with a family, a lovely home in Surrey, a proper career. And here I was, standing at his door, asking to be let in.
When it was time to visit the churchyard, I went alone. Edward offered to drive me, but I needed the walk, the crisp air to clear my head. I swept away dead leaves, laid fresh flowers, lit the candle. Kneeling there, I whispered to Margaret: *”Have I lost him, Mum? Or is it just me making mountains of molehills?”*
Back at the house, the mood had softened. Emily even asked me to stay the night, but I wouldn’t overstep. I thanked her, hugged Edward tight, and promised to visit again soon. His eyes held love—but sadness too. Maybe he also felt that wall between us, brick by brick.
On the coach back to the village, I let my thoughts wander. Children grow, start their own lives—it’s only natural. But it stings, knowing the woman who gave her all must now ask to cross the threshold. I don’t blame Edward or Emily. They’ve their own life, and I’m glad for it. Still, deep down, I cling to the hope that one day, we’ll find our way back to what we were. Until then, I’ll keep visiting—Margaret’s grave, Edward’s home—holding onto the love I know hasn’t truly gone.
