The weight of the day pressed heavy on my chest as I stood on the threshold of my son’s home. Could I really have become a stranger?
The door loomed before me, my grip tightening on the small bag in my hand, knuckles whitening. Six stifling hours on the coach from the countryside, every minute spent longing for nothing more than a shower, a warm meal, and a moment’s rest before visiting my late mother’s grave. Yet here I was, hesitating—pleading. “Edward, love,” I murmured, my voice barely steady, “just let me in for an hour. A quick wash, a bite to eat—if your wife allows it—then I’ll be off to the churchyard to light a candle for Nan. Have I really come to this?”
Edward’s face twisted with something unreadable—love, yes, but unease too, a flicker of guilt. He forced a smile, nodding too quickly. “Mum, don’t be daft—course you can come in.” But I knew. It wasn’t just him. Emily, his wife, had always been sweet, polite, but over the years, I’d felt it—the quiet tension whenever I lingered too long, spoke too much of the past, of life in the village. And now here I stood, a mother begging entry into her own son’s house.
Inside, I moved like a ghost. The clatter of cutlery from the kitchen announced Emily’s presence. She turned, smiling tightly, offering tea in that measured tone that meant nothing more than duty. I refused—didn’t want to impose. Instead, I asked for the loo, and Edward escorted me, handing me a fresh towel with a strained, “Don’t rush, Mum. Stay as long as you like.” But his eyes darted toward the kitchen, checking, always checking. Another twist of the knife. Once, we’d shared everything—secrets, laughter, tears. Now, I was a guest who’d overstayed before I’d even arrived.
The scalding shower washed away the grime but not the ache. At the table, I picked at the soup Emily had insisted on serving, the steam curling between us like an apology. Memories flickered—Edward as a boy, my hands raw from double shifts, his earnest vow: *“When I’m grown, I’ll buy you a proper house, Mum. You’ll never want for anything.”* I’d laughed, ruffled his hair. *“All I want is your happiness.”* And now here he was—successful, married, a fine house in Cheltenham—while I stood at his door like a beggar.
The churchyard was quiet, the damp earth soft underfoot. Five years since we’d buried Nan, and still, I came—clearing dead leaves, arranging chrysanthemums, lighting candles as if the flame could carry my words to her. *“Nan,”* I whispered, *“tell me I’m imagining it. Tell me I haven’t lost him.”* No answer but the wind.
Back at the house, the air had thawed slightly. Emily even offered the spare room, but I refused—didn’t want to outstay. A quick hug for Edward, a promise to visit soon. His eyes were warm, but distant. Something unsaid hung between us, a wall built brick by silent brick.
The coach ride home was long, the darkness pressing against the windows. Children grow. They build their own lives—that’s how it should be. But no one warns you how it feels when you become the outsider in their world. I don’t blame them. But God, I miss the boy who swore he’d never let me go.
