The post thumped into the box. Patricia Mitchell waved her phone excitedly. “Margaret, you simply must see! Our new place in Cornwall – stunning! And this is my son Phillip’s car, a proper expensive one! Look, my granddaughter Lucy playing piano. She’s very dedicated, grade seven now!”
Margaret Bell shifted her letters, nodding. “Only I am rather pressed, Patricia. Do forgive me.”
“Pressed for what?” Patricia protested. “After all this time living opposite? Look, Spain last month – five stars, all-inclusive! When did you last get away?”
Margaret turned, a weary look in her grey eyes. “I don’t take holidays, Patricia. Truly, there’s no time.”
“No time?” Patricia sounded astonished. “But your children are grown! You’re retired!”
“They are grown,” Margaret agreed quietly. “Just… rather far away.”
“What of it?” Patricia countered. “Phillip works in London, but he rings constantly, visits every weekend! And his salary – goodness! Look, this lovely mink he bought me!” She scrolled her photos again.
Margaret climbed the stairs to her first-floor flat, leaving Patricia below. Familiar silence welcomed her. The two-bedroom flat that once bustled with four felt cavernous now. Only the African violets on the sill held life. “At least you stay,” Margaret murmured, touching a soft leaf. “My faithful girls.”
She switched the telly on for background noise. News discussed pension increases and benefits. Cost of living crisis, they called it. Margaret smiled thinly. Her pension barely covered essentials.
The phone rang. Her heart leapt – Edward? Lucy?
“Margaret Bell?” A clipped voice asked. “Utilities here regarding your outstanding balance…”
“Outstanding?” Margaret was baffled. “I pay the very day the bill arrives!”
“The system indicates last month’s payment is overdue…”
Margaret tried explaining, referencing her payment slips, but the dial tone hummed before she finished.
Later, nursing tea in the dim kitchen, old photos lay spread. Young Edward, solemn in his first school uniform. Lucy, radiant at her graduation. All together in Devon when Michael was still alive… “Where are you now?” she whispered. “How did it come to this? Just me?”
Morning brought Patricia again in the car park, laden with Waitrose bags. “Margaret! Just the person! Lucy rang yesterday – got into Oxford! Her father promised her a new iPhone to celebrate!”
“Lovely news,” Margaret said.
“And your lot? Grandchildren?” Patricia asked, though her eyes showed only polite duty.
“I haven’t any grandchildren,” Margaret replied softly.
“How can that be? No children?”
“I have children. Edward and Lucy. They’re… terribly busy. Edward works in Edinburgh, computers. Lucy’s married, lives in Manchester.”
“Well then, splendid!” Patricia cried. “Everything’s smashing! Children settled abroad! You must be so proud!”
“I must,” Margaret agreed. “I *am* proud.”
“Exactly! No need for that long face! Money, I suppose they send? Help out?”
“They send,” Margaret lied. “Help? Naturally.”
Truthfully, Edward last sent £15 six months ago for her birthday. Lucy sent nothing – “massive mortgage,” she’d explained tersely. Margaret sat at Edward’s old computer later, opening Skype. Edward was online, status ‘Busy’. Lucy hadn’t signed in for three weeks.
She typed: ‘Eddie, how are you? Health alright? I miss you.’
The reply came hours later: ‘Hi Mum. Fine. Hectic work. Text my mobile instead.’
Margaret didn’t use modern apps. She searched settings, gave up. Phoned Lucy.
“What is it, Mum?” came the groggy voice. “It’s half one! Work tomorrow, big presentation!”
“Sorry, darling. Time difference slipped my mind. Just wanted to hear–”
“Can’t talk. Ring you at the weekend?” The line died before Margaret agreed.
The weekend passed. No call.
Blood pressure nagged again. At the hospital, Margaret spotted an old neighbour, Eleanor Walker, in the queue.
“Margaret! Ages! How are things?”
“Oh, just a check,” Margaret sighed. “Heart’s a bit iffy. And you?”
“Wonderful!” Eleanor beamed. “Heather’s had a baby girl! Emily! Such a poppet! I look after her every day while Heather works. Pure joy, Margaret.”
“I can imagine,” Margaret murmured. “Real joy.”
“And yours? Edward, Lucy? Remember them small?”
“Good children,” Margaret said. “Edward’s in Edinburgh now, computers. Lucy’s married, Manchester.”
“How grand!” Eleanor enthused. “So you’re a grandmother?”
“Not yet,” Margaret said quietly.
“Plans?” Eleanor asked gently.
“Not sure. We… we don’t speak much. They work so hard…”
“Yes, naturally,” Eleanor nodded. “Still, parents *ought* to be kept in the loop. Heather and I speak daily, even if just five minutes.”
At Tesco later, Margaret picked at a basket: bread, milk, eggs, veg. Bare basics. Ahead, a woman heaped a trolley high: meat, fish, fruit, sweets, toys. “Grandkids down from London,” she told the cashier brightly. “Must spoil them!”
Home again, Margaret placed the scant shopping in a nearly-empty fridge. Put the kettle on. Her wall calendar caught her eye; she crossed off today. A month until her birthday.
Last year, she’d sat alone. Edward called late, apologising, short – a meeting. Lucy texted on WhatsApp: ‘Happy birthday Mum! Health + happiness! 🎂’.
She’d baked a tiny cake, lit one candle, wished. A simple wish: Just one child home for a visit. It didn’t happen.
The phone startled her later. “Hello?”
“Margaret Bell?” A kind, unfamiliar voice. “Olga from Age Concern’s Befriending service…”
“I don’t need help,” Margaret said quickly. “I’m perfectly fine.”
“We offer chats, many find…”
“I’m *quite* alright,” Margaret insisted, hanging up.
Yet she sat, considering it. Might they understand? But no. She *had* children. Busy; building lives. That was normal, wasn’t it?
She opened the photo box. Zoo pictures: Edward about ten, Lucy seven. All laughing at the monkeys. Michael beside her. Happy. “When did you need me?” The question hung unanswered in the quiet room.
Darkness fell. She made scrambled eggs and tea. Ate in silence, hearing the piano upstairs – someone practising. Telly blaring below. Her silence was profound.
Later, she searched online: ‘Connecting with distant adult children.’ Articles repeated: ‘Don’t pester. Let them live. Ring weekly at most.’ She rang less. Still felt an intrusion.
Sleep evaded her. Tomorrow, and all days after, stretched identically bleak.
Morning brought the phone. She jolted upright.
“Margaret!” Patricia bubbled. “You’ll never guess! Lucy not only got Oxford, she finished school with straight A’s! Phillip’s not just getting her the phone, he’s promising her a car for graduation!”
“Congratulations,” Margaret said and replaced the receiver slowly.
She went to the window. A new day dawned outside. Sunlight. Children playing below. Life rolled on. Only hers seemed suspended.
Waiting for a call that never came.
“Everything’s here,” she told the African vio
The silence stretched on, unbroken by the voices she so dearly wished to hear.
Everything I Have — Except You
