You know what, I had this really heavy feeling in my chest that morning. There I was, standing on the doorstep of my son Oliver’s house in Manchester, and I couldn’t believe I had to ask permission just to step inside. I had a small bag with my things in one hand, and my heart was just this tangled mess of exhaustion, hurt, and stubborn hope. The journey had been long—nearly six hours on a stuffy coach—and all I wanted was a quick shower, a bite to eat, and a moment to rest before heading to the cemetery to visit my late mum, Margaret Hayes. But the words I ended up saying to Oliver still ache when I think about them: “Love, just let me in for an hour, yeah? I’ll wash up, grab a bite if your Emily doesn’t mind, then I’ll go light a candle at Mum’s grave. How’s it come to this?”
Oliver looked at me with this odd expression—somewhere between love and awkwardness, maybe even a hint of guilt. He nodded quick and said, “Mum, ’course you can come in, what’re you on about?” But I knew it wasn’t just up to him. His wife, Emily, had always been sweet and welcoming, but these past few years? I’d started noticing how my visits made her tense. Not that she’d ever say it outright, but I could tell—the long stays, the stories about life back in Cornwall, all my rambling about the past… none of it sat right with her. And there I was, his own mother, practically begging to be let into his home.
Once inside, I tried to make myself as small as possible. Emily was in the kitchen, fixing up dinner. She smiled, said hello, even offered me tea, but I waved it off—didn’t want to be a bother. Just asked if I could use the loo. Oliver showed me to the bathroom, handed me a fresh towel, and said, “Don’t fret, Mum, it’s fine. Take your time.” But I caught him glancing toward the kitchen like he was checking if Emily had heard. Another little dagger to the heart, that. We used to be so close, me and Oliver—shared everything. Now I’m just a guest who has to mind her place.
After a wash and a change, I felt a bit more human. Sitting at the table with a bowl of stew Emily insisted I have, I couldn’t help but think how things had shifted. When Oliver was little, I worked two jobs just to keep us afloat. We didn’t have much, but I made sure he never wanted for anything. I remember him, barely a teen, promising me, “Mum, when I’m grown, I’ll buy you a proper house. You’ll never have to lift a finger again.” I’d laugh, ruffle his hair, and say all I wanted was his happiness. And now? He’s got it all—steady job, lovely home, his own family. And here I am, standing at his door asking to be let in.
After eating, I got ready to head to the cemetery. That was the whole point of the trip, really. My mum, Margaret, passed five years ago, and I try to visit her grave at least once a year—tidy it up, light a candle, just sit and remember her kindness. Oliver offered to drive me, but I said no. Needed the walk to clear my head. It wasn’t far, and the crisp air helped. At the graveside, I swept off the dead leaves, set down fresh flowers, lit the candle. Sitting there, I talked to her in my head: “Mum, have I gone and made myself a stranger to my own boy? Or am I just overthinking it?”
When I got back to Oliver’s, the mood felt a touch warmer. Emily even asked if I wanted to stay the night, but I said no—didn’t want to outstay my welcome. Thanked her for having me, hugged Oliver tight, and promised I’d visit again soon. His eyes were warm, but there was a sadness there too. Maybe he feels that same wall between us, the one neither of us knows how to tear down.
On the coach back to Cornwall, I couldn’t stop turning it all over. Kids grow up, build their own lives—that’s how it should be. But Christ, it stings to realise you’re the mother who gave everything, and now you’re knocking before you walk in. I don’t blame Oliver or Emily—they’ve got their own way of doing things, and I’m glad they’re happy. But deep down? I just hope one day we’ll find our way back to how we used to be. Till then, I’ll keep visiting—lighting candles for Mum, hugging my boy, and holding onto the love that’s still there, even if it’s quieter now.
