**Have I Really Become a Stranger?**
This day began with a heavy feeling in my chest. I stood at the doorstep of my son William’s house, hardly believing I had to ask permission just to step inside. In my hands was a small bag of belongings, and in my heart—a mix of exhaustion, hurt, and 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 to rest before visiting my late mother Margaret’s grave. But the words I spoke still ache: “Will, love, let me in, even just for an hour. I’ll freshen up, eat if your wife doesn’t mind, then visit the cemetery to light a candle. Have things really come to this?”
William looked at me with an odd expression—love, discomfort, perhaps even a flicker of helplessness. He nodded quickly. “Mum, of course, come in. Don’t be silly.” But I knew it wasn’t just his decision. His wife, Eleanor, had always been kind, but lately, my presence seemed to unsettle her. Not that she ever said so outright, but I felt it—my long visits, my stories about life in the village, the way I reminisced. And now here I was, a mother, all but pleading to enter my own son’s home.
Inside, I kept quiet, treading carefully. Eleanor was in the kitchen making dinner. She smiled, greeted me, and offered tea, but I declined, not wanting to impose. Instead, I asked to use the loo. William showed me the bathroom, handed me a fresh towel, and said, “Mum, don’t worry. Stay as long as you need.” But I caught him glancing toward the kitchen, as if checking if Eleanor had heard. Another stab to the heart. We’d once been so close, sharing everything. Now I felt like a guest, mindful of overstaying.
After a shower, I felt steadier. Sitting at the table with a bowl of soup Eleanor insisted I have, I thought about how things had changed. When William was young, I worked two jobs to provide for him. We lived modestly, but I made sure he wanted for nothing. I remember him promising as a boy: “Mum, when I grow up, I’ll buy you a big house. You’ll never have to worry.” I’d smile, ruffle his hair, and say I only wanted his happiness. Now here he was—successful, married, with a lovely home in Manchester. And I stood at his door, asking to be let in.
After lunch, I left for the cemetery—the real reason for my trip. My mother, Margaret, passed five years ago, and since then, I’ve tried to visit yearly to tidy her grave, light a candle, and sit with her awhile, remembering her kindness. William offered to drive me, but I wanted to walk. The fresh air helped clear my head. At the graveside, I cleared the leaves, laid fresh flowers, and lit the candle. Sitting there, I spoke to her in my mind: *Mum, have I become a stranger to my own son? Or am I just imagining things?*
Back at William’s, the mood felt softer. Eleanor asked if I’d stay the night, but I didn’t want to intrude. I thanked her, hugged William tight, and promised to visit again soon. In his eyes, I saw love—but sadness, too. Maybe he also feels this invisible wall between us now?
On the coach back to the village, I thought how quickly life shifts. Children grow, start their own families—it’s natural. But it hurts, knowing that I, the mother who gave everything, must now ask permission just to step inside. I don’t blame William or Eleanor—they’re living their lives, and I’m glad for them. But deep down, I hope one day we’ll be as close as we once were. Until then, I’ll keep visiting, tending to Mum’s grave, holding my son, and trusting the love between us hasn’t faded.
