How swiftly life had flown by… And how quietly we became unwanted by our own children.
Margaret Elizabeth had always been a strong, composed woman with a gentle voice and kind eyes. She had raised three children, seen them through school, weddings, and into their own lives. Now she sat by the window of her countryside cottage, gazing at the autumn sky, flipping through old letters, postcards, and yellowed photographs. A woollen throw draped over her legs, and in her lap rested a wooden box—her most treasured possessions: pictures of the children, birthday cards from the grandchildren, newspaper clippings that so much as mentioned the family.
Her eldest, James, lived abroad now, having left young, just after his service. Years had passed since then. Not once had he visited. Only occasional photos online, rare letters, sometimes a terse text for Christmas. Margaret didn’t blame him. She understood—life, work, family, responsibilities. Yet her heart ached. It ached terribly.
The middle child, Eleanor, had married a naval officer. Constant relocations, hurried phone calls, fleeting visits. Sometimes they came, but seldom, and never for long. Margaret’s husband, Alfred, had always respected their son-in-law, proud that Eleanor had built a good life. When they did visit, happiness gleamed in her daughter’s eyes. And perhaps that was all that mattered.
But it was the youngest—Laura—who worried her most. After the divorce, Laura had gone to London, leaving her little boy with his grandparents. Margaret had told her then: “You’re still young, lovely—you ought to make your own way. I’ll look after him for now.” And so Laura had left, studied, found work. A few years later, she took the boy back.
When she came to fetch him, the child had clung to Margaret’s skirt, refusing to let go. His tears were silent—only the wet streaks on his cheeks gave him away. Margaret had clenched her teeth and said nothing. She dared not interfere.
Three years passed. Her heart pulled harder toward her daughter and grandson. One morning, she could bear it no longer.
“Alfred, I’m going to visit Laura. Just for a few days. My heart isn’t settled.”
Her husband nodded. He worried too, though he wasn’t well himself—autumn had worn him down. At dawn, he walked her to the station, pressed a bundle of mince pies into her hands, and kissed her forehead.
“Take care, love. Ring me when you’re there.”
She made it. The journey was hard, but she arrived. Two bags of gifts slung over her shoulders, jars of preserves in her hands, knitted socks tucked under her arm. She had called Laura an hour before arriving. The answer was sharp.
“Mum, why didn’t you tell me sooner? I’ve work, school runs, shopping—I can’t drop everything! It’s not like the village here!”
“Sorry, love,” Margaret murmured. “I wanted it to be a surprise…”
Her grandson met her at the door. A tall lad now, broad-shouldered, like his grandfather. But his eyes were distant. Careful.
“Hello, Gran,” he said politely, without warmth. His hug was stiff.
The flat was spotless, modern—but cold. Laura made soup, set five small rissoles on the table. Margaret ate one. Reached for another—then stopped. Shame pricked her. She remembered cooking feasts for holidays, watching her children eat until they were full. Here, everything was measured.
That evening, she and her grandson watched old videos, school plays. He was polite. A stranger. Laura was always busy—work, a friend, *something.*
Three days passed. Margaret felt like an intruder. Unwanted. One evening, she overheard her grandson ask:
“Mum, when’s Uncle Tony coming? He promised to take me to the match.”
“Soon,” came the reply. “Once Gran’s gone.”
And Margaret understood. Fully. Painfully.
She packed in silence. Dressed. Stood by the door. Laura hurried in from the kitchen.
“Mum, where are you going? Your train’s tomorrow!”
“Leaving early. Don’t fret. Tell the boy his granddad says hello.”
The whole way to the station, she said nothing. On the train, she watched the night through the window. Tears rolled unchecked.
How quickly life had passed… So much given—so easily made unnecessary. They were grown now. Their own lives. And we, the parents… we were left by the roadside.
Alfred was waiting on the platform. He pulled her close, held her tight.
“Magpie, where’ve you been? I’ve been beside myself. Lost half a stone!”
She smiled. Her eyes welled—but this time, with relief.
“Take me home, Alfie. Home… It’s the only place left that still wants us.”
