Parents are always tangled up in the lives of their children. At times, parents find themselves let down by their grown offspring. These are the grown-up daughters in the shadowy tapestry of today’s tale.
The mother’s story.
Margaret had raised three children. Each had flown the nest to carve out an existence of their own. Her eldest, Edward, lived with his wife and children abroad, sending holiday cards and faded photographs of distant cities. Margaret tucked these mementoes away fondly, turning them over in her hands every so often as if the paper could breathe out echoes of his voice.
“We miss you terribly, Edward. Might you visit us soon? At least let us meet the grandchildren and your wife,” she would write with trembling pen.
Her middle daughter, Harriet, had married an army man. They moved from town to town, always chasing a new posting. Together they raised a daughter, and occasionally returned for hurried visits. Margarets husband, Richard, held a quiet respect for his military son-in-law. He would say how lucky Harriet was to have found a man with purpose.
Then there was the youngest, Alice. No family life here. Alice had married years ago, had a son, but her husband had left her behind like a forgotten umbrella after a passing storm. When Margaret advised her to move to the city, Alice went, taking her boy with her, clutching hope like an old purse as she found work as a seamstress at a threadbare factory.
Margaret decided it was time to visit her youngest.
“Think you can manage without me for a week?” Margaret asked Richard. “I’d like to call on Alice, see how she fares.”
Richard walked her to the old bus stop. It wouldnt be easy to drag her battered suitcase all that way, but Margaret was determined to see her daughter. For hours, she was rocked gently in a second-class train carriage, half-awake, as fields slipped past the window in a blur of impossibility. She was eager, as if it had been three days, not three years, since shed last seen Alice.
“Why didn’t you ring to say you were coming, Mum? I’m at work nowwon’t be able to fetch you from the station til evening,” Alice said down the crackling line.
“I only wanted to surprise you!” Margaret replied, trying to sound bright. “Shall I wait here, then?” “Yes, that’s fine,” answered Alice. Margaret waited until the station walls began to melt into twilight, then set out alone through streets dimly familiar.
At the door stood her grandson, tall and lean and half-resembling Richard at that peculiar age between childhood and adulthood.
“Hello, my boy!” she cried, bundling him into her arms. “Alright, Gran, that’s enough!” he squirmed away with a thin smile. “Why didn’t you show up earlier?” the tired woman asked. “Had to tidy up, lay the table for you. Left work early, you know, to put the kettle on and make shepherds pie.”
Margarets mobile buzzed. She murmured reassuringly to Richard: yes, all’s fine, some kind soul helped with the bags, Alice has set out a spread, were eating together now.
Over dinner, Alice served dishes with her customary haste. “Will you have one or two helpings of pie?” she asked, not quite meeting her mothers eye. Margaret, bone-weary and famished, could have devoured the entire dish, but only said, “Just leave it out, dear. Ill help myself if I fancy another.”
At last, a plate with four lonely slices of pie appeared. So much for a festive meal to greet a mother. Margaret silently guessed at their money troubles and swiftly resolved to help. But hardly had the meal ended when Alice inquired when her mother might be heading home. The question landed hard. Margaret replied that she could leave tomorrow, if she was in the way.
All day, Margaret drifted alone about the poky flat, watching shadows lengthen on the walls. In the evening, each retreated to their own room, locked away inside glowing screens. The grandson disappeared to visit next-door friends; Alice slipped out after him, chasing after some peculiar errand or another. Margaret sat alone, listening to the creaks and groans of the old building, the silence prickling.
She recognised now that she was little more than a ghost hereunnecessary, left over, fading like a dream before breakfast. She packed her bag in silence, overhearing the grandson ask, “When’s Uncle coming? We were meant to go to the footie match.”
“As soon as Gran’s gone,” answered Alice, flat as a penny.
Margaret, stung and adrift, struggled into her coat and left without farewells. Richard, who had missed her more than he could say, met her with glad relief and kind eyes.
For all the warmth and care they’d poured into their children, it seemed now that the children, scattered and grown, had long since ceased to need thema story as old and as strange as any dream.
