My name is Margaret Wilson. My son Thomas was my whole world. We lived together in Manchester after he finished school. I tried not to interfere in his personal life, though different girls came and went from our house over the years. A few times, it seemed like things were leading to marriage, but something always fell through.
Thomas always dreamed of a strong, loving family, but apparently, not all his partners felt the same. The last one outright told him she wouldn’t live with a “mummy’s boy.” Hearing that stung—I never meddled, never pushed my opinions, never controlled. But I suppose my mere presence was enough of an obstacle.
I realised: as long as we lived together, it would be hard for him to build his own life. So, I made the difficult decision to leave—moving back to my childhood cottage in the countryside to give Thomas space. A year passed. In that time, he got married, and they were expecting their first child in late January. He never invited me over, but I didn’t take it personally. I thought newlyweds needed time alone.
As Christmas approached, I decided to visit them early in December. I didn’t just want to say hello—I wanted to help. Maybe prepare something for the baby, offer advice, lend a hand if his wife needed it. I packed bags of treats—homemade jam, a knitted blanket, little gifts. I hoped they’d be pleased. I imagined us sharing Christmas Eve together, staying for a week to help while she was struggling—cooking, cleaning, whatever they needed. That’s what mothers do. We’re there when we’re needed.
But I’ll never forget the way Thomas met me at the door. He opened it and said flatly, “Mum, you should’ve called… We don’t have room. Sarah’s mum, Mrs. Thompson, is coming—we arranged for her to stay and help. I’m sorry, but you can’t.” He didn’t even ask me in, just stood there like I was some stranger who’d shown up at the wrong time.
I insisted on coming inside, sat in the kitchen for a bit while we drank tea. Thomas pretended everything was fine, asking how I was, but he kept glancing at the clock. I understood. He wasn’t expecting me. Didn’t want me. Didn’t bother hiding his irritation.
Then he carried my bag to the bus stop and put me on the last ride home. On Christmas Eve. The holiday we’d always spent together. That night, I cried harder than I had even when I buried my husband. Because it felt like I’d been erased from his life. I wasn’t needed anymore. My help wasn’t wanted. I was just… in the way.
A week went by. No call. No message. No apology. Like nothing had happened. Like I hadn’t even come. Like I was nothing. After everything—working two jobs so he could study, living frugally so he could have more—now I wasn’t even worthy of a simple “thank you” or a place at the table at Christmas.
I don’t know what I did to deserve this. Has a mother’s love lost all meaning these days? Must a woman who gave everything for her child return home alone, with a heavy heart and the ache of being unwanted?
Sometimes love means letting go—but that doesn’t make the goodbye any easier.
