“Mum, don’t call me every day”—words that shattered my heart.
“Mum, what could possibly be new in just one day? Why even call daily?” my son said flatly over the phone. My own flesh and blood, my only child.
The words struck me like a bullet. I’d been walking through the park with my friend Margaret. We often stroll together, sharing joys, grievances, and the usual aches of our age—just two elderly women chatting. Then her phone rang. She stepped aside, talked for ten minutes, and returned beaming.
“My daughter-in-law called! Can you believe it? My grandson’s first tooth came through!” she gushed. “She noticed while feeding him. The eldest took longer, but this one’s early—isn’t that wonderful? I’ll pop by the shop later, grab a cake, and visit them to celebrate. She invited me herself.”
“And you talked that long about a tooth?” I asked, envy creeping into my voice.
“Oh, not just that. We chatted about life, family, silly little things. We talk nearly every day, her and my son both—he always makes time. And his wife? We gab about everything under the sun, starting on one topic and ending on another. Sometimes I can’t even recall what we began with. We’re as close as blood.”
Not me. Not like that.
My son lives in the very flat I gave him when I moved to the countryside after my late husband passed. He’s busy with work; his wife is home with their little girl. There’s never been conflict—just polite detachment. Any attempt at closeness meets a cold wall.
“Mum, same as always. Work, dinner, sleep. Wife’s fine. What’s there to discuss daily?” That’s the extent of our calls.
I don’t pester them morning to night. I just want to know how they’re doing—how my granddaughter is growing, if they’re well. But if I call, my son brushes me off: “Busy.” Or answers curtly, irritated. If his wife picks up, it’s “yes,” “no,” and “fine”—no warmth, no soul.
As Margaret and I walked, she stopped at the shop for that cake, heading to her daughter-in-law’s for a celebration. Meanwhile, my phone stays silent. I didn’t even know when my granddaughter’s first tooth appeared—I heard later, from someone else. No one told me. No invitation came. My hints about visiting? Ignored, as if unheard. Or deliberately unacknowledged.
Once, I gathered my courage. Baked a Victoria sponge, put on my best dress, and showed up unannounced. My daughter-in-law answered, bewildered. We ate the cake, yes… but the air was stiff, cold. Like I’d dropped in on strangers, not family. Later, my son pulled me aside, whispering almost apologetically,
“Mum, next time, please give us a heads-up before coming.”
A heads-up? To my own flat? To my son? My granddaughter? The family I spent my life sacrificing for? I denied myself everything for his sake. Now? I’m an outsider. Unwanted.
For two months, I called to arrange seeing my granddaughter. Always an excuse—”she’s ill,” “bad timing,” “not convenient.” Then I learned my daughter-in-law’s parents live abroad and barely speak to their granddaughter, even by video. Yet, their daughter doesn’t miss them. Doesn’t ache. She’s just as distant. And my son? He’s become like her. Detached.
“Mum, you’re always complaining. Nothing’s ever good enough. You ruin my mood with these calls,” he said bluntly once, without shame or pity. “You’ve got friends—talk to them. After your calls, I can’t even focus. What’s there to say every day, anyway?”
Now I sit alone in my silent flat. No calls, no visitors, no cake, no granddaughter. If anything happens to me, he won’t know—unless someone else thinks to tell him. Margaret lives entwined with her children’s lives. I live in memories of the son who once called me “Mum” with love… and now just asks me not to call.
So here I am. Silent. And aching.
The lesson? Love isn’t a debt repaid—it’s a flame that needs tending. Neglect it, and even the closest Connections turn to ash.
