**Diary Entry – 18th March**
My son won’t speak to me anymore… and I don’t know when he became a stranger to me.
He’s my only child. My heart. My pride. My reason. He’s thirty now, and I’m sixty-one. I gave him everything—worked myself to the bone, lost sleep, prayed for him. He’s from my first marriage, and now he’s got his own family—a wife, and a little granddaughter, Lily, born not long ago. You’d think I’d be over the moon. We even live close, just across the courtyard. But no… We hardly talk anymore.
Before Lily came along, it was different. He’d drop by often for a cuppa, ask for advice, sometimes just to chat. I felt it then—he needed me. Now there’s this wall between us. He’s distant, as if I’ve betrayed him somehow. He’s hurt, but God knows why.
I’ve tried asking him—silence. His wife just says, “Sort it out yourselves.” But how, when he avoids me altogether?
When he was a boy, he was always poorly. I carried it all alone. My second husband, bless him, was kind but soft. My son never saw him as a father, and he didn’t push it. The discipline, the struggles—it all fell on me. I was both mum and dad. We got through the rough patches—bad mates, scares about drugs, teenage rebellion. I had to be firm, not out of spite, but fear. Fear of losing him. I wasn’t perfect, no. But I never gave up on him.
Here’s the odd bit—the rift started over nothing. I asked him to help with my laptop. Now, I’m no good with updates and such, and he used to do it without a fuss. But this time? He sighed, called his wife, and walked out. Not even a glance at the scones I’d baked. Just gone. And since then—nothing.
I thought he’d cool off, come round. But months passed. Still nothing. He doesn’t even tell me when he travels—I hear it from neighbours. Lily only visits when her mum brings her. She’s polite, but cold. Not a word about my son. If I ask, it’s always, “That’s between you two.”
I’ve stopped ringing him too—don’t want to seem desperate. Told myself, give him space, he’ll miss me. But the quieter I am, the further he drifts.
The worst part isn’t anger or blame. It’s the silence. The indifference. To him, I might as well not exist. No visits, no calls, never asks about my health. Didn’t even know when I was in hospital—his wife mentioned it in passing.
I don’t understand. I never meddled, never demanded. Helped when asked, lent money, kept my distance—was it too much to want a simple chat?
Some nights, I lie awake, replaying every word, every moment, wondering where I went wrong. Was I blind to something? Did I hurt him without realising? Or am I just… not needed anymore?
They say children grow apart. But not like this—not in this terrible silence. I’m not a stranger. I’m his mother.
Now, every memory cuts like glass. I look at old photos, his childhood drawings, and can’t believe that happy little boy now acts like I’m something to shut out.
I don’t want gifts or praise. Just him. His voice. Just to hear, “Mum, hello.”
But how do you reach someone who’s decided to walk away? What do you say when they won’t listen? Or do you let it be? How do you live when your own child acts like you’re already gone?
