The kitchen was quiet—just the hum of the kettle, the weak English sunlight seeping through the curtains. I sat at the table, cradling my mug of strong tea, when the phone rang. My son, Oliver. My only child. My pride, my joy, my whole world. Everything I’d ever done, I’d done for him. Love, sacrifices, sleepless nights, the last pound from my purse. After his wedding, his calls grew scarce, but each one was a breath of air.
“Mum, we need to talk,” he began. His tone was measured. Cold. Unfamiliar.
Something clenched inside me.
“Of course, love. What’s wrong?” My heart already thudded faster.
A pause. Then, mustering the words: “Mum. Sophie and I… We’ve decided—we can’t keep seeing you so often.”
It didn’t sink in at first. Or maybe I refused to let it.
“We’ve got our own lives now. Plans, responsibilities. And you… you’re always there. Sophie says you call too much. Drop by unannounced. It’s too much. We need space. Distance. Quiet.”
I sat there, numb. Only one thought ringing in my head: *Where did I go wrong?*
“Ollie,” I whispered. “I just wanted to be close. I never meant—it wasn’t to hurt you.”
“I know, Mum,” he cut in. “But things are different now. We need… separation. Understand?”
I nodded, though he couldn’t see. The tears blurred the kitchen—the faded wedding photo on the wall, the school portraits, the one of him holding his Oxford degree. Me, beside him in every frame. Always there. *Always.*
I remembered rocking him to sleep when he was feverish. Staying up, reading *Winnie-the-Pooh* till dawn. Helping with coursework, consoling him after his first heartbreak. And now, when he was all I had left—*I* was the one no longer wanted.
Old age isn’t about years. It’s the slow realisation you’ve become a burden. That the people you lifted up now see you as an obstacle—some stubborn shadow they’d rather crop out of their new, happy lives.
My friends babble about grandchildren, Sunday roasts, their kids calling just to chat. Me? I’m afraid to dial. Afraid to hear the sigh in his voice. Afraid I’ll be *too much* again. That he’ll say, *We’re tired of you.*
The cruelest part? I never asked for much. No money, no favours. Just a sliver of his time. To hear his voice. To bake him a Victoria sponge. Was that really so much?
I’m no saint. Maybe I called too often. Maybe I was too eager. But the silence of this flat—just the telly murmuring, the same photos staring back—is suffocating.
Weeks have passed. No word from Oliver. No Sophie. I’ve kept my promise—I don’t disturb them. I sit by the window, wondering if this is how love ends. Not with fire, but frost.
I’m not angry. I wish them no harm. I just don’t understand how the boy I lived for now wants me gone.
And the worst of it? It’s not the empty house. Not the quiet. It’s knowing that to someone who was once your whole world—you’re nothing now.
