*Diary Entry*
How swiftly life has passed… And how unnoticed it’s become that we no longer matter to our own children.
Margaret Williams had always been a strong, composed woman with a gentle voice and kind eyes. She had raised three children, seen them through school, walked them down the aisle, and sent them off to lead their own lives. Now, she sat by the window of her cottage, gazing at the autumn sky, sifting through old letters, faded postcards, and yellowed photographs. A woollen blanket lay beside her, and on her lap rested a box holding her most treasured things—pictures of the children, cards from the grandchildren, clippings from the papers where the family was so much as mentioned.
Her eldest son lived overseas, having left as a young man, just after finishing his service. Years had passed since then. Not once had he visited. Just the occasional photograph online, a rare letter, or a terse message for birthdays. Margaret didn’t blame him. Life was busy—work, family, responsibilities. Still, her heart ached. Terribly.
Her middle daughter, Emily, had married a serviceman. Always moving, always rushing. Phone calls were brief, visits even rarer, and when they came, they never stayed long. Margaret’s husband, Arthur, had always respected their son-in-law, proud that Emily had built a good life. When they did visit, there was happiness in her daughter’s eyes. And perhaps that was what mattered most.
But it was the youngest, Lily, who worried her the most. After her divorce, Lily had moved to the city, leaving her little boy in Margaret’s care. “You’re still young, still lovely—go and find your way,” Margaret had told her. “I’ll look after him.” And so Lily had gone, studied, found work. A couple of years later, she came back for her son.
When Lily arrived to take him, the boy clung to his grandmother’s skirt, silent tears wetting his cheeks. Margaret clenched her teeth and said nothing. She didn’t dare interfere.
Three years had gone by. The longing for her daughter and grandson had grown unbearable. One morning, she finally gave in.
“Arthur, I’m going to visit Lily. Just for a couple of days. Something doesn’t feel right.”
Her husband nodded. He’d been unwell—autumn always took its toll. At dawn, he drove her to the station, pressed a bundle of pasties into her hands, and kissed her forehead.
“Take care, love. Call when you arrive.”
The journey was long, but she made it. Two bags of treats on her shoulders, a tote of pickles, jam, and knitted socks in hand. She rang Lily an hour before arriving. The reply was curt.
“Mum, why didn’t you tell me sooner? I’ve got work, school pick-up, errands—this isn’t the countryside, things move fast here!”
“Sorry, love,” Margaret murmured. “Just wanted to surprise you.”
Her grandson met her at the door. A teenager now. Tall, broad-shouldered, like his grandfather. But his eyes were distant. Polite. Cold.
“Hello, Gran,” he said, embracing her stiffly.
The flat was tidy, modern, but lifeless. Lily heated soup, placed five small cutlets on the table. Margaret ate one. Reached for another—then stopped. Shame washed over her. She remembered cooking feasts for holidays, making sure her children ate until they were full. Here, everything was measured.
That evening, she and her grandson watched old home videos. He was courteous, but a stranger. Lily was always late—work, friends, errands—always something.
Three days passed. Margaret felt like a guest. Unwanted. In the way. One night, she overheard her grandson ask,
“Mum, when’s Uncle Tony coming? He promised to take me to the match.”
“Soon,” came the reply. “Once Gran’s gone.”
Margaret understood then. Fully. Painfully.
She packed in silence. Dressed. Waited by the door. Lily hurried out from the kitchen.
“Mum, where are you going? Your train’s not till tomorrow!”
“Leaving early. Don’t worry. Tell your son his granddad says hello. I’ll be fine.”
The walk to the station was quiet. On the train, she stared into the night, tears on her cheeks.
How quickly life had slipped by… So much given—so easily forgotten. They were grown. They had their own lives. And we, the parents? Left at the wayside.
Arthur was waiting on the platform. He pulled her close.
“Margie, where’ve you been? I’ve been beside myself.”
She smiled. Eyes brimming—but this time, with warmth.
“Take me home, Art. Home… That’s the only place we’re still wanted.”
