**Diary Entry, 12th May**
I travelled to visit my son, only for him to put me up in a hotel!
In our quiet village by the River Thames, where the air carries the scent of blooming gardens, my husband and I live in a spacious home that’s always open to guests. We keep a cosy spare room, and if space runs short, we gladly give up our own bed—hospitality runs deep in us. To feed, to warm, to offer rest—that’s sacred. Our door never shuts on family or friends.
Over the years, we raised three children. Our eldest, Emily, lives nearby in a neighbouring town. We see her almost weekly, and her husband—a true gem—is always ready to lend a hand. I couldn’t have asked for better.
The youngest, Charlotte, is studying in the city. She dreams of a career, and I support her—children can wait, but dreams must be chased while she’s young. She calls often, shares her life, and I know she’d always make time for us.
Then there’s our son, James. He moved far away—to the countryside of Surrey. After university, he started a business with a friend and now lives and breathes work. He’s married to Sophia, and they have a six-year-old boy, my darling grandson Oliver. But Sophia and I never got on. She’s from another world—cold, distant, perpetually dissatisfied. Our village bores her, and she’s even turned Oliver against visiting. Last time they came, they lasted two days before Sophia declared she “couldn’t breathe the air.” James visits alone sometimes, just to avoid arguments.
This year, my husband had leave, so we decided to visit James. In all these years, we’d never seen his home, and we longed to. Of course, we warned him ahead—didn’t want to drop in unannounced.
James met us at the station with a smile. Sophia, to my surprise, had laid out a modest spread. We chatted, laughed, and I dared to hope things might be changing. But by evening, my heart sank. James announced we’d be staying in a hotel. I thought I’d misheard. A *hotel?* His own parents, and he’s shunting us off like strangers?
By eight, he’d called a cab and taken us to some dreary room—damp, creaky bed, the faint reek of mould in the corner. My husband and I sat stunned. I’d have slept on their floor gladly—I don’t need grandeur! But Sophia, it seemed, had drawn the line: no room for us under their roof.
Morning came, and we woke hungry. No kitchen in the hotel, and the café nearby was too pricey. We rang James, and he told us to come for breakfast. The whole day, we sat in their flat while he and Sophia worked. Oliver, bless him, kept us smiling with his stories, but inside, I felt hollow. Evening came—dinner, then back to the hotel. By the third day, we cracked. We changed our tickets and left early, unable to bear another night of their “hospitality.”
Back home, I confessed my hurt to Emily. She was furious. Snatched the phone and gave James a piece of her mind. Me? I just sat and wept. How could my boy, raised with so much love, treat me like this? Now I can’t even face speaking to him. No calls, no apologies—as if nothing happened.
Our neighbour, hearing the story, just shrugged. “That’s how it is now, love. Young folks value their space. At least he paid for the room.” But that’s no comfort. Our home was always full—yes, sometimes mattresses on the floor, camp beds squeezed in, but we were *together.* This? A hotel, like we’re strangers.
Maybe I’m old-fashioned. But the hurt won’t fade. My girls would never do this. Did I raise a son who forgot the meaning of home? How do I live with that?
**Lesson:** Blood may be thicker than water, but without warmth, it turns to ice.
