**Diary Entry**
In our peaceful village by the River Thames, where the air carries the scent of blooming gardens, my husband and I live in a spacious home, always open to visitors. We have a cosy guest room, and if space runs tight, we gladly give up our own beds—comfort comes first. That’s how we were raised: to feed, shelter, and care for anyone under our roof. Our door has never shut on family or friends.
Over the years, we raised three children. Our eldest, Emily, lives just a short drive away in the next town. We see her nearly every week, and her husband, a true gem, is always ready to lend a hand. I couldn’t have asked for better.
Our youngest, Sophie, studies in the city, chasing her career dreams. I support her—there’s time for children later, but dreams won’t wait. She calls often, sharing her life, and I know she’d always make time for us.
Then there’s our son, George. He moved far away to Surrey after university, starting a business with a friend. He’s married to Hannah, and they have a six-year-old, my sweet grandson Oliver. But Hannah and I never clicked. She’s from a different world—cold, distant, never satisfied. Our village bores her, and she’s even turned Oliver against visiting. Last time, they barely lasted two days before declaring they needed “air.” George visits alone now to avoid arguments.
This year, my husband took leave, and we decided to visit George. We’d never seen him settled in his own home, and curiosity got the better of us. Of course, we warned him in advance—no surprises.
George met us at the station with a smile. To my shock, Hannah had laid out a modest spread. We laughed, chatted, and I dared to hope things weren’t so bad. But come evening, my heart sank. George announced we’d be staying at a hotel. Had I misheard? A hotel? His own parents?
By eight, he’d called a cab and dropped us at a dingy room—damp, creaky, reeking of mould. My husband and I sat in stunned silence. I’d have slept on their floor! But Hannah had drawn the line: no room at their place.
Morning came with growling stomachs. No kitchen, and the café was too pricey. George told us to come for breakfast. We spent the day in their flat while they worked, Oliver’s chatter our only comfort. Dinner, then back to the hotel. By day three, we’d had enough—changed our tickets and left early.
Back home, I poured my heart out to Emily. She was furious, ringing George to give him a piece of her mind. I just wept. How could the boy I raised with so much love do this? He hasn’t called, hasn’t apologised—as if nothing happened.
Our neighbour shrugged. “That’s how young people are now, love. At least they paid for your room.” But that’s no comfort. Our home was always full—mattresses on floors, laughter in every corner. This? A hotel, like we were strangers.
Maybe I’m just old-fashioned. But the hurt cuts deep. My girls would never treat me this way. Did I raise a son who forgot the meaning of home? How do I live with that?
**Lesson learned:** Love isn’t just about convenience—it’s about opening doors, even when it’s hard. Some forget that. But I won’t.
