“Mum, don’t call me every day” — words that shattered my heart.
“Mum, what could possibly be new in a single day? Why call at all?” my son said flatly into the phone. My own flesh and blood, my only child.
The words lodged in my memory like a bullet. I’d been walking through the park with my friend, Margaret—we often stroll together, sharing little joys, grievances, aches. The usual chatter of two elderly women. Then her phone rang. She stepped aside, spoke for a good ten minutes, and returned glowing.
“My daughter-in-law called—can you believe it? My grandson’s first tooth came through! She spotted it while feeding him. His sister was later with hers, showing teeth, but this little one’s early—imagine? We were all so worried! After our walk, I’ll stop by the shop for a cake and pop round to celebrate. She invited me herself.”
“And you talked that long about a tooth?” I asked, my voice thin with envy.
“Oh, not just the tooth. Life, relatives, all sorts. We chat nearly every day, my daughter-in-law and I. And my son—he always finds a minute to call. With her, we start on one thing and wander off somewhere else entirely—sometimes I forget how the conversation even began. We’re like family.”
But not me. Not like that at all.
My son lives with his family in the very flat I left him when I moved to the countryside after my mother-in-law passed. He has his job—his wife is on maternity leave with their little girl. No quarrels between us—everything always civil, polite. But no closeness either. And when I try to bridge the gap, I’m met with a cold, blank wall.
“Mum, same as always. Worked, ate, slept. Wife’s at home, everything fine. Why call every day?” That’s the extent of it.
I don’t pester them from dawn till dusk—I stay out of the way. I just want to know how they are. How my granddaughter’s growing. Their health. But if I call, my son either cuts me short—”Busy”—or answers sharply, impatiently. And if I reach his wife? Just “yes,” “no,” “fine.” No warmth, no soul.
Margaret’s off to the shops now, buying a cake, heading to her daughter-in-law’s for a celebration. And me? Silence. I didn’t even know when my granddaughter’s first tooth came in—found out later, from someone else. No one told me. No invitation. My hints about visiting—ignored. As if they don’t hear. Don’t understand. Or pretend not to.
Once, I gathered my courage. Baked a Victoria sponge, put on my best dress, and turned up unannounced. My daughter-in-law opened the door, bewildered. We ate that cake, yes—but the air between us was stiff. Cold. Like I hadn’t come to family, but to strangers politely tolerating a guest. Later, my son pulled me aside and murmured, almost apologetic:
“Mum, next time—maybe call before you come.”
Call? Before stepping into my own flat? My son’s home? My granddaughter’s? The family I spent my life breaking my back for? I denied myself everything so he could have more. And now—an outsider. Unwanted.
For two months, I called to arrange seeing my granddaughter—always an excuse. “She’s ill.” “Bad time.” “Not convenient.” Then I learned my daughter-in-law’s parents live abroad—don’t even speak to their granddaughter over video. Yet their daughter, my daughter-in-law, doesn’t rush to them. Doesn’t seem to miss them. I understand now—she’s just as cold. And my son? He’s become like her. Distant.
“Mum, you’re always complaining. Nothing’s ever good enough. You drag my mood down with these calls. You’ve got friends—talk to them. After I hang up, I can’t even focus. Honestly—what’s there to say every day?” He said it outright. No shame. No sympathy.
So now here I sit, alone in my quiet flat. No calls, no visitors, no cake, no granddaughter. I know—if something happens to me, he won’t even know. Not unless one of my friends thinks to ring him. Margaret lives in her children’s and grandchildren’s lives. And me? In memories of a son who once called me “Mum” with love… and now just asks me not to call.
And so I live. In silence. And in pain.
