**Diary Entry – October 12th**
*”Mum, don’t call me every day.”* Those words shattered my heart.
*”Mum, what could possibly have changed in a single day? Why even call daily?”* My son’s voice was calm but detached, as if he were discussing the weather. My only child, my own flesh and blood.
The words struck me like a bullet. I had been strolling through the park with my friend, Margaret. We often walk together, sharing our joys, grievances, and ailments—just the usual chatter of two elderly women. Then her phone rang. She stepped aside, spoke for ten minutes, and returned beaming.
*”It was my daughter-in-law—imagine that! My grandson’s first tooth has come through. She noticed while feeding him. My eldest granddaughter took her time, but this little one’s ahead—can you believe it? I’ll stop by the shop after our walk, pick up a cake, and head over to theirs. They invited me round to celebrate.”*
*”And you talked that long about a tooth?”* I asked, my voice thick with bitter envy.
*”Oh, not just that. About life, family, silly little things. We chat nearly every day, me and her—and with my son too. He always finds the time. With my daughter-in-law, we start on one topic and end up somewhere else entirely. Half the time, I can’t even recall how we got there. We’re like family.”*
But not me. Not like that at all.
My son lives in the very flat I gave up for him when I moved to the countryside after my late husband passed. He works, his wife stays home with their little girl. There’s never been any quarrel between us—just polite distance. And when I try to bridge it, I’m met with a wall of ice.
*”Mum, same old routine. Work, eat, sleep. Wife’s at home, all fine. Why call every day?”* That’s the extent of it.
I don’t pester them morning till night. I don’t intrude. I just want to know how they are. How my granddaughter’s growing. How their health is. But if I call, my son either cuts me short—*”Busy.”*—or answers with flat irritation. If his wife picks up, it’s *”yes,”* *”no,”* *”all’s well.”* No warmth, no soul.
Walking back, Margaret stops at the bakery for a cake, off to celebrate with her family. And me? Silence. I didn’t even know when my granddaughter’s first tooth came in. Found out later, through someone else. No one told me. No invitation. My hints about visiting? Ignored. As if I’m speaking to the wind.
Once, I gathered my courage. Baked an apple pie, put on my best dress, and went unannounced. My daughter-in-law opened the door, bewildered. We ate that pie, yes—but the air was stiff, formal. Like I’d walked into a stranger’s home. Later, my son pulled me aside and murmured, almost apologetically,
*”Mum, next time, give us a heads-up before coming round.”*
A warning? To my own son? My family? The ones I spent my life breaking my back for? I denied myself everything so he’d have more. And now? I’m an outsider. Unwanted.
For two months, I called to arrange seeing my granddaughter. Always an excuse—*”she’s poorly,”* *”bad timing,”* *”not convenient.”* Then I learned my daughter-in-law’s parents live abroad and don’t even video-call the child. Yet she doesn’t pine for them. Of course—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 ruin my mood with these calls. You’ve got friends—talk to them. After speaking to you, I can’t focus. And honestly—what is there to say every single day?”* He said it bluntly. No shame. No remorse.
Now I sit alone in this quiet flat. No calls. No visitors. No cake, no granddaughter. If something happens to me, he won’t know—not unless some acquaintance thinks to ring him. Margaret lives in her children’s and grandchildren’s lives, while I live in memories. Of a son who once called me *Mum* with love… and now just asks me not to call.
So here I am. Silent. In pain.
