You Didn’t Even Say Thank You

“You didn’t even say thank you.”
“Mum, not this again!” snapped Edward irritably, not looking up from his phone. “I told you, I’m busy!”
“Busy, he says!” Eleanor slapped a wet cloth onto the kitchen table. “Nearly forty and still like a schoolboy! Edward, please, visit Gran. She rang yesterday complaining she feels poorly!”
“Mum, I’ve a meeting in an hour! An important meeting!” Edward finally tore his eyes from the screen to look at her. “I’ll go later. Tonight or tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow, the day after…” Eleanor sank into a chair opposite him and sighed wearily. “Your Gran is eighty-three. You always find reasons not to see her.”
“Don’t start that tune again!” Edward stood, stuffing his phone into his pocket. “I work, understand? I earn the money! Not like some folk who only know how to fuss!”
Eleanor flinched at his rudeness but stayed silent. She was used to these talks. Edward had always been abrupt, especially regarding family duties.
“Alright,” she said quietly. “I’ll go myself. The trouble is, the car’s in the garage. The bus takes nearly two hours each way…”
“So?” Edward shrugged on his coat. “Take the bus then, what’s the big deal? Or call a cab!”
“Cabs are dear, son. My pension’s small, you know that.”
“Know, know! Mum, let’s talk later, yeah? I really am pushed!” The door slammed shut.
Eleanor was left alone in the kitchen, the lingering scent of Sunday roast she’d cooked for him. Edward hadn’t touched it.
She went to the window, watching her son climb into his smart new car. Expensive, that motor. Edward was proud of it, often listing its virtues to mates. Yet driving his mother to Gran? No time.
Eleanor pulled a worn purse from her handbag, counted her notes. A cab to Gran’s *was* expensive. She’d have to take the bus.
She grabbed a bag of groceries for her mother-in-law, tied a scarf round her head, and went out. Walking to the bus stop took a good fifteen minutes. Eleanor went slowly, stopping now and then to catch her breath. Her heart had been playing up lately, but she hadn’t seen a doctor. No time, and money’s tight.
At the stop, she waited half an hour. The bus arrived packed. Eleanor squeezed on board. The journey was long, with changes. Blokes sat with headphones on, glued to their phones. No one offered the older woman a seat.
Eventually, she reached the village where Gran lived. A small, old cottage stood on the edge, its garden overgrown. Eleanor opened the gate and walked the path to the porch.
“Gran!” she called, knocking. “It’s me, Eleanor!”
The door opened slowly. Emily, her late husband’s mother, stood in the doorway leaning on a stick. The old lady looked frailer than last time.
“Ellie!” she brightened. “Lovely you came! Come in, come in!”
“How are you, Gran?” Eleanor hugged her mother-in-law, kissed her cheek. “You’ve gone ever so thin.”
“Oh, well…” Emily led her into the sitting room. “No appetite lately. Sleep’s poor too. Always got some ache…”
“Have you seen the doctor?”
“Aye, aye. They say it’s my age. What can you do at eighty-three?” The old lady waved her to a chair. “Cuppa?”
“Please.” Eleanor unpacked the groceries. “Got you some stew, couple of pies.”
“Oh, ta, love!” Emily smiled warmly. “Where’s young Edward? Haven’t seen him in a while.”
Eleanor paused, pouring the tea.
“He’s working hard, Gran. Busy with work.”
“Ah,” Emily nodded. “Man’s got to work. Only…” she hesitated, lowering her voice, “Only I miss him. He’s my only grandson.”
“I know, Gran. He misses you too, just hasn’t the time.”
“No, Ellie,” Emily shook her head slowly. “He doesn’t. If he missed me, he’d make time. You found it.”
Eleanor didn’t know what to say. She’d often thought it herself. Edward *could* find time for Gran if he wanted. But he didn’t. Sitting in an old house, listening to tales of ailments and the past bored him.
“Tell me how you’re getting on,” Eleanor asked instead.
“What’s to tell? Get up, have breakfast, potter about. Neighbour Betty pops in for a natter sometimes. Otherwise, just me. Telly’s on, but it’s all such grim news…”
“And your health?”
“Poor, Ellie. Proper poorly. Heart’s bothersome, chest pains. Get awful dizzy spells. Fell over yesterday in the kitchen, lucky I grabbed the table.”
“Gran!” Eleanor was alarmed. “Why didn’t you say? Should we have called an ambulance?”
“An ambulance? They’d come, have a look, say ‘age’. Medicine costs the earth, pension doesn’t stretch.”
“Don’t fret about money. We’ll help with the prescriptions.”
“Will Edward help?” Emily asked hopefully.
“‘Course he will,” lied Eleanor. She knew explaining to her son, persuading him about extra costs, would only bring grumbles.
They sat together until evening. Emily talked about neighbours, her ailments, missing her late son. Eleanor listened, nodding, made tea.
“Ellie,” Emily said as it grew dark. “Could you stop over? Frightened on my own…”
“‘Course I can, Gran.”
Next morning, Eleanor took her to the local GP surgery. The doctor was young, weary. He examined Emily quickly, wrote out prescriptions.
“Take exactly as it says,” he instructed. “If worse, straight to A&E.”
“Doctor,” Eleanor asked timidly. “Is it serious?”
“At her age, it’s always serious,” he replied. “Weak heart, blood pressure up and down. Needs regular looking after.”
Walking back, Emily held Eleanor’s hand.
“Ta, love,” she said. “You’re like a daughter to me. Better than a daughter might be.”
“Don’t say that, Gran. We’re family.”
“Family…” Emily repeated sadly. “But Edward doesn’t count us family, does he?”
“Don’t say that. He’s just young still, doesn’t grasp it.”
“Forty’s young? No, Ellie. He grasps it. Just doesn’t care.”
That evening, Eleanor got ready to leave. Emily saw her to the gate.
“Do come again, please,” she pleaded. “It’s so nice having you…”
“‘Course I will, Gran. Bring Edward too.”
“Don’t promise if you’re not sure. Honesty’s best.”
“I will bring him.”
She got home late. Edward sat at the kitchen table, eating reheated leftovers.
“So, Gran alright?” he asked, not looking up.
“It’s bad, son. Right bad.”
“What’s bad?”
“Heart’s weak, blood pressure’s erratic. Doctor says she needs constant care.”
“And what do you
“Not even a thank you?” Mum began, her voice tight.
“Honestly Mum, must you start?” Edward snapped, eyes glued to his phone. “I’ve told you I’m busy!”
“Busy!” Eleanor Davies slapped her damp cloth on the kitchen table. “Nearly forty years old and still like a schoolboy! Edward, I’m asking you, please visit your grandmother. She phoned yesterday, feeling poorly.”
“Mum, I’ve got an important meeting in an hour!” Edward finally looked up. “I’ll go tonight or tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow, the day after…” Eleanor sank onto the chair opposite him, sighing wearily. “Your grandmother is eighty-three. You always find reasons not to see her.”
“Not this record again!” Edward shoved his phone into his pocket. “I’m working, understand? Earning money! Not like some people who just nag!”
Eleanor flinched at his rudeness but stayed silent. She was used to these talks. Edward was always sharp, especially about family.
“Fine,” she said quietly. “I’ll go myself. Only trouble is – the car’s in the garage. Two hours each way on the bus…”
“So?” Edward pulled on his jacket. “Take the bus then, what’s the issue? Or call a cab!”
“Cabs are dear, son. My pension is small, you know that.”
“I know, I know!” He was already at the door. “Listen, Mum, let’s talk later, alright? I really must dash!”
The door slammed. Eleanor was alone in the kitchen, the scent of Sunday roast still hanging in the air. Edward hadn’t touched his plate.
She went to the window, watching her son climb into his sleek Audi. Expensive. He bragged about it to his mates. But no time to drive his grandmother?
Eleanor took her worn purse from her handbag, counting the notes. A cab *was* expensive to Gran’s village. The bus it was.
She grabbed a bag of treats for her mother-in-law, wrapped a scarf around her head, and stepped out. Fifteen minutes to the bus stop. She walked slowly, stopping to catch her breath. Her heart had been playing up lately, but she hadn’t seen the doctor. No time, and money was short.
At the stop she waited half an hour. The bus was packed; Eleanor squeezed on. It was a long journey, changing buses. Youngsters sat with headphones, faces buried in phones. No one offered an elderly woman a seat.
Finally, she reached the village where Edward’s Gran lived. A small, old cottage stood at the edge, surrounded by an overgrown garden. Eleanor pushed open the gate, walked the path to the porch.
“Gran?” she called, knocking. “It’s me, Eleanor!”
The door opened slowly. Margaret Evans, her late husband’s mother, stood leaning on a walking stick. The old woman looked frailer than last time.
“Eleanor, love!” Her face lit up. “How lovely you’ve come! Come in, come in!”
“How are you, Gran?” Eleanor hugged her, kissing her cheek. “You’ve lost weight.”
“Oh, not so grand…” Margaret ushered her into the sitting room. “No appetite. Can’t sleep properly. Aches and pains…”
“Have you been to the GP?”
“Aye, aye. Say it’s just age. Eighty-three, after all.” The old lady gestured to a chair. “Tea?”
“Yes please.” Eleanor brought out containers from her bag. “I brought you roast dinner leftovers, and some shortbread.”
“Oh, thank you, pet! And where’s young Edward? I’ve missed seeing him.”
Eleanor hesitated, pouring tea. “He’s working hard, Gran.”
“I see,” Margaret nodded. “A man must work. Only…” she paused. “I miss him. He’s my only grandson.”
“I know, Gran. He misses you too, just hasn’t the time.”
“No, Eleanor,” Margaret shook her head. “If he missed me, he’d find time. You did.”
Eleanor didn’t know what to say. Edward could find time if he *wanted* to. He found her cottage dull, her talk of ailments and the past tedious.
“Tell me how you are, Gran,” Eleanor asked.
“Not much to tell, pet,” Margaret sighed. “Up, breakfast, potter. Neighbour Gladys visits sometimes. Telly’s on, but it’s all gloom…”
“And your health?”
“Poor, Eleanor. So poor now. Heart pains, stabs in my chest. Dizzy spells. Yesterday I fell right in the kitchen, grabbed the table just in time.”
“Gran!” Eleanor gasped. “Why didn’t you say? Should we call for help?”
“Oh, help? They’d come, poke about, say ‘it’s age’. Medicines cost the earth, pension won’t stretch.”
“Don’t fret about money. We’ll help with the medicines.”
“Edward will help?” Hope sparked in the old eyes.
“Of course,” Eleanor lied. She knew explaining to her son, persuading him, would be another battle.
They sat together till evening. Margaret talked of neighbours, her aches, missing her late son. Eleanor listened, made supper.
“Eleanor,” Margaret said as it grew dark. “Could you stay? I get scared alone…”
“Course I’ll stay, Gran. Course.”
Next morning, Eleanor took Margaret to the local clinic. The young doctor looked tired. He examined her quickly, wrote prescriptions.
“Strictly as directed,” he warned. “Worse? Call emergency help.”
“Doctor,” Eleanor asked timidly. “Is it serious?”
“At her age, anything is serious,” he replied. “Weak heart, high blood pressure. Needs regular care.”
Walking back, Margaret held Eleanor’s arm.
“Thank you, pet,” she said. “You’re like a daughter. Better than.”
“Don’t be daft, Gran. We’re family.”
“Family…” Margaret echoed sadly. “But Edward doesn’t count me as family.”
“Don’t say that. He’s young still.”
“Forty is young?” Margaret stopped. “No, Eleanor. He knows. He just doesn’t care.”
That evening, Eleanor headed home. Margaret saw her to the gate.
“Come again, please,” she pleaded. “Feels so nice having you…”
“I will, Gran. I’ll bring Edward too.”
“Don’t promise less you mean it. Be honest.”
“I’ll bring him,” Eleanor said firmly.
Home late, Edward sat at the kitchen table, eating reheated food.
“So, Gran alright?” he asked, not looking up.
“Not good, son. Really not good.”
“How d’you mean?”
“Her heart’s weak, blood pressure uncontrolled. Doctor says constant care needed.”
“And your suggestion is?” Edward met her gaze.
“Go more often. At least once a week. Check on her, help with shopping…”
“Mum, I haven’t got time for weekly jaunts to see old ladies! I work! Understand? Work!”
“I know. But she’s your Gran!”
“So?
He started the engine with a lump in his throat, finally understanding the silent weight of “thank you” he’d never voiced.
He knew his hands would always be busy, but he vowed to visit not just in haste, but in love and gratitude this time.
The road stretched before him, a tangible reminder that time, unlike money, couldn’t be hoarded or reclaimed, only spent.
As he drove away from the old house, the promise he made felt fragile, a new resolve battling years of habit and excuse.
The miles back felt different now, filled not just with the sound of the engine, but the echo of his grandmother’s unshakeable love.
He glanced at his schedule glowing on the dashboard, suddenly aware of the precious, finite slots marked ‘free time’ he could choose to fill differently.
The familiar urge to plead busyness arose, but this time, he consciously pushed it aside, choosing memory over momentary convenience.
The car stereo stayed silent, allowing space for the quiet rustle of his conscience acknowledging years of missed opportunities.
He realized the most important investment wasn’t in the steel and chrome around him, but in the fragile, fading life he’d left behind.
Clara looked towards the city lights knowing real comfort wasn’t found there, but in the dim, loving room where an old woman waited.
The question wasn’t *if* he’d find the time anymore, but *when* he’d carve it out with the respect she deserved.
Driving back into his fast-paced world felt jarring, carrying the newfound awareness that genuine wealth lay in small acts of presence.
He knew the guilt wouldn’t fade quickly, but perhaps this small shift was the first fragile step towards earning forgiveness.
The echo of his own impatient words from that morning seemed harsher now, overshadowed by his grandmother’s simple gratitude.
He resolved that the next thank you wouldn’t be prompted by guilt, but freely given, a small return on a lifetime of care.
The final stretch home blurred, his mind not on the meeting ahead, but firmly fixed on planning his next visit to Lilian.
He vowed their next cup of tea wouldn’t be rushed, knowing it might be one of their last shared moments together.
The car slowed at his flat, carrying the weight of unspoken appreciation and a silent promise to finally show up.