30December
I trudged up the stairs to my flat on the fourth floor after a long shop trip, the bags heavy in my arms. I never skimp on food; my modest pension in pounds lets me afford quality, and after a lifetime of buying the best, Im not about to change now.
The flat was quiet and cool. I set the bags on the kitchen table and began unpacking: a loaf of crusty bread, a jug of milk, a block of cheddar, a dozen eggs, fresh veg and fruit, and a tin of smoked salmon. I always pick up the salmon for my one and only sonJamesso I can treat him to his favourite delicacy, even if he hasnt visited in two years. Not even his birthday has coaxed him home.
James, love, I sighed, maybe you could pop over next weekend? I dialled the familiar number. The line rang forever, then a mechanical voice told me the subscriber was temporarily unavailable. I set the handset down on the sill.
Busy, I suppose. Ill try again this evening, I muttered. The evening call went straight to voicemail. I turned on the telly to fill the empty hour, the flickering drama doing little to stop my thoughts drifting back to my boy.
James has always been my pride. I raised him alone after my husband walked out when he was only seven. He grew up clever and determined, graduated school with a gold medal, and earned a place at a prestigious university to study economics. After university he landed a junior role at a major firm, and I cheered every promotion he mentioned during our occasional visits and phone chats.
Then everything shifted. He met Claire, a lovely woman from a welloff family. Six months later they married and moved to Sheffield. At first James called every week and visited once a month, but the calls grew sparse and the visits rarer. The last time he was here was last Christmas.
I switched off the TV, brewed a pot of tea and fetched my favourite biscuits. My heart felt uneasy. I know he has his own life, work and family, but I ache to hear his voice and see his face.
Morning brought a knock on the phone. It was my neighbour Eleanor Clarke.
Hi, Nad sorry, Margaret fancy a cuppa? Ive baked a Victoria sponge.
Thanks, Eleanor, but Im feeling a bit off today. Maybe another time?
She was kind, but I wasnt in the mood for chitchat. I decided to message James instead. Using the smartphone he gave me for my sixtieth birthday, I typed: James, how are you? I called earlier but got no answer. Could you drop by? I miss you. I hit send and waited.
A few hours later his reply arrived: Sorry Mum, swamped at work. Ill try to visit next month. The month passed and still no visit. I told myself, He has his own life. He must really be busy.
One afternoon, scrolling through Facebook, I saw a picture of James with Claire, a golden retriever, standing in front of a sleek new house. The caption read: Our new home! Dreams do come true! My chest tightened. He had bought a house without ever telling me! All I learned from the internet, as if I were a stranger.
I called him again. This time he answered almost immediately.
Mum, hi! How are you? his voice was bright.
James, I saw the photoscongratulations on the house! Why didnt you tell me?
Oh, Mum, I completely forgot. Work, the move everything just piled up. Sorry.
I understand. When will you show me the new place? Im longing to see it.
I dont know, Mum. Im flat out maybe you could come over? See how weve settled.
Come to you? But thats a long way from here Im not sure how Id get there, I stammered.
Then perhaps later. I must dash, love. Lets catch up soon! He hung up.
I stared at the dead screen, feeling foolish, thinking, What am I, a foolish old woman, expecting him to come back from another city? Days slipped by. I shopped, watched telly, dropped by Eleanor for tea, yet the loneliness lingered. I stopped calling James so as not to bother him.
New Years Eve approached. I decided to treat myself: I bought a small fir, a few new baubles, and all the trimmings for a modest feast, hoping James might call to wish me a happy New Year.
On the morning of the 31st I prepared everythingsalad, roast chicken, apple crumblehis favourite dishes. Dressed in my best dress, hair done, a touch of makeup, I sat at the set table, eyes flicking to my phone, waiting for his call. As the clock neared midnight, the chimes of Big Ben rang, the Prime Ministers New Year speech played, but my phone stayed silent.
I kept the line open until three in the morning, clinging to hope. Exhausted, I finally lay down. At dawn I found a message from James: Happy New Year, Mum. All the best to you. Just one line, no questions, no stories of his night.
I stared at the cold leftovers, wondering if I had become a stranger to him.
A week later I visited my old friend Barbara Mitchell, a nurse at the local clinic. Margaret, youve lost weight! Whats happened? she exclaimed, arms flailing.
Just age, I replied with a weak smile.
And James? You havent seen him lately.
Hes fine. Bought a house out in the suburbs, works a lot. Rarely visits, very busy.
Barbara studied me. Youre alone, Margaret. Thats not right. Have you thought about moving in with him?
He never invites me. And where would I go with my frailties? Id just be a burden.
Dont say that! Youre his mother, not a burden. She paused. Come over to my place for a cup of tea; my shift ends in an hour.
That evening, over tea at Barbaras kitchen, I finally let the flood of feelings out: the loneliness, the ache for my son, the hurt from his neglect.
You understand his life, but can he spare a simple call each month? A real conversation, not a hurried text? Barbara asked.
Have I ever told him that? I admitted.
No. If you never speak up, hell never know. She encouraged, Pick up the phone and say you need to talk seriously. Let him know how you feel.
I pondered her advice. Maybe I should be more assertive.
Back home, I left a voicemail: James, please call when you can. I need to talk. He returned the call the next day.
Mum, whats wrong? Is everything okay?
Just wanted to hear your voice, thats all.
Can we talk later tonight?
Sure, whenever youre free.
He never called that night, nor the next, nor the one after. I decided not to pester him further.
In early spring my health worsenedmy heart ached, blood pressure spiked. I called an ambulance, received a quick injection and a recommendation to be admitted, but I refused. Who would look after my flat? Who would water the plants? And what if James showed up and I wasnt there?
Eleanor, ever diligent, began visiting daily, bringing fresh bread, soup, or meatloaf. Maybe you should let James know youre ill? she suggested one afternoon.
I dont want to trouble him.
Hes your son! He should know.
Ill tell him when Im better. I dont want him to rush over only to find me already recovered.
Time passed. My condition ebbed and flowed. James called sporadically, always brief.
One evening the doorbell rang. I struggled off the sofa, wondering who it could beEleanor usually called first. Opening the door, a young woman with a large bag stood there.
Good morning, are you Margaret Harris? she asked.
Yes, and you are?
Im Elena, from the local councils socialcare team. Your neighbour called; she said you might need help.
I was taken aback. I hadnt asked for anything. Yet Elena entered, laid out forms on the kitchen table.
Youll need to sign an agreement for weekly visitshelp with chores, shopping, checking your blood pressure. Its all free.
But I didnt request this
Your neighbour is very concerned. She said you live alone, youve been unwell, and its becoming hard for you to manage.
I felt faint, slumped into a chair. The truth was evident: a fall just days before had left me shaken when I tried to reach a jar on the top shelf.
Alright, I whispered. Thank you.
Elena proved gentle and efficient, quickly taking over the household tasks. Over time I grew to rely on her visits and even looked forward to them.
During one tea break she asked, Do you have children?
My son, James, I replied. He lives in Sheffield.
Does he visit?
Rarely. Hes very busy with his business and family.
Does he know youre ill?
No. I didnt want to worry him.
Elenas eyes softened. My own grandmother lived alone; her daughter was away, and she always regretted not being there in her final days. Perhaps you should tell James how you feel?
I realized I had been hiding my illness, always saying I was fine when he called. I thought about her words and finally decided to call him that evening.
James answered after a pause.
Mum? Its latewhats wrong?
I I wanted to talk, I stammered.
Whats happened? his tone now held concern.
Ive been ill for a whilemy heart I confessed.
Why didnt you say anything? he exclaimed, a hint of reproach in his voice. You should have told me!
I didnt want to bother you. You have your own life.
Are you in hospital?
No, at home. I have a socialcare worker visiting.
A socialcare worker? Oh, Mum, Ill come tomorrow.
Dont, James. I can manage.
Whatever you need, Ill be there, he insisted.
I hung up, heart racing. Would he really show up? Would I become a burden in his new home?
The next morning I rose early, tidied the flat as best I could, and prepared a simple lunch, hoping to greet him properly.
He arrived after lunch, hauling two large suitcases. He embraced me, and tears welled in my eyes.
James, Im so glad youre here! I said, my voice trembling.
He looked at me, noticing my pallor and the tired lines on my face.
Why didnt you tell me you were unwell? he asked, hurt evident.
I didnt want to add to your worries. You have work, a house, a wife
Mum, youre my family. Ive been selfish all these years, chasing my career, ignoring you, he admitted, holding my hands. Im sorry.
I brushed his arm. Its enough that youre here now.
We talked long into the evening. He spoke of his job, the new house, his plans. I listened, grateful simply to be near my son.
Later Elena arrived, surprised to see a man in the flat, but quickly understood.
Hello, you must be James. Im Elena, the care worker, she said.
Thank you, Elena. I didnt know Mum was ill, he replied.
She gave him a knowing look, then left.
James turned to me. Mum, Im taking you to live with us.
What? I cantyour life, Claire I protested.
Claire will be happy. Weve been meaning to ask you to move in, but I kept putting it off, thinking youd never want to leave your flat and friends.
Ill just be a burden, I whispered.
No, youll never be a burden. Youre my mother. I want to look after you, just as youve always looked after me.
If I refuse?
Then Ill move my job to be nearer, but I will not let you stay alone.
Tears streamed down my cheeks. I had never imagined he would sacrifice so much.
Alright, I said softly. Ill go with you.
He hugged me tightly. Thank you, Mum. I promise youll be well with us.
The following days were a whirlwind. James helped me pack, sorted the lease on my flat, said heartfelt goodbyes to neighbours, especially Eleanor, who hugged me fiercely.
Thank you, Eleanor. Without you, Id still be sitting here alone with my ailments, I told her.
Its my pleasure, Margaret. Now youll be with your son. Hes a good lad, just got a bit carried away.
Soon we arrived at Jamess new homea spacious house with a neat garden. He opened the door to a bright, airy bedroom.
This is your room, Mum, he said, smiling.
Claire greeted me warmly, showed me the garden, explained the daily routine. I felt genuinely welcome.
That evening, the three of us sat on the veranda. James took a deep breath.
Mum, Im sorry for being selfish. I was only thinking about my career, my house, my own life. I forgot the person who raised me.
Its alright, love. The important thing is were together now.
He pledged never to leave me alone again.
For the first time in years I felt a quiet happiness. My son had returned, albeit not in the way I had imagined. Yet that was enough. I closed my diary tonight with a grateful heart, knowing that, finally, I was no longer a solitary figure in a cold flat, but a cherished part of a bustling household.
