Dear Diary,
I shuffled up the stairs to my flat on the fourth floor, my arms heavy with the grocery bags Id just brought back from the supermarket. I never skimp on food; my modest state pension allows me to buy quality produce, and after a lifetime of doing so, Ive grown accustomed to it. I set the bags down on the kitchen table and began to unpack: a loaf of bread, a carton of milk, some cheddar, a dozen eggs, fresh vegetables and fruit, and a tin of smoked salmon. I always buy the salmon out of habithow could I deny my only son his favourite treat? Yet James hasnt visited in two years, not even for my birthday.
James, dear, I sighed, maybe youll pop round next weekend? I dialled a familiar number, but after a long series of beeps a mechanical voice told me the line was temporarily unavailable. I placed the handset on the windowsill and thought, He must be busy. Ill try again this evening.
The evening phone rang, but there was still no answer. I turned on the television to pass the lonely hours; a British drama flickered across the screen, yet my mind kept drifting back to James. He had always been my pride. I raised him alone after his father walked out when he was seven. He grew up clever and determined, graduated school with a gold medal and earned a place at a reputable university to study economics. After university he landed a role at a large firm, and I swelled with pride every time he came home, sharing stories of work and future plans.
Then everything changed. James met Emily, a beautiful girl from a welloff family, and six months later they married and moved to Manchester. At first he called me weekly and visited once a month, but the calls grew less frequent and the visits even rarer. The last time he was here was Christmas a few years ago.
I turned the TV off, brewed a cup of tea, and reached for my favourite biscuits. My heart was uneasy. I knew James had his own life, his job, his family, but I still longed to hear his voice and see his face.
The next morning the phone rang. I rushed to answer, hoping it was James, but it was my neighbour, Ethel Brown.
Good morning, Margaret. Fancy a cuppa? Ive baked a Victoria sponge, she chirped.
Thanks, Ethel, but Im not feeling well. Maybe another time, I replied.
Ethel was kind, but I wasnt in the mood for conversation. I decided to send James a message on the smartphone hed given me for my sixtieth birthday: James, how are you? I called earlier but didnt hear back. Could you drop by? I miss you. I hit send and waited.
A few hours later his reply arrived: Sorry Mum, swamped with work. Ill try to visit next month. A month passed and he still hadnt come. I convinced myself that he was simply busy.
One afternoon, scrolling through Facebook, I saw a picture of James standing in front of a handsome house with Emily and their golden retriever, Max. The caption read, Our new home! Dreams do come true! My chest tightened. Hed bought a house and hadnt even mentioned it to me! I learned about his milestones only through the internet, as if I were a stranger.
I dialled his number again, and this time he answered almost immediately.
Hello, Mum! How are you? his voice was bright.
I saw the photos, congratulations on the house! Why didnt you tell me? I asked.
Oh, Mum, I completely forgot. Works been a nightmare and the move sorry. He sounded apologetic.
I understand. When will you show me the new place? Id love to see it, I said, hoping for a visit.
Not sure yet, love. So many things maybe you could come over? See how weve settled, he suggested.
Your home? But its so far, I dont know how to get there, I stammered.
Lets arrange something later. I have to run now, well talk later. He hung up.
I stared at the silent screen, then rose and went back to the kitchen. Ill bake a pie, I thought, James will come home hungry and Ill feed him. The thought was quickly crushed: What a fool I am, he lives in Manchester, not here.
Days slipped by. I shopped, watched TV, and occasionally visited Ethel for tea, yet the loneliness lingered. I stopped calling James for fear of bothering him.
Near the end of the year I decided to give myself a celebration. I bought a modest Christmas tree, a few new ornaments, and all the food for a festive dinnersalads, roast chicken, apple crumblehoping perhaps James might call or even drop in.
On the morning of the thirtyfirst, I set the table, put on my best dress, did my hair, and even applied a touch of makeup, convinced that the phone would ring just before midnight. The clock ticked towards twelve, the chimes of Big Ben echoed across the city, and the Prime Ministers New Years address filled the room, but my phone stayed mute.
I waited until three in the morning, still hopeful, then finally fell asleep. When I woke, a short message from James awaited: Happy New Year, Mum. Wishing you health and happiness. Just a single line, no questions about my day, no mention of his celebrations.
I sat at the kitchen table, looking at the cold salads and untouched chicken, wondering if I had become a stranger to him. How could this happen?
A week later I visited my old friend Clare Wilson, a nurse at the local clinic. She greeted me with a flourish.
Margaret! Youve lost weight! she exclaimed, hugging me. Whats going on?
Nothing special, just age, I replied with a wan smile.
And James? You havent seen him lately.
Hes fine. Bought a house in the suburbs, works a lot.
Does he visit?
Rarely. Hes very busy.
Clare frowned. You live alone. Thats not healthy. Maybe you should move in with him?
He never invites me, I whispered. And where would I go with my ailments? Id just be a burden.
Clare shook her head. Youre his mother, not a burden! Come over to my place for tea, I finish my shift soon.
That evening, over tea at Clares kitchen, I finally opened up about how lonely I felt, how painful his neglect was.
I understand his life is busy, but isnt it worth a call once a month? A proper chat, not just a quick text? Clare asked.
Did you ever tell him that? she pressed.
No. I didnt want to seem demanding.
You have a right to his attention. If he doesnt see that, you need to make it clear, Clare advised. Pick up the phone and tell him you need a serious talk. Let him know how you feel.
I thought about her words and decided to try again. I called James, left a voicemail: Son, please call when you can. I need to talk. He returned the call the next day.
Mum, whats wrong? Are you alright? he asked.
Im fine, just wanted to hear your voice, I said.
Busy at work. Can we speak later this evening?
Sure, call whenever youre free.
He never called that evening, nor the next day, nor the day after. I resolved not to pester him further.
At the start of spring I felt a sharp pain in my chest and my blood pressure spiked. I called an ambulance; the paramedics gave me an injection and advised a hospital stay, but I refused. Who would look after my flat? Who would water the plants? And if James came and found me gone, what would happen?
Ethel visited daily, bringing fresh bread, sometimes soup or meatballs. One afternoon she suggested, Maybe you should tell James youre unwell?
No, Ethel. He has enough on his plate. I dont want to add to his worries.
But hes your son! He should know!
Ill tell him when Im better, I insisted.
Weeks passed, my health fluctuating. Jamess calls grew shorter, always polite but brief. One evening, a knock sounded at the door. I struggled to get up, wondering who could be thereEthel usually rang before showing up.
Opening the door, a young woman with a large bag stood before me.
Good afternoon, are you Margaret Hughes? she asked.
Yes, and you are?
Im Helen, a social worker. Your neighbour called, saying you need assistance.
I was taken aback; I hadnt asked for help. Helen entered, laid out some papers on the table.
Youll need to sign a care agreement. Ill visit three times a week to help with chores, shopping, and check your blood pressure. Its all free.
I didnt request this I began.
Youre not alone, Margaret. Ethel is worried; youve had a fall recently trying to reach a jar on the top shelf, Helen reminded me.
Feeling a wave of exhaustion, I whispered, Alright, thank you.
Helen proved gentle and efficient, quickly taking over many household tasks. Over time I grew accustomed to her visits and even looked forward to them. One afternoon, while sharing tea, she asked, Do you have any children?
My son, James, lives in Manchester, I replied.
Does he visit?
Rarely. Hes very busy with his business and family.
Does he know about your health?
No. I dont want to trouble him.
Helens eyes softened. My grandmother lived alone too. Her mother worked far away and rarely came. She regretted not being there in her final days. Perhaps you should tell James how you feel?
I reflected on my silence. Every time he called, I insisted I was fine, not wanting to burden him.
Youre right, Helen. Ill call him tonight, I decided.
I sat with the phone, gathering my thoughts. Finally I dialled. James answered after a pause.
Hello, Mum? Its late for you to call, he said, concern evident.
I I wanted to talk, I started, voice trembling.
Whats wrong? he asked, worry creeping in.
Im ill, dear. My heart I managed.
Why didnt you say anything? his tone softened into a reprimand. You should have told me!
I didnt want to trouble you. You have your own life, your responsibilities
Are you in the hospital? he asked urgently.
No, at home. A social worker comes to help.
Ill be there tomorrow, he declared.
I can manage, James, I tried to protest, fearing I would become a burden.
He persisted, and I felt a mix of fear and relief. 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, his large bags in hand. He embraced me, and tears welled up.
James, its so good to see you! I exclaimed.
He looked at me, noticing my pallor and the loss of my usual sparkle.
Mum, why didnt you tell me you were unwell? he asked, guilt evident.
I didnt want to add to your worries, I replied.
Youre my mother. Ive been selfish, thinking only of work and my own life. I should have been there for you, he said, taking my hands.
Its alright, love. The important thing is youre here now, I whispered.
We talked at length in the kitchen. He spoke of his job, the new house, future plans, while I listened, grateful just to be in his presence.
Later, Helen returned, surprised to see a man in the flat, but quickly introduced herself.
Thank you, Helen, James said. I didnt know Mum was ill.
Helen glanced at me, her expression gentle. She didnt want to worry you, she said softly.
James then made a decision.
Mum, Im taking you to live with us, he announced.
What? No, I cant. You have your life, Emily I protested.
Emily will understand. Weve talked about this for ages, but I kept putting it off, thinking youd rather stay in your flat with friends, he replied.
Id only be a nuisance, I replied.
Youll never be a nuisance. Youre my mother, and I want to care for you, just as you cared for me, he said firmly.
What if I refuse? I asked.
Then Ill move closer to you, work remotely, but I wont let you be alone any more, he promised.
Tears streamed down my cheeks as I finally felt his love. Alright, I whispered. Ill go with you.
He hugged me tightly.
Thank you, Mum. I promise youll be happy with us.
The following days were a whirlwind. James helped me pack, sorted out the lease on my flat, and said heartfelt goodbyes to my neighbours, especially Ethel.
Thank you, Ethel. If it werent for you, Id still be sitting here alone, I said, embracing her.
Dont mention it, Margaret. Now youll be with a good son, she replied, smiling.
A week later James drove me to their new home in the suburbs of Manchester. The house was spacious, with modern furnishings and a neatly kept garden.
This is your room, Mum, James said, opening the door to a bright, cozy bedroom. Emily has prepared everything for you.
Emily welcomed me warmly, showed me around, and explained the daily routine. For the first time in years I felt truly wanted.
That evening, the three of us sat on the veranda. James turned to me, his voice sincere.
Mum, Im sorry. I was selfish, only thinking about my career. I forgot that I have a mother who was always there for me, he confessed.
Its all right, love. The important thing is were together now, I replied.
He promised never to repeat his neglect. I looked at him, at Emily, at the house that was now also mine, and for the first time in a long while I felt happiness. My son had returned, not in the way Id imagined, but in a way that mattered. And that was enough.
