28December2025
I trudged up the narrow stairs to the fourth floor of the flat on Baker Street, the shopping bags weighing down my arms. I never skimp on groceries; after all, my pension is decent and Ive always insisted on buying proper food. I set the bags down on the kitchen table and began to unload: a loaf of wholegrain bread, a jug of milk, a block of cheddar, a dozen eggs, crisp carrots, shiny apples, and a tin of smoked salmon. I bought the salmon out of habithow could I not spoil my only son with his favourite treat? Yet Sam hasnt visited in two years, not even for my birthday.
Ah, Sam, I sighed, maybe youll pop over next weekend? I dialled the familiar number. The line rang on and on, then a mechanical voice announced the line was temporarily unavailable. I set the receiver on the sill, muttering, He must be busy. Ill try again this evening.
Evening came, but the phone remained silent. I turned on the telly to fill the empty hours; the latest drama flickered across the screen, but my thoughts kept drifting back to Sam.
Sam has always been my pride. I raised him alone after my husband walked out when he was seven. He was bright, determined, and left school with a gold medal before winning a place at Oxford to study economics. After graduating, he landed a graduate scheme at a major firm in the City and, for a while, visited me often, sharing stories of his work and making plans for the future.
Then everything changed. He met Emily, the daughter of a welloff family, and within six months they were married and moved to Manchester. At first Sam called every week and came by once a month. Over time the calls grew rarer, the visits even more so. The last time he was here was last Christmas.
I turned off the TV, brewed a pot of tea, and fetched my favourite shortbread. My heart felt unsettled. I understood that Sam has his own life, his own home and family, but I longed to hear his voice and see his face.
This morning the phone rang. I rushed to answer, hoping it was Sam, but it was my neighbour, MrsZoe Johnson.
Morning, Nad. Fancy a cuppa? Ive baked a Victoria sponge, she chirped.
Thanks, Zoe, but Im not feeling well. Maybe another time, I replied.
Zoe was kind, but I wasnt in the mood for chitchat. I decided to text Sam instead. Using the smartphone he gifted me for my 60th birthday, I typed: Sam, love, I called earlier. Any chance you could drop by? I miss you terribly. 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 went by and Sam never came. I told myself, Hes busy, thats life.
One afternoon, scrolling through Facebook, I saw a photograph of Sam standing in front of a brandnew terrace house, arminarm with Emily and their Labrador, Bailey. The caption read: Our new home! Dreams do come true. My chest tightened; he hadnt mentioned any of this to me.
I dialled him again. This time he answered almost immediately.
Hi Mum! How are you? his voice was bright.
I saw the pictures, congratulations on the house! Why didnt you tell me?
Oh, I completely forgot. Work and the move have been a whirlwind. Sorry.
I understand. When will you show me the place? Im longing to see it.
Honestly, Mum, Im swamped. Maybe you could come over sometime? Its a bit of a trek.
My dear, thats a long way for me. Im not sure how Id get there, I stammered.
He laughed, Well figure something out. Ive got to run, talk soon! and the line went dead. I stared at the silent screen, feeling foolish for dreaming of a cake for his return, then scolding myself, You old fool, he lives miles away.
The days dragged on. I shopped, watched telly, visited Zoe for tea now and then, but the ache of loneliness never left me. I stopped calling Sam so as not to burden him.
New Years approached, and I decided to treat myself. I bought a modest fir, a few new baubles, and all the trimmings for a proper festive feastroast chicken, cranberry sauce, a jamtart with apples. I dressed in my best dress, did my hair, even slipped on a touch of makeup, hopeful that Sam would ring to wish me a happy New Year.
As midnight neared, I perched at the table, phone in hand, waiting. The bells of Big Ben chimed twelve, the Prime Ministers speech filled the room, yet my handset stayed cold. I lingered until three in the morning, still waiting. At dawn a single message appeared: Happy New Year, Mum. Wishing you health and happiness. No question about my day, no invitation to join him.
I sat at the table, staring at the cold leftovers, wondering if I had become a stranger to my own son.
A week later I visited my old friend Patricia, a nurse at the local health centre. She greeted me with a warm hug in the corridor.
Nad, youve lost weight! Whats happened? she exclaimed.
Just getting older, I said with a faint smile.
What about Sam? I havent seen him lately.
Hes fine. Bought a house in the suburbs, works a lot. She stared at me, concern evident.
Youre living alone, Nad. Thats not healthy. Have you thought about moving in with him?
He never invites me. And where would I go with my ailments? Id just be a burden, I muttered.
Patricia shook her head. Youre his mother, not a burden! Come over to my flat for tea, I finish my shift at five.
That evening, after a pot of tea, I finally opened up about my loneliness, about how Sams silence cut deep.
He has his own life, but couldnt he spare a few minutes a month? Just a proper chat, not those rushed texts? Patricia asked.
Did I ever tell him? I admitted. I never wanted to seem demanding.
Patricias eyes softened. You have a right to his attention. If he doesnt see it, tell him plainly. Let him know youre hurting.
I thought about it all night. The next day I called Sam again, but there was no answer. I left a voicemail: Son, please call when you can. I need to talk. He returned the call the following morning.
Mum, whats wrong? Are you alright? he asked.
Im fine, just missed hearing your voice, I replied.
Can we speak later tonight?
Yes, call when youre free. I waited, but the night passed without his call, and the next day slipped by the same way. I decided not to pester him any further.
In early spring my health took a turn; my heart ached, my blood pressure spiked. An ambulance took me to the hospital, but I refused admission. Who would look after my flat? Who would water the plants? I feared that if Sam came, Id be absent.
MrsZoe, hearing about my condition, began dropping by daily with fresh bread, soup, or a mince pie. One day she suggested, Maybe you should let Sam know youre unwell?
No, Zoe. He already has enough on his plate. She persisted, But hes your son! He should know.
Ill tell him when Im better. I dont want him to feel obliged to drop everything, I replied.
Weeks passed. My condition ebbed and flowed. Sams calls became occasional, always brief. Then, one evening, there was a gentle knock at the door. I struggled to my feet, wondering who could be thereZoe usually rang first.
Opening the door, I found a young woman carrying a large tote.
Good afternoon, are you MrsPeterson? she asked.
Yes, and you are?
My name is Emma. Im a social care officer. Your neighbour called and said you might need some help.
I was taken aback; I hadnt asked for assistance. Emma entered, placed a folder on the kitchen table and said, Well arrange for three visits a weekhelp with shopping, checking your blood pressure, doing light chores. Its all free.
I didnt request this I began.
But your neighbour is worried. You live alone, youve had recent falls, Emma replied gently. I felt a wave of weakness and sank into a chair. Alright, I whispered. Thank you.
Emma proved efficient and kind, quickly taking over the errands I once managed alone. Over time I grew accustomed to her visits, even looked forward to them.
One afternoon, while we sipped tea, Emma asked, Do you have children?
Yes, a sonSam. He lives out of town, I answered.
Does he visit?
Rarely. Hes very busy with work and his family.
Does he know youre ill?
No. I dont want to bother him.
Emmas eyes softened. My own mother lived alone for years. My mother always regretted not telling me when she was ill. Maybe you should give Sam a call, tell him how you feel?
The words lingered. Id been hiding my condition for months, always insisting I was fine. At last I decided to call. Sam answered after a few rings.
Mum? Its late, is everything okay? he asked, sounding concerned.
I I wanted to talk, I said, my voice trembling.
Whats happened? he pressed.
Im ill, Sam. My heart Ive been dealing with it at home, with a social worker now, I admitted.
Why didnt you tell me? His tone shifted to reproach. You should have said something!
I didnt want to add to your worries. You have your own life, your responsibilities, I replied.
Youre not a burden, Mum. Ill come tomorrow, he declared.
I hesitated, fearing hed see me as a weight, but he was insistent. I hung up, heart pounding with a mix of hope and dread.
The next morning I rose early, tidied the flat as best I could, prepared a simple lunch, and waited. By early afternoon Sam arrived with two large duffel bags, his eyes bright with relief.
Mum! he exclaimed, pulling me into a hug that made tears spill down my cheeks.
Sammy, Im so glad youre here! I whispered.
He looked at me, noticing the pallor of my skin, the tiredness in my eyes. Why didnt you tell me you were sick? I could have been there sooner, he asked, his voice cracking.
I didnt want to trouble you, I said.
Youre my mother. Thats all that matters, he replied, taking my hands. Ive been selfish, thinking only of my career, my house. I should have been there for you.
We sat at the kitchen table for hours, Sam chatting about his new home, his plans, his love for Emily, while I simply listened, grateful to be in his presence.
Later, Emma arrived, surprised to see a man in the flat. Hello, you must be Sam, she said, extending her hand. Ive been caring for your mother.
Thank you for everything, Sam said sincerely. I didnt know she was unwell.
Emma nodded, She didnt want to worry you.
After Emma left, Sam turned to me. Mum, Im moving you in with us. Itll be easier for everyone, and you wont be alone.
My dear, I cant, I protested. You have your own life, your wife Emily
Emily will be delighted. Weve been meaning to ask you to move, but I kept waiting for the right moment. You wont be a burden. Youre my mother, and I want to look after you, just as youve always looked after me.
I hesitated, tears welling. If I stay, Ill be a pain
No, Sam said firmly. Youll be home.
The following days were a flurry of packing boxes, saying goodbye to neighbours, especially Zoe, who hugged me tightly. Thank you, Zoe. If it werent for you, Id still be stuck here, I whispered.
Im glad youll be with Sam now. Hes a good lad; he just got a bit caught up, she replied, smiling through her tears.
A week later, we drove to the new house in the suburbs of Manchester. The rooms were spacious, modern, with a garden that bloomed even in early spring. Sam opened a bright, cosy bedroom for me.
Emily greeted me warmly, showing me around, explaining the daily routine. I felt a genuine welcome, a sense that I finally belonged somewhere again.
That evening, the three of us sat on the back patio, the sun setting over the hedges. Sam turned to me, his eyes earnest.
Mum, Im sorry for the years I was distant. I was selfish, focused on my work, my plans. I forgot the most important person in my lifemy mother.
Its all right, Sam, I replied, a smile breaking through the tears. Were together now, and thats what matters.
He promised never to let me feel alone again. As I looked over the garden, the house, and my sons caring face, I finally felt a peace I hadnt known for years. The future felt bright, and for the first time in a long while, I was truly happy.
