25December2025
I came back from the supermarket, lungs burning as I trudged up the stairs to my flat on the fourth floor. The bags were heavy, but I never skimp on food my pension, though modest, is enough to keep the pantry wellstocked. Ive always insisted on buying good, fresh produce.
The flat was quiet and cool. I set the sacks down on the kitchen table and began unloading: a loaf of wholegrain bread, a jug of milk, a block of cheddar, a dozen eggs, carrots, apples, and a tin of smoked salmon roe a little indulgence for my only son, Stephen. He hasnt visited in two years, not even for my birthday.
Ah, Stephen, I sighed, maybe youll pop round next weekend?
I dialed the familiar number. After a long series of rings, a robotic voice told me the line was temporarily unavailable. I put the handset on the windowsill.
Must be busy, I muttered. Ill try again this evening.
Evening came, but Stephens phone stayed silent. I flicked on the telly to fill the empty hours; a new drama flickered across the screen, but my thoughts kept drifting back to my boy.
Stephen had always been my pride. I raised him alone after my husband left when he was just seven. He grew up sharp and determined, graduated top of his class, then earned a place at the prestigious London School of Economics. After university he landed a junior analyst role at a major firm, and I beamed at every achievement he shared with me.
Then everything changed. He met Emily, a lovely girl from a welloff family, and six months later they were married and moved to Manchester. At first Stephen called every week and visited once a month, but the calls grew less frequent, the visits rarer. The last time I saw him was at Christmas two years ago.
I switched off the telly, brewed a pot of tea, and reached for my favourite biscuits. My heart was uneasy. I knew Stephen had his own life, his work, his family, but I longed to hear his voice, to see his face.
The next morning the phone rang. I lunged for it, hoping it was Stephen, but it was my neighbour, Mrs. Gladys Harper.
Morning, Dorothy, she said cheerfully. Fancy a cuppa? Ive baked a Victoria sponge.
Thanks, Gladys, but Im not feeling well today. Maybe another time?
She insisted, Take care, love. If you need anything, just give me a bell.
I hung up, feeling a little relieved to avoid small talk. I decided to send Stephen a message. With the smartphone hed gifted me for my sixtieth birthday, I typed: Stephen, love you. Called earlier but didnt get an answer. Any chance you could stop 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.
The next month passed and Stephen still didnt appear. I told myself not to bother him he had his own life, after all.
One idle afternoon, scrolling through my Facebook feed, I saw a picture of Stephen standing in front of a brandnew house, handinhand with Emily and a golden retriever. The caption read: Our new home! Dreams do come true! My chest tightened. Hed bought a house without even telling me!
I dialled his number again. This time he answered almost immediately.
Mum, hi! How are you? his voice sounded bright.
I saw the pictures, dear. Congratulations on the house! Why didnt you say something?
Oh, Mum, I completely forgot. Everythings been a whirlwind work, the move. Sorry.
I understand. When will you show me the new place? Im eager to see it.
Im not sure, Mum. Things are hectic maybe you could come over sometime?
My dear, thats a long way away I dont even know how to get there, I stammered.
He laughed, Well sort it later. Ive got to run now. Lets chat soon. The line went dead before I could reply. I stared at the silent screen, feeling foolish for thinking I could still surprise him with a freshbaked cake.
Days slipped by. I kept to my routine: shopping, watching the telly, the occasional tea with Gladys. Loneliness lingered, but I stopped calling Stephen so as not to intrude.
As New Years approached I decided to treat myself. I bought a modest fir tree, a few ornaments, and all the trimmings for a proper feast. Perhaps Stephen would ring to wish me happy New Year.
On 31December I prepared a spread: salad, roast chicken, apple crumble all Stephens favourites. Dressed in my best dress, I arranged the table, hoping the phone would ring as the clock struck twelve. The chimes from Big Ben echoed across the city, the Prime Ministers address played on the news, yet my phone remained mute.
I sat there until three in the morning, still waiting. At dawn a single message appeared: Happy New Year, Mum. Wishing you health and happiness. No other words, no inquiry about my day.
I stared at the cold leftovers, wondering if I was becoming a stranger to him.
A week later I visited my old friend Olivia at the local health centre, where she worked as a nurse.
Dorothy, youve lost weight! Whats happened? she exclaimed, hugging me.
Just getting on a few years older, I said with a smile.
What about Stephen? she asked.
Hes fine, bought a house in the suburbs, works a lot, I replied.
Does he visit? she pressed.
Rarely. Hes very busy.
Olivia looked concerned. Youre living alone, Dorothy. Thats not good. Have you thought about moving in with him?
He never invites me, I whispered. And with my ailments, Id just be a burden.
Nonsense! Youre his mother, not a burden. Come over for tea, my shift ends soon, she offered.
That evening, over tea at Olivias cosy kitchen, I finally opened up about my loneliness and the ache of his neglect.
Stephens life is his own, but cant he find a moment for his mother? A simple call each month would mean the world, Olivia said gently.
Have you told him how you feel? she asked.
Im afraid hell think Im demanding, I confessed.
Dorothy, hes your son. You have the right to his attention. If he doesnt see it, remind him, Olivia advised. Just pick up the phone and say you need a serious talk.
I lingered on her words. Perhaps she was right.
Back home, I dialled Stephen again. He didnt answer, so I left a voice note: Son, please call when you can. I need to speak with you. He rang me back the next day.
Hey Mum, whats wrong? Are you okay? he asked.
Just wanted to hear your voice, I replied. Could we talk this evening?
Im at work. Maybe later? he said.
He never called that night, nor the next, nor the one after. I decided not to pester him further.
Early spring found me feeling ill my heart thumped fast, blood pressure rose. I called an ambulance; the paramedics gave me a shot and suggested a hospital stay, but I refused. Who would look after the flat? Who would water the plants? And what if Stephen arrived only to find an empty home?
Gladys visited daily, bringing fresh bread, soup, and minced meat pies.
Dorothy, maybe you should tell Stephen youre unwell? she suggested one afternoon.
No, Gladys. He already has enough on his plate, I replied.
But hes your son! she insisted.
Ill tell him when Im better, I promised.
Weeks turned into months. Stephens calls were brief, always about his work. One night, a knock sounded at the door. I struggled to rise from the sofa, wondering who could be here Gladys usually called first.
Opening the door, a young woman with a tote bag stood there.
Good evening, are you Dorothy Thompson? she asked.
Yes, and who are you?
Im Sarah, a socialcare officer. Your neighbour called and said you might need help, she explained, stepping inside.
I was taken aback; I hadnt asked for assistance. She placed a folder on the kitchen table.
Youll need to sign a careagreement. Ill visit three times a week, help with chores, shop for you, monitor your blood pressure. Its all free, she said.
I didnt request this, I protested weakly, feeling a wave of dizziness and sinking onto a chair.
Your neighbour is very worried about you. She mentioned you live alone and have health issues, Sarah continued.
Reluctantly, I agreed. Over the following weeks, Sarah proved efficient and kind, handling household tasks with a gentle smile. I even began to look forward to her visits.
One afternoon, while sharing tea, Sarah asked, Do you have children?
My son, Stephen, I answered.
He visits rarely? she inquired.
Yes, hes busy with work and his family.
Does he know youre ill? Sarah pressed.
No. I dont want to worry him, I admitted.
She sighed, My own grandmother lived alone for years. Her daughter never visited, and she regretted it deeply. Perhaps you should let Stephen know how you feel?
Her words lingered. I had hidden my condition from him, always saying I was fine when he called. Finally, I decided to be honest.
I dialled Stephens number, took a breath, and waited for him to answer.
Mum? Its late, is everything alright? he asked, surprised.
I I wanted to talk, my voice trembled.
Whats happening? he sounded concerned.
Ive been ill for a while my heart, I confessed.
Why didnt you say something? his tone held a hint of reproach. You should have told me.
I didnt want to add to your stress. You have your own life, I replied.
Im coming tomorrow, he said firmly. Ill be there.
I tried to stop him. No need, I can manage. But his determination was clear.
The next morning I rose early, tidied the flat as best I could, and prepared a simple lunch, hoping to greet him properly.
Stephen arrived in the early afternoon, carrying two large shopping bags. He embraced me, and tears welled in my eyes.
Stephen, Im so glad youre here, I whispered.
He looked me over, noticing my pallor and the faint lines around my eyes.
Mum, why didnt you tell me you were unwell? he asked, his voice softening.
I didnt want to burden you, I said.
Youre my mother, not a burden, he replied, gripping my hands. Ive been selfish, thinking only of my career. Ive missed you.
We sat at the kitchen table for hours, talking. He spoke of his job, the new house, his plans. I listened, grateful just to have him near.
Later, Sarah stopped by, surprised to see Stephen there.
Hello, Stephen, she greeted. Im Sarah, the care worker. I didnt know youd be visiting.
Thank you for looking after my mum, he said. I wasnt aware she was ill.
Sarah nodded, She kept it from you.
After Sarah left, Stephen turned to me. Mum, Im taking you to live with us, he declared.
What? I cant, I protested. You have your own life, Emily
Emily will be delighted. Weve talked about it for ages, but I kept putting it off, thinking youd rather stay here, he said. Youll never be a bother. Youre my mother, and Ill care for you as you cared for me.
What if I refuse? I asked, tears streaming.
Then Ill move closer, work from home, but I wont leave you alone again, he promised.
I looked at him, at the love in his eyes, and whispered, Alright, Ill go with you.
He embraced me tightly. Thank you, Mum. I promise youll be well.
The following days were a blur of packing boxes, saying goodbye to neighbours, especially Gladys, who hugged me tightly, Take care, Dorothy. Youll be happier with Stephen.
I thanked her, If it werent for you, Id still be sitting here alone.
Weeks later, Stephens new house in the suburbs welcomed me. He showed me a bright, airy bedroom, the garden blooming with roses, and a warm, inviting sitting room.
Emily greeted me with a smile, Welcome, Dorothy. Were delighted youre here.
That evening, the three of us sat on the porch, sipping tea. Stephen confessed, I was selfish, Mum. I let work swallow me, forgetting the person who raised me. Im sorry.
Its all in the past now, I replied, feeling a peace I hadnt known in years. What matters is were together.
Looking at the stars twinkling above, I realized that lifes twists can bring us back to where we belong, even if the path is winding. I learned that never assuming a loved ones silence means indifference, and that speaking up, however difficult, can restore what was lost. This diary entry reminds me: cherish the moments, reach out, and never let pride keep you apart from those who matter.
