My own daughter greeted me like a stranger. All I wanted was to hug my grandson…
“Mum, why did you turn up without warning?” Emily shouted from the doorway, not even looking at me.
I set the heavy bag full of fresh vegetables from the garden, jars of homemade pickles, jam, and a piece of smoked ham I’d prepared myself down on the floor. I’d hoped to bring something nice, to ease her burdens. Instead, irritation. No “hello,” no “how was your journey”—just complaints.
The trip had been hard: four hours by coach with a change in Nottingham. My back ached, my legs throbbed, and my heart clenched with unease. At seventy-one, I’m no spring chicken anymore. The kids grew up, flew the nest, and now it’s just me and my husband in our little village near Chesterfield. We don’t complain much, but time takes its toll. I’d been longing to see my grandson, so I finally made the trip. I thought they’d be happy. But it wasn’t like that at all.
Our eldest, James, moved to Australia years ago. Three grandkids there, and we only ever see them on video calls. He never visits—always too busy. No matter how much we ask.
Our middle son, Tom, lives in Newcastle. He’s got his own family, his own job. He hasn’t forgotten us, but calls are rare. Too far, too expensive.
Emily, the youngest, was always our favourite. She got away with everything. After her divorce, she was left with just her little boy. At first, she stayed with us until she found work in Manchester. Then she took Alfie and barely visited after that. No calls, no messages, no invitations.
I thought about her often. How was she? How was Alfie? I missed them terribly. So I decided—I’d go. Just to see them, to hold him. My husband wanted to come too, but his blood pressure spiked, so he stayed home. I packed my bag, bought a ticket, and left.
“Mum, you could’ve at least called!” she said again, scowling at me like I was an inconvenience.
“Emily, my phone died on the way. I was worried… I missed you, I missed Alfie,” I tried to explain.
“You could’ve waited for me to call first. Why just show up?”
The kitchen smelled of something unappetising. Emily rushed around the flat, grabbing toys and her laptop. I stood in the hallway like an outsider and suddenly realised—I wasn’t welcome here.
Then Alfie came home. I rushed to hug him, kissed his cheeks. But he frowned, squirmed, pulled away. I asked about school, about his friends—he just scoffed and went to his room.
At dinner, Emily served one small portion of mash, a single sausage, and two slices of cucumber. I knew then—money was tight. I decided I’d leave them a hundred quid before I went. No harm in that. Thought she’d appreciate it.
But after the meal, she said, “How long are you staying?”
“I thought maybe a week… Grandad’s poorly, could do with some help. Then I’d head back.”
“Well, I’ll get you a ticket for tomorrow. You understand, work’s mad, no spare time.”
It stung. Not one evening with me. Always something—meetings, calls, never putting that phone down. And there I was, sitting at the kitchen table, remembering her as a little girl with plaits and her favourite teddy.
Then I heard Alfie whisper to her, “Mum, when’s she leaving? She’s boring, asks stupid stuff. I’m fed up.”
Something inside me snapped. I stood quietly, packed my things.
“Mum, where are you going?” Emily finally noticed.
“Home. Seems I came at the wrong time. I’ll change the ticket myself. Sorry for the trouble.”
At the station, the evening trains were full. Had to wait till morning. I sat in the waiting room all night. Didn’t sleep—just cried. From the hurt. From the loneliness. From how life turns out. We gave everything for our children. Everything. And now… now we’re strangers. A nuisance in their world.
I didn’t tell my husband. When I got back, I just smiled and said, “It was lovely. Emily was so kind. Just missed you—that’s why I came home early.”
Now I know—let them go. Don’t wait. Don’t hope. Don’t interfere. And don’t fool yourself. Otherwise, it’ll hurt. Badly.