At the Son’s Doorstep… for a Visit…

April 12

I received a call from Alex today, my only son, and his tone was brisk. He told me there was no point in making the journey now. Mum, think about it, he said, the rail night is long, youre not as spry as you used to be, and the garden will need your attention this spring. He tried to reassure me that the Easter holidays would give us plenty of time later, promising that the whole family would come over for a proper visit.

Honestly, I had already packed my bag and was ready to set off, but I let his words calm me down and stayed at home, waiting for him to arrive. The promised train never pulled into the station. I rang Alex repeatedly, only to hear the line click. When he finally called back, he told me he was swamped with work and that I shouldnt keep waiting.

The disappointment settled deep. I had been preparing for Alex and his new wife, Eleanor, to arrive. They had been married for six months, yet I had never laid eyes on my daughterinlaw. I had raised Alex on my own; I was thirty when I finally became a mother, having never married. It wasnt a decision I ever regretted, though the early years were a scrambleno money, a handful of odd jobs, and a fierce resolve to give my child everything he needed.

Alex grew up, earned a scholarship, and moved to London for university. To support him in those first months I took menial work in the north of England and sent him money to cover his tuition and rent. When he reached his third year he found a parttime job, and after graduating he secured a fulltime position that paid his own way. He would visit home, but only once a year, and I had never set foot in London myself.

When Alex announced he was getting married, I started saving what little I could. I tucked away £1,500, hoping to use it for his wedding. Six months ago he called with the news: Im getting married. I was thrilled, but he cautioned me not to travel yet, saying they would only have a civil ceremony now and a proper wedding later.

I tried not to let it hurt, but the thought of meeting Eleanor kept gnawing at me. I bought a train ticket, packed homemade bread, a jar of marmalade, potatoes, beetroot, eggs, dried apples, pickled mushrooms, cucumbers, tomatoes, and a few tins of jam. Before I boarded, Alex sent a short text: Mum, youre being a bit much. Im at work all day, cant meet you. Heres the addresstake a taxi.

I arrived in London early in the morning, called a black cab and was taken aback by the fare, but the city glistened through the windows and I tried to enjoy the view. Eleanor opened the door, gave me a curt nod, and ushered me straight to the kitchen without a smile or a hug. Alex was already gone, off to work.

I laid out my baskets, spreading out the fresh produce and jars. Eleanor watched in silence, then remarked that none of this would be eaten; they relied on daily deliveries and she didnt like cooking because the kitchen smells for ages after. I was stunned. A little boy, about three and a half, toddled in. This is my son, Daniel, Eleanor said. I misheard and corrected, Danilo? She snapped, Its Daniel, not Danilo. Dont twist names. I tried to be polite, calling her Ellie, but she insisted on Eleanor, and warned me not to get names wrong.

A lump formed in my throatnot because Alex had married a woman with a child, but because he had never mentioned any of this to me. On the wall hung a large wedding portrait, smiling faces of Alex and Eleanor surrounded by a hundred guests. The wedding wasnt held? I asked, hoping to change the subject. There was one for two hundred people, she replied. You were sick, Alex told me. I could feel the sting of being excluded.

She offered me a cup of tea and a few slices of expensive cheese, calling it breakfast. I was used to a hearty morning meal after a long journey, so I tried to fry some eggs and toast the homemade bread Id brought. Eleanor flatout banned me from cooking, saying the smell would linger, and she refused the bread, insisting they were on a healthy diet. I felt my patience fraying; the money I had saved, the hopes Id nurtured, all seemed wasted.

When my tea finally cooled, Eleanor remained silent. The little boy clung to my leg, wanting a hug. Eleanor waved her hands, forbidding it, saying she didnt know what I was bringing into their home. I offered him a jar of raspberry jam, hoping for a small kindness, but she snatched it away, shouting, Were on a strict dietno sugar! I felt tears well up as I left the kitchen, my tea unfinished, and slipped out into the hallway. No one asked where I was going.

Outside, I sat on a bench by the station, letting the tears flow. It was the most heartbreaking moment of my life. After a while, Eleanor emerged with the boy, tossed the remaining jars into a bin, and walked away without a word. I packed my things back into the bags, bought a lastminute ticket for the evening, and headed to a nearby café. I ordered a bowl of beef stew, a piece of roast, chips, and a side salad, paying a fair sumafter all, I deserved a decent meal.

I stored my remaining luggage in a locker and spent a few hours wandering the streets of London, letting the citys bustle lift my spirits briefly. The train ride home was sleepless; I wept, feeling abandoned by the son who never called to ask where I was.

Now I sit with the £1,500 I set aside for Alexs wedding. Do I give it to him, to show that Ive always cared? Or do I keep it, because he has proved himself ungrateful? The lesson Im learning is that love should never be conditional on what is given back. I must value my own dignity first, and let go of expectations that only bring sorrow.