**Diary Entry**
My own daughter greeted me like a stranger. All I wanted was to hold my grandson…
*Mum, why did you come without warning?* Olivia snapped from the doorway, not even looking at me.
I set down the heavy bag filled with fresh vegetables from the garden, jars of pickled cucumbers, homemade jam, and a piece of smoked ham I’d cured myself. I’d hoped to bring a bit of comfort, to ease her burdens. Instead, irritation. No *hello*, no *how was the journey?* Just complaints.
The trip hadn’t been easy—four hours on the bus with a change in Northampton. My back ached, my legs throbbed, and my heart squeezed with unease. Seventy-one years old, no spring chicken. The children had grown, scattered—just me and my husband left in the village near Shrewsbury. We don’t complain, but time weighs heavy. I’d longed to see my grandson, so I finally made the trip. Thought they’d be happy. How wrong I was.
Our eldest, James, moved to America years ago. Three grandchildren there, but we only see them on video calls. Always too busy to visit. No matter how much we ask.
Our middle one, William, lives in Manchester. A family of his own now, work keeping him tied. He calls, but rarely. Too far, too expensive to visit.
Olivia, the youngest, was always our favourite. So much forgiven… After the divorce, she raised her boy alone. Stayed with us until she found work in the city. Then she took little Alfie and barely visited after. No calls, no letters, no invitations.
I thought of her often. How was she coping? How was Alfie? Missed them terribly. So I went. Just to see them, to hold him. My husband wanted to come too, but his blood pressure spiked—stayed home instead. I packed the bag, bought my ticket, and left.
*Mum, you could’ve at least called!* Still annoyed, looking at me like I was an inconvenience.
*Olivia love, my phone died on the way. I missed you… Worried about you both, missed Alfie,* I tried to explain.
*Couldn’t you wait until I called first? Why just turn up unannounced?*
The kitchen smelled of something unappetising. She darted around, tidying toys and her laptop. I stood in the hallway like a stranger and suddenly understood—I wasn’t wanted here.
Alfie came home—my grandson. I rushed to hug him, kissed his cheeks. He frowned, squirmed, pulled away. I asked about school, his friends. He scoffed and vanished into his room.
Dinner was one dry meatball each, a spoonful of mashed potatoes, and two slices of cucumber. Tight on money, then. I decided—I’d leave them a couple hundred pounds when I left. No harm in helping. Thought she’d be grateful.
But afterwards, she asked, *How long are you staying?*
*Well, I thought a week… Grandad’s poorly, could use the help. Then I’d go back.*
*I’ll get your return ticket tomorrow. You understand, work’s mad, I don’t have time.*
My heart twisted. Not a single evening together. Always busy, always on her phone. I sat at the kitchen table, remembering her as a little girl, pigtails bouncing, clutching her favourite teddy.
Then I overheard Alfie whisper, *Mum, when’s she leaving? She keeps asking dumb questions. It’s boring.*
Something inside me snapped. Quietly, I packed my things.
*Mum, where are you going?* she finally noticed.
*Home. Seems I came at the wrong time. I’ll sort 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. The bitterness. The way life turns out. Gave everything for the children. Everything. And now… now I’m just in the way.
Didn’t tell my husband the truth. Just smiled when I got back: *It was lovely. Olivia was so kind. Just missed you too much—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. Worse than anything.
