Margaret Thompson trudged up the creaky staircase to her fourth-floor flat in Buxton, a small mill town in northern England. Her arms ached from the heavy plastic grocery bags—sturdy enough for the fresh produce, cheese, and eggs she bought every other week. With her modest state pension, she never compromised on quality. After all, her decades in the textile mill had taught her to savor the good things, like the occasional tin of kippers she still bought for Matthew, her son, even though he hadn’t visited in fourteen months. Not since his wedding last summer, when he’d rushed off after the ceremony in London, muttering about a “last-minute client meeting.”
“Matty, luv,” she sighed to the empty living room, her voice echoing off the peeling floral wallpaper, “when will you stop letting your work bury your heart?” She fumbled for her mobile on the windowsill. The screen lit up with her usual message: “No service.” Matthew’s number had been disconnected twice in the past year. She slid it to sleep and poured herself a cup of tea, the steam curling as she peered out at the fog-draped rooftops. The old *Doctor Who* rerun on the telly couldn’t distract her from the gnawing loneliness.
In her youth, Margaret had raised Matthew alone after his father, a factory foreman, left when Matty was seven, citing “business pressures in Manchester.” She’d worked double shifts, saved every coin, and sent her boy to grammar school. He’d excelled—gold medal for A-Levels, a degree in business from City University, and a job with a high-powered consulting firm by twenty-four. He’d always visited weekly, brought her birthday cakes from Marks & Spencer, and planned to buy a house near her in Buxton, he’d said. But when he met Emily, a bright-eyed art historian from a well-to-do family in Wimbledon, the visits thinned. “Can’t skip meetings, Mams,” he’d shrugged on Christmas Eve. “My team’s counting on me.”
The next morning, a call came. Not from Matty, but Elizabeth—Elizabeth Johnson, the neighbor three doors down, always with a tray of crumpets or a listening ear. “Margaret, love, make a pot of tea and come over. I baked a Victoria sponge.” But Margaret declined, her chest feeling “off,” as if a heavy coat had settled in her ribs. She texted Matty instead: “Hi luv, just checking in. No need to reply if you’re busy. I made your favorite—egg salad sandwiches. Restaurants never get the mustard right.”
His response came hours later: “Mams, sorry—project deadline. Try to come over in spring?” Spring had arrived, and still the flat felt colder. One day, scrolling through Facebook, she saw a photo of Matty and Emily outside a red-brick mansion in Kingston. “New home! Family first!” the caption read. The ache in her heart was sharper than the weather.
When the phone rang again, she nearly dropped her teacup. “Mams, sorry I missed your calls! Just busy.” His voice was cheerful, but she could hear the muffled clatter of city life in the background. “Emily’s pregnant?” she asked, trying to hide how the news stung. “Oh—that’s amazing!” He paused long enough for her to wonder if he’d heard her. “Maybe you’ll meet the baby in June?” The line went dead.
Weeks turned into months. Margaret’s walks to the shop became shuffles to the gate, and the once-lively chats with Elizabeth grew brief. The council social worker, Julie, began coming by three times a week. “You should’ve called for this earlier, love,” Julie chided as she dusted the shelves. “And this is decent,” she added, holding up a picture of Matthew at age ten, wide grin and freckles, from the table. “Still, it’s a shame. Family can be so distant.”
It was Tanya, her childhood friend at the local clinic, who finally pried the truth out. “You’ve been alone in that flat for *years*?” Tanya hissed. “Go see him! Tell him you need more than a text on your birthday!” Margaret hesitated. She’d never wanted to seem like a burden.
The first frost of winter came, and with it, the ring of the telephone late one night. It was Matty—just a cheerful “Merry Christmas, Mams!” but no questions, no “How are *you*?” Tears soaked her woolen socks as she lit the tiny tree in the corner, the ornaments pried from her boy’s childhood. She called back, but it was one-sided: he was busy, busy, busy.
Then, early spring: a chest infection. The ambulance swerved into her driveway, blue lights flashing. “You need rest, nothing more,” the nurse said, but Margaret refused. If she left Buxton, who’d water the geraniums? Who’d listen to her stories about the 1962 Derby Day? The one time the mill had shut early?
Elizabeth began bringing soups and newspapers. “Call him, Margaret,” she insisted one day. “Even if it’s just to say—” But Margaret clutched the doorknob tighter. “He’s got his own life now, Elly. I’m not his responsibility.”
Then came Julie, with a form from the council for in-home assistance. “You’ll sign this, love,” she said gently. “So we can help you stay here.”
One evening, Julie asked, “Is there a child in your family, Mrs. Thompson?” Margaret stiffened. “My son?” she replied. “He’s in London. Busy.” Julie’s gaze lingered. “I had a cousin like that. She died alone. My aunt never forgave herself for not being there.”
That night, Margaret called Matty. His voice was strained, but he came. He arrived with a suitcase of groceries and a hushed “Mams, *why didn’t you tell me?*” She tried to smile through the tears. “You’re working on your future, love. I didn’t want to—” But he’d heard enough. “I’m staying here. I’m not leaving you.”
The days that followed were a whirlwind. Matty rearranged his apartment in Kingston, insisting she move in with him and Emily. “She’s lovely,” he assured her, even though Emily still called her “Aunt Margaret” nervously. “She adores you.”
The first morning in their home, Margaret marveled at the garden with its roses and wisteria. Emily brought tea and homemade scones. “You’ve taken up quite the hobby, birdwatching, I see,” she said, pointing to the feeder by the window. Margaret laughed. “I didn’t realize Matty mentioned that.”
Her son, sitting at the table, finally spoke up. “Mams, I’m so sorry. I was so busy building my empire I forgot you were the one who *built me*.” She squeezed his hand. “You came just in time, luv.”
And as the season turned to summer, Margaret sat on the garden bench, watching Matthew help Emily hang a swing for the baby—yet to arrive—and the first swallow of the year darted past, catching an insect in midair.