It was a cold winter evening when the phone rang in Margaret’s small cottage in the village of Ashford. Her voice trembled as she spoke.
“Michael, could you pop by the shops for me? The pavement’s icy, and I’m afraid I’ll slip…”
“Honestly, Mum?” Michael sighed irritably. “I’ve just finished work. Lena and I were hoping for a quiet evening.”
“I can’t manage on my own,” Margaret whispered.
“Mum, I’ve told you—just order online! Learn how, and you won’t have this trouble.”
“I don’t understand those things, love. Could you do it for me?”
A heavy pause hung between them.
“I’m driving now. Ask Emily.”
“I did. She said she’s busy.”
“Fine,” Michael muttered. “I’ll call back when I’m home, and you can tell me what you need.”
“Thank you,” Margaret said, brightening. But the hours passed, and no call came. She tried ringing him herself, but he didn’t pick up. In the end, her neighbour, young James, ordered the shopping for her. When the delivery arrived, Margaret unpacked the bags, her heart aching. Why had life been so cruel?
She’d been a good mother. Two children—Michael, the elder, and Emily, the younger. Their father had died when Michael was seventeen and Emily twelve. Since then, Margaret had raised them alone. She worked two jobs to keep food on the table. Her own mother and late husband’s mother had helped, but soon both were gone, and Margaret faced the world alone.
Fortunately, there had been the cottages. Her mother’s had gone to Michael—he was the eldest, studying at university. Even with a home of his own, he still relied on her, and she never hesitated to support him. When her father-in-law passed, his cottage went to Emily. Margaret paid for both their educations, denying herself everything, yet never once thought of reclaiming the properties. Everything she had was for them.
She had always been there for them—ferrying them to lessons, helping with homework, even hiring tutors for university. She lived for them, cutting her own needs to the bone. And she believed, in her old age, they would care for her in return. Not that she expected repayment for love—but a little kindness, a little gratitude—was that too much to ask?
She rarely asked for help, managing as best she could. When Michael’s son was born, she spent hours babysitting. When Emily travelled, she left her unruly spaniel, needing walks in all weathers. Margaret never complained. But with time, she saw the truth—her children took her for granted. Their care was nothing but empty words.
When she needed help redecorating, she asked them—just for advice. But Michael was too busy, and Emily brushed her off. When she fell ill, it was James who brought her medicine. Her children visited once, glancing around the hospital room before leaving after five minutes.
“Mum, you know I can’t stand hospitals,” Emily had grimaced.
“No one does, love,” Margaret had replied softly.
“You’re the one in bed, not me. Get well, and we’ll talk later.”
Michael, as always, hid behind his wife: “Lena’s exhausted—I need to help with the baby.” And with that, he left without even a hug.
That evening’s incident was the last straw. The frost had turned Ashford’s streets treacherous, and Margaret barely made it home. All she asked was for her children to order a few groceries—a small thing! But Michael never called back, and Emily dismissed her. Tears stung her eyes, and an emptiness settled in her heart.
Margaret wondered—when had she ever lived for herself? Only once came to mind. When Michael was small, before Emily was born, she’d been sent to a seaside resort in Cornwall. There were no mobiles then, and no one disturbed her. For one blissful week, she’d walked the cliffs, breathed in the salt air, and felt free. Her husband called once a day, complaining of his struggles, never considering that was her life every day. That week had been hers alone.
Now, the sea called to her again. Starting over at fifty wasn’t easy—but what kept her here? Her ungrateful children were grown. Did they need her? She needed them, too, but that only worked one way.
Money was the only question. She walked through her three-bedroom cottage in Ashford’s centre—inherited from her late husband’s family. Now it was hers alone. And she felt no guilt that her children wouldn’t inherit it. They’d already been given cottages by their grandparents. It was enough.
By morning, the idea no longer seemed mad—it filled her with fire. Through friends, she found an estate agent who quietly arranged the sale. No one needed to know.
One day, she called her children. Said it was urgent, and reluctantly, they came.
“Are you ill?” Michael frowned.
“No. Why would you think that?”
“Then why the rush?” Emily grumbled.
“There’s something I must tell you.”
They sighed, just as they had as children when summoned away from their games.
“Go on, Mum. Lena needs me back soon, by the way. Oh—we’re bringing the baby this weekend. Can you watch him?”
“No, Michael,” Margaret said calmly.
“Why not?” Emily snapped.
“I’m leaving.”
“Where?” they asked in unison.
“To the sea,” she said, a dreamy smile touching her lips. “I’ve bought a little house by the coast. I’m going to live there.”
“Mum, are you serious?” Michael laughed. “With what money?”
“I sold the cottage.”
“What?!” Emily exploded. “You didn’t think to ask us?”
“I would’ve, but you’re always too busy. You never have time for me.”
“How will you live there? Find work at your age?” Michael demanded.
“I’ll manage. The house is small, and there’s money left from the sale. It’s enough.”
They thought she was joking. But when they saw she wasn’t, the accusations flew.
“You’ll waste it all!”
“It’s mine,” she said firmly.
“We expected to inherit it!” Emily blurted.
“You won’t.”
“You’ll be so far away—we’ll never see you!”
“And when will you see me now? Only when you need something.”
They shouted, begged her to cancel the sale, promised to change. But Margaret didn’t listen. The sea was calling, and for the first time in decades, she felt alive. She wanted happiness—for herself. And the children? They’d manage. Perhaps one day they’d understand what they’d lost when their mother had been right beside them.