For the Sake of My Sick Daughter, I Drove All Those Miles, Only to Find No One Waiting and a Closed Door

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Author John SmithReading 2 minViews 4Published by March 24, 2026

Im sixty-eight now, my energys not quite what it used to be, and my health isnt up to much either. If I can help it, I rarely leave the boundaries of my little village, so I was very much looking forward to my children visiting.

There used to be a lovely tradition where everyone would gather at mine for Christmas and wed decorate a real tree together, but this December my daughter came down with a cold and declared there was simply no way she could come, even if she drove. She rang me up and said I could come to theirs (her, my son-in-law, and the grandchildren) if I fancied catching their germs. I said Id think it over.

Later, there I was, pondering why on earth I should sit alone at Christmasespecially while my only daughter was feeling under the weather. So, I went slightly mad and blew nearly my entire pension assembling bags of food, snapped up homemade jams from the neighbour, and a jar of local honey. Somehow, I made my way thereall the glamour of the rural transport system: first the bus to the station, then a train ride, followed by two more buses. I reached her place on the 23rd of December to lend a hand with preparations andof coursethe house was empty.

When I phoned my daughter, I was greeted by her bright and breezy (not at all ill) voice:

Oh Mum, you shouldve let us know you were coming! Weve gone off to spend Christmas with friends. I was fairly sure we agreed to do things separately this year…

The bit that stung the most was the fib. Id have been hurt enough that she didnt want to spend Christmas with me, but the lying, well, that was a proper kick in the teeth. There I was, fretting and bending over backwards…

So I had no choiceI turned around and headed back home.

Thats the way it goes with children, isnt it? Even when theyre grown, they find ways to pull the wool over your eyes. The main thing is theyre having a lovely timemeanwhile, the parents hardly get a second thought.

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For the Sake of My Sick Daughter, I Drove All Those Miles, Only to Find No One Waiting and a Closed Door

The Mother I Owe Nothing To Elena and Michael were busy planning their wedding. The day before the celebration, the bride’s mother, Anne Michaels, came to visit and meet her soon-to-be in-law. The encounter took place in the home of Michael’s mother–Lydia Peterson. Plans for the big day were discussed and they all shared a meal together. The next morning, Anne prepared to head home and Elena walked her to the door. “So, what do you think of Michael?” her mother asked. “He’s a good man,” Anne smiled, but then sighed deeply. “Mum, what’s wrong?” Elena asked, concerned. “My daughter, be very careful around his mother. There’s a lot you don’t know about her yet.” Those words soon proved true. When Elena found out her mother-in-law planned to move in with them after the wedding, she told her husband outright: “You’ll have to choose: me or your mother.” “I’m not choosing anyone,” Michael replied calmly. “Things stay as they are, and my mum can sort out her own problems.” “So, you’re not letting her move in?” “I’ve already told her.” “How did she react?” “She was upset. She called me ungrateful and said I’d regret it.” “Not surprising…” Lydia Peterson had retired early–after years as an airline stewardess. “Well, that’s enough work for me,” she’d declared, confident in her decent pension–far better than most people’s. But, soon enough, Lydia realised even her pension wasn’t enough for her lifestyle. The solution came naturally: pass the expenses onto her son. “I raised you, gave you an education. Now it’s your turn to pay your dues as my son,” she said when Michael was just 23. “From next month, you pay the rent and buy the groceries.” “Fine,” he replied. “But if I’m looking after our home, you don’t interfere in my life.” She agreed–and, to be fair, barely bothered him. Lydia wasn’t much interested in her son’s life. Grandparents had mostly raised Michael while she tried, unsuccessfully, to sort out her own. Years passed. Michael grew up and moved in with her at senior school. He spent five years paying the rent and feeding his mum, while Lydia enjoyed life and spent her pension on herself. When Lydia turned fifty, Michael brought his new wife home. “You’re so well-kept!” Elena said, awkward on meeting her mother-in-law for the first time. “You don’t look like you’ve retired at all.” When Lydia found the newlyweds wanted to live with her, she was thrilled: “That’s wonderful,” she said, thinking, “Now I won’t even have to cook.” Elena believed she was sincere, but Michael made it clear: “Mum simply never had the nerve to kick me out. For the past five years, I’ve paid for everything myself.” Anne Michaels’ visit quickly shattered those fragile illusions: “My dear, be careful. That woman lives only for herself. She’ll forget you exist the moment you’re inconvenient. Hold on to your husband–I like him. But you weren’t lucky with his mum.” Six months passed. Lydia Peterson fell in love. A man called Andrew started turning up more and more. Suddenly… “You’ve got two weeks to move out. I’m selling the flat and moving to York.” “Are you serious?” Michael asked, shocked. “Yes, I have every right. The flat is mine–my parents gave it to me.” “So you’re kicking us out?” “Yes. It’s all perfectly legal.” Michael silently put on his jacket and left. That evening, he and Elena were packing. They found a place with a work colleague looking for tenants. Within the month, Lydia had sold the flat and moved to York with Andrew. A few days later, Michael tried asking for a loan: “No, of course not. I’ve got other expenses planned,” his mum replied coldly. “Well, good luck then,” he said. “Good luck to you too,” she smiled. She didn’t even hug him goodbye. A year passed. Lydia called: she’d split up with Andrew, he’d taken all her money, and disappeared. She was alone, homeless. Immediately, she claimed: “I’ll be living with you now.” “No. Use the money you have left, get a mortgage.” “A mortgage? At my age, on my pension?” “Find a job. You’ll just have to manage like everyone else.” “So you won’t help me?” “I don’t owe you anything, Mum.” She burst out, “You’re so ungrateful! I raised you!” “I’m only following your example,” her son replied gently. Lydia crashed with friends for as long as her money lasted. Then–refusal after refusal. And eventually she turned up again at her son’s door. “Mum, you’re not sick, and you’re not old. Get a job, rent a room, look for something.” “You don’t feel sorry for me?” “No. You remind me of the grasshopper… who sang all summer.” Later, Lydia sorted herself out–not with a job, but another marriage. The very first man who came along. At least, now she had somewhere to live. But that’s another story entirely…