Everything I Have — Except You

Margaret Robertson stood sorting letters at our building’s post boxes when Elaine Johnson bustled over. “Margaret, look at these photos! Our new holiday home in Cornwall,” she waved her phone. “My son’s car – such an expensive Mercedes! And here’s my granddaughter playing piano at her music academy!”
“Very nice,” Margaret murmured, rifling through envelopes. “But I really must dash, Elaine.”
“Dash where? We’ve been neighbours for decades! Look,” Elaine pushed her phone closer. “This is us in Majorca last month. Five-star all-inclusive! When did you last have a proper holiday?”
Margaret sighed, turning to face her neighbour. A deep weariness flickered in her grey eyes. “I don’t take holidays, Elaine. No time.”
“No time? Your children are grown, you’re retired…”
“They are grown,” Margaret agreed softly. “But they live far away.”
“So? My son works in London, but we chat constantly! He visits every weekend! And his salary – crikey! Look,” Elaine fumbled with her phone again. “He bought me this new mink coat!”
Margaret climbed the stairs to her second-floor flat without another word, leaving Elaine and her photos behind.
The familiar silence of her two-bedroom flat greeted her. The place once cramped for a family of four now felt cavernously empty. African violets bloomed on the windowsill – the only living things besides herself in the house.
“My girls,” Margaret whispered, touching the petals. “At least you stay.”
She switched on the telly for background noise. News announced a state pension increase and new benefits. Margaret gave a wry smile – hers covered essentials, barely that.
The phone rang. Her heart leaped – Nicholas? Or perhaps Emily?
“Margaret Robertson?” an unfamiliar voice asked. “From the building management. There’s an outstanding balance on your service charges…”
“Balance? I always pay on time!”
“Our records show a missing payment last month…”
Margaret explained at length that payment was made, describing the receipt details, until the dial tone interrupted her.
Later, as dusk settled, she sat at the kitchen table with a cup of tea. Old film photographs lay spread out: Nicholas on his first day of school, serious behind a huge bouquet; Emily beaming in her graduation gown; a snapshot of all of them years ago at her mother-in-law’s cottage, her late husband smiling beside them.
“Where are you now, my dears?” she asked the images. “How did I end up alone?”
Morning brought Elaine again in the courtyard, laden with shopping bags.
“Margaret! Just the person! My granddaughter phoned yesterday – she got into university! Placements are fiercely competitive, and she got one. What a clever girl! My son’s promised her a new iPhone to celebrate!”
“Congratulations,” Margaret said.
“And how are things with you? How are your grandchildren?” Elaine’s question felt polite, perfunctory.
“I don’t have grandchildren,” Margaret replied quietly.
“How can that be? Your children?”
“I have children. Nicholas and Emily. They’re… very busy. Nicholas works in Germany, IT. Emily lives in America, married there…”
“Marvelous!” Elaine exclaimed. “So, everything’s splendid! Established abroad! You must be so proud!”
“I am,” Margaret agreed. “Very proud.”
“Well then! You seemed rather downcast. Money, I suppose? They send help?”
“They send money,” Margaret lied. “Of course they help.”
The truth was Nicholas last sent £50 for her birthday, six months ago. Emily never sent any – huge American mortgages and credit cards, she’d explained.
At home, Margaret sat at Nicholas’s old, abandoned computer. She opened Skype. Nicholas was online, status ‘Busy’. Emily hadn’t logged on for three weeks.
She typed: *Nicholas, my dear. How are you? Are you well? I miss you.*
The reply came hours later: *Hey Mum. All fine. Swamped. Message me on Telegram, I don’t use Skype anymore.*
Margaret didn’t know Telegram. She tried finding it, got confused in the settings, gave up.
She called Emily. No answer for ages, then:
“Mum? What is it?” Emily’s voice was thick with sleep. “It’s 1 AM here!”
“Sorry, darling. Forgot the time difference. Just wanted to hear your voice…”
“Can’t talk now. Big presentation tomorrow. We’ll chat this weekend, okay?”
“Okay,” Margaret said, but the line was dead.
The weekend passed. Emily didn’t call.
Margaret went to her local NHS clinic – her blood pressure was troublesome again. In the queue sat an old acquaintance, Valerie Steadman.
“Margaret! Long time! How are you?”
“Here for the doctor,” Margaret sighed. “Heart’s playing up. And you?”
“Couldn’t be better!” Valerie beamed. “My daughter just had a baby! Little Millie. I look after her every day while my daughter works. Pure joy, Margaret! Truly!”
“That sounds lovely,” Margaret said quietly. “True happiness.”
“And your two? Nicholas, Emily? I remember them as such sweet youngsters!”
“Good children,” Margaret affirmed. “Nicholas in Germany, IT. Emily married over in America.”
“Goodness!” Valerie exclaimed. “So you’re a grandma now?”
“No,” Margaret whispered. “Not yet.”
“Planning?”
“I don’t know. We rarely speak. They work such long hours…”
“Ah, understandable,” Valerie nodded. “Even so, parents should be kept in the loop. I ring my daughter daily, even at work. Five minutes is manageable, isn’t it?”
After the clinic, Margaret popped into Tesco. Basket: bread, milk, eggs, some veg. Bare necessities. The woman ahead at checkout had a trolley piled with meat, fish, fruit, sweets, children’s toys.
“Grandchildren visiting,” she told the cashier brightly. “Coming up from Brighton for the holidays. Must spoil them!”
At home, Margaret put her few things into the sparsely filled fridge. She put the kettle on. A calendar hung on the kitchen wall; she crossed off the day. One month until her birthday.
Last year, she’d sat alone then too, waiting for calls. Nicholas rang late, apologised – he was in a meeting. Emily sent a WhatsApp: *Happy Birthday Mum! Health and happiness!* And a cake emoji.
Margaret had baked herself a small cake, lit one candle, made a wish. A simple wish – for her children to visit. Even just one.
It hadn’t happened.
The phone rang. Margaret snatched it up.
“Yes?”
“Margaret Robertson? This is Olivia, from the Community Links charity. We support older people needing companionship…”
“Thank you, but I don’t require help,” Margaret said quickly. “I’m perfectly fine.”
“But perhaps just someone to talk to? Many find…”
“I said I’m fine!” Margaret repeated firmly, hanging up.
She sat for a long time after. Perhaps call them? Maybe people who’d understand?
No. What a thought! She had children. They were simply far away. And busy. That was life – young people building careers, living their lives.
She opened the photo box, choosing one: Nicholas around ten, Emily seven, all at London Zoo. They pointed at the elephant, laughing. Her and her husband stood beside them, glowing with happiness.
“Where did that time go?” she asked the photograph. “When you needed me?”
Outside, night fell. Margaret prepared dinner: scrambled eggs on toast, tea. She ate in the quiet, listening to sounds from surrounding flats – a child plinking piano scales upstairs, the murmur of a telly below.
Only silence here.
After dinner, she returned to the computer. Stared at the screen. Typed into search: *How to stay connected with children living abroad.* She read several articles; nothing new. The gist was always: *Give them space
Marion Prescott closed her eyes as weak sunlight filtered through the net curtains, tracing patterns on the worn lino, hearing only Charlotte’s bragging echo in the quiet room where her son’s old computer hummed uselessly in the corner, its screen dark like her phone which held no messages, no calls, only silence thicker than the dust gathering on Nicholas’s primary school photo frame. Soon the light shifted, lower now, glinting weakly on the framed picture of Anya and Nicholas at the London Zoo donkey rides long ago, catching the delicate purple edges of the faithful violets whose tender new tendrils stretched, silent and straining, towards the fading glow.