Valentine sighed deeply as she adjusted the tablecloth, set for her son’s visit that would never come. “Seems he won’t be arriving,” she murmured, her voice thick with disappointment. “My husband and I have nearly accepted it, but the heart still aches.”
Her neighbor, stopping by for tea, raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t he promise?”
“He did,” Valentine replied. “Back in February, he said he’d take leave in spring to help us fix the roof—insisted he’d do it himself. But then… it all fell through again.”
Their son, forty-year-old Edward, had moved to London over a decade ago, chasing ambition. He started as a mechanic, worked his way up to foreman, servicing luxury cars. Married a city girl, bought a flat, renovated it.
“Did all the work himself,” Valentine recalled. “But she just hovered, nitpicking—’Not like that, not there.’ We never got on from the start. She took one look at me as if I’d come empty-handed.”
Her daughter-in-law was a woman of strong opinions. Rarely reached out, permitted Edward just one yearly visit home, strictly scheduled. This time, when the roof needed mending, he’d even booked tickets—until it crumbled again.
“She got pregnant,” Valentine said, bitterness creeping in. “And decided, ‘That’s it, he’s mine now.’ She’s a nurse, for heaven’s sake—hardly a child. Yet two weeks before the trip, she started—’You’d leave me alone?’ Her parents live across the street—they’d dote on her day and night!”
“But he promised,” the neighbor pressed.
“He wanted to come,” Valentine admitted. “Then suddenly it was, ‘Mum, I can’t. She’s upset, crying…'” She scoffed. “Afraid if she lets him go, he’ll bolt. Her older sister’s husband did—went home, then *snap*, divorced. Now her mother drills it into them: ‘Never let your husband wander. If he leaves, the family’s done.'”
“Rubbish,” the neighbor muttered. “Every marriage is different. Doesn’t your son have a say?”
“He tried. But fear won. Pregnancy, nerves… She cries, shouts—he folds. My husband rang her himself. She snapped, ‘Enough! Everything’s about you lot. Any holiday—off to the countryside! He’s got a family now. I won’t live in your crumbling cottage when we’ve our own place!'”
The neighbor gaped. “Good grief. And Edward?”
“He just said, ‘Dad, I can’t.’ That’s when my husband lost it. ‘Fine! We’ll hire builders. You can rot under her thumb.'”
Valentine exhaled. Her husband spoke little, but when he did, it meant years of silence had boiled over. Edward used to visit for holidays. Now—short calls, no warmth, always “can’t,” “work,” “we’ve plans.”
“She doesn’t realise,” Valentine whispered, “husbands come and go. Parents don’t. And when we’re gone… regret won’t mend what’s broken.”
