“Better not come back!” — A mother’s tears in a forgotten village.*
In the desolate hamlet of Birchwood, where crumbling cottages sank beneath the snowdrifts, elderly Margaret and William passed their days in silence. Their children had long abandoned the family home, swallowed by the rush of city life. Their daughter, Eleanor, visited sometimes in summer with her granddaughter, but their son, James, hadn’t set foot in Birchwood in seven years. Two marriages, travels across the globe, a thriving business—his life was a whirlwind, yet there was no room in it for his parents.
Then, out of the blue, James called to say he’d visit after New Year’s. William wasted no time—he trudged to the nearest town for groceries, while Margaret cooked with trembling hands, pouring her heart into every dish. They waited for their son like they waited for spring after a bitter winter, longing for warm conversation and a helping hand around the home.
James arrived in a gleaming black Range Rover, as if stepping out of another world. He devoured his mother’s pies without a word of thanks before collapsing into sleep. Tiptoeing around him, his parents whispered in the kitchen like ghosts in their own house.
“Let him rest,” Margaret murmured. “Tomorrow we’ll talk properly—and maybe he’ll lend a hand.”
“Needs chopping firewood,” William added quietly. “The fence could do with mending, too. Too much for just me.”
Come morning, James lounged in bed, yawning over breakfast before retreating upstairs again. His parents stoked the fires to keep him warm, too afraid to disturb him. Finally, Margaret steeled herself and asked, “James, love, could you help your father?”
“I came to relax, not work,” he scoffed, barely looking at her. “Fancy firing up the sauna, though?”
Hunched and silent, the old couple hauled buckets for the sauna, bending to his whims. Later, William ventured, “Son, the shed’s in a state. Could use a tidy—good bit of exercise.”
“Didn’t come here to shovel filth!” James snapped, his words sharp as winter wind on bare skin.
At dinner, he bragged about his luxury flat, his smart gadgets, his pedigreed spaniel. Complained of his wife, his co-workers—never once asking how his parents fared in their crumbling cottage. After draining a bottle of fine Scotch, he turned mean. When he threatened to drive drunk to his sister’s, Margaret hid the keys, hands shaking. She wept all night, heart shattered by grief.
By morning, James acted as if nothing happened. While Margaret packed jars of preserves and fresh-baked treats, he wandered the snowy woods, breathing deep. Spotting the bundles, he shrugged. “Blimey, all this? Suppose I’ll bring gifts next time.”
“Better not come back!” Margaret’s voice cracked, tears streaking her lined face.
James didn’t even flinch. He climbed into his polished jeep and sped toward the city, leaving nothing but tire marks in the snow—and a hollow ache in his parents’ chests. Margaret and William watched in silence, knowing their son had been a stranger for years.
Do you keep close to your parents? Do you cherish their warmth while they’re still here?
