“Sorry, Mary. I Was Expecting Someone Else. Please Don’t Be Upset”: Linda Still Hopes Her Children Will Visit

Linda lives just across the street from me in a quaint little house with a white picket fence. We’ve been friends for as long as I can remember. Our bond is strong; she knows every detail of my life, and I know every detail of hers. Linda has three children: Michael, Sarah, and Emily. She raised them all by herself after her husband left when the kids were still very young. Linda never remarried; she poured all her love and energy into raising her children.

Her house is filled with memories of their childhood—framed photos on the walls, handmade crafts from school projects, and a well-worn rocking chair where she used to read them bedtime stories. Despite the distance that now separates them, Linda’s love for her children has never waned.

Michael lives in New York City, working as a financial analyst. Sarah moved to Los Angeles to pursue a career in acting, and Emily settled in Chicago, where she works as a nurse. They all have busy lives, filled with responsibilities and commitments that keep them from visiting their mother as often as they should.

Linda spends most of her days alone, tending to her garden or knitting by the window. She often talks about her children with a mix of pride and longing. “Michael just got promoted,” she’ll say with a smile, or “Sarah’s latest movie is coming out next month.” But there’s always a hint of sadness in her eyes, a silent wish that they would come home more often.

One Saturday afternoon, I decided to visit Linda with a freshly baked apple pie. As I walked up to her porch, I noticed she was already setting the table for tea. “Oh, Mary,” she said when she saw me, “I was expecting someone else. Please don’t be upset.”

I knew who she was expecting—her children. She had mentioned earlier in the week that Michael might be able to visit this weekend. But as the hours passed and the sun began to set, it became clear that he wasn’t coming.

We sat together on her porch, sipping tea and eating pie. Linda tried to hide her disappointment, but it was evident in the way she kept glancing at the road, hoping to see Michael’s car pull up.

“Do you think they’ll ever come back?” she asked me quietly.

I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to reassure her, to tell her that of course they would come back, that they loved her and missed her just as much as she missed them. But the truth was, I didn’t know if they would.

As the evening grew darker, Linda’s hope seemed to fade with the light. She sighed and stood up, gathering the empty cups and plates. “Well, maybe next time,” she said with a forced smile.

I helped her clean up and then walked back home, my heart heavy with sadness for my dear friend. Linda’s children had their own lives now, filled with their own joys and struggles. But in their absence, they had left behind a mother who still waited for them, who still hoped that one day they would come back to her.

Linda continues to wait, each day blending into the next with the same routine of gardening, knitting, and hoping. Her house remains a shrine to the family she once had, a testament to the love and sacrifice of a mother who gave everything for her children.

But as the years go by and the visits become even less frequent, it’s hard not to wonder if Linda’s hope will ever be fulfilled. For now, she remains alone in her little house across the street, waiting for the day when her children will finally come home.