He Was Ashamed of Us: How My Son Forgot Who Raised Him
In the pristine white kitchen of his flawless flat, perched high on the eleventh floor with sweeping views of the city, Nigel sipped his aromatic coffee from an elegant porcelain cup. His crisply ironed suit, neatly combed hair, and composed expression spoke of a man accustomed to a life of refinement—one without disruptions or reminders of the past. Then, the doorbell rang. He frowned. Inconvenient. Setting the cup down on the marble countertop, he strode reluctantly to the door.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me, son… your mum.”
He froze. Beyond the threshold, hunched against the cold, stood a woman in a worn-out coat, a scarf wrapped over her knitted hat. In her hands, she clutched a bulky sack—jars of preserves, cured bacon, honey, all secured with fraying cloth. Beneath her hem, cracked winter boots peeked out. Her lips trembled, not so much from the chill as from unease.
“Mum? Why didn’t you call?” he muttered through clenched teeth, glancing warily down the hallway, praying none of the neighbours spotted her.
“Darling, your number wasn’t working. I had to come—there’s trouble at home. We need you.”
Sighing, he stepped aside, ushering her into the hallway. Gripping her elbow, he hurried her inside and shut the door. His eyes darted—where could he hide her?
Nigel had long settled in London. Graduating with top honours, he’d swiftly joined a prestigious firm. Ambition, luck, and connections had propelled his career skyward. His parents, still in their modest village near Salisbury, rarely saw him. He called sparingly—Christmas, perhaps Easter. His roots were something to conceal, never to boast of.
“What’s happened, Mum?” he asked coolly as she fumbled with her mittens.
“Your cousin, little Alfie, has taken ill. Your Uncle Robert and Aunt Margaret can barely manage—their second babe’s just arrived, and Margaret can’t work. Robert sent you money every month when you were at university… Son, could you spare a little? They’re struggling.”
Before he could reply, the doorbell chimed again. He spun sharply.
“Stay quiet!” he hissed. “Don’t come out. For God’s sake, don’t let anyone see you!”
He shut the bedroom door, then hurried to greet his guest—his colleague, Simon, stood on the doorstep.
“Nigel, the concierge mentioned your mum’s here?” Simon squinted. “I thought you said your parents died tragically in Greece?”
“Ah—must’ve been a mix-up. Some daft old woman turned up at the wrong flat. Sorted it now,” Nigel dismissed him with a wave. “Listen, could you run to the shop? I’ve got Penelope coming—the boss’s daughter. Need to impress her. This could be serious.”
With a wink, he nudged Simon out. Returning, he cast a glance toward the bedroom. There, perched on the edge of the bed, sat his mother. Her eyes—glassy. She had heard everything.
“Son… did you really tell them we were… dead?” Her voice shook. “Why lie? Where did you learn such shame?”
He grimaced.
“Mum, enough. How much do they need?”
“Forty…” she whispered.
“Thousand pounds?”
“Goodness, no! Just regular pounds…”
“You ruined my evening over this?” He thrust a wad of notes at her. “Here’s fifty. Don’t turn up like this again. Please. I’ve a different life now. We’re different people.”
He booked her a taxi, arranged a dingy inn room near the station, and bought her return ticket. He bid her farewell without meeting her eyes.
Late that night, he and Penelope entered the bedroom. She settled on the bed, scanning the room, then frowned at the sack in the corner.
“What’s this rubbish? Nigel, what’s that stench?”
“The cleaner—always leaving her junk about. I’ll dock her wages this month,” he said airily, turning away.
Meanwhile, in the rattling carriage of a third-class train, his mother journeyed home. She stared out at the blur of passing streetlamps, swallowing tears. One question haunted her: where had she and his father gone wrong? When had they lost him—so much so that he now despised their scent, their hands, their very lives?
And why had the love they’d poured into him turned to such heartache?
