Edward gripped the steering wheel as he prepared to leave work, when suddenly his phone rang. An unknown number. Reluctantly, he tapped the green button.
“Hello. Who is this?”
“It’s me… Hi,” came an unfamiliar woman’s voice.
“Who is ‘me’?” Edward tensed. “Identify yourself!”
A pause. Then, barely above a whisper:
“It’s me… your mother.”
Edward froze. His fingers clenched the wheel, his heartbeat quickening.
“What kind of joke is this? My mother died twenty-nine years ago!”
“No… I’m Margaret. I gave birth to you. Edward, it’s really me…”
He slammed the phone down. His pulse pounded; his palms were damp. It felt as though someone had pried open a door to a dark, buried past he’d spent years trying to forget.
Minutes later, the phone rang again. Same number.
“I don’t want to hear from you,” he said coldly. “I have no mother. The woman who bore me walked out when I was nine. I’ve been an orphan ever since.”
“I’m only asking for five minutes. Please…”
“Why? To listen to more lies?”
“Just meet me. Once. I’ll explain everything.”
Edward didn’t want to. But he knew—she wouldn’t stop. She’d track down his address, show up at his door, frighten his wife, disturb his daughters.
Two days later, they met in a quiet park on the outskirts of Manchester.
Margaret Wright sat hunched on a bench, aged and frail, though traces of her former beauty lingered. Her hands trembled.
“Hello, Eddie…”
“Edward,” he corrected sharply.
She looked up—despair in her eyes.
“I know I failed you… but I had no choice…”
He said nothing. Memories flashed—her screaming, hurling dishes, leaving him alone for nights on end.
“You dumped me with Aunt Claire. Said, ‘I’ll be back in a month.’ Then you ran off to France with some businessman.”
“I thought he’d help us both… but he refused to take you. And I…”
“You chose him. Not me.”
A choked sob escaped her.
“I’ve got no one left. My husband’s dead; his children threw me out. Nowhere to live. Nothing to eat. I’m completely alone.”
“Feeling sorry for yourself?” He tilted his head slightly. “Who did I have to pity me at nine?”
“Forgive me… I didn’t know how to ask. I kept waiting for you to reach out…”
“You never even sent a letter. Not once.”
Silence. Then, barely audible:
“But you turned out good… You grew up strong.”
“I grew up because of the people you despised. Aunt Claire. My wife. My friends. Not because of you.”
She reached for his hand—he pulled away.
“I don’t hate you. But you’re nothing to me. Not even an enemy. Just empty space.”
“I’m dying…” she whispered.
“Then you’d better confess. But not to me.”
He stood and walked away, never looking back.
For the first time in years, his chest felt light. The past had finally let go. And life—went on.
