Alex dropped into his car after work, about to drive off, when his phone rang. The number was unfamiliar. Reluctantly, he hit answer.
“Hello. Who’s this?”
“It’s me… Hi,” said a woman’s voice, soft and uncertain.
“Me who?” Alex frowned. “Who am I speaking to?”
A pause. Then, barely audible:
“It’s me… your mum.”
Alex froze. His fingers tightened on the wheel, his pulse pounding in his ears.
“What kind of joke is this? My mother died twenty-nine years ago!”
“No… I’m Jane. I gave birth to you. Alex, it’s really me—”
He hung up. His heart hammered, his palms slick with sweat. It felt like someone had cracked 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 it,” he snapped. “I don’t have a mother. The woman who gave birth to me walked out when I was nine. After that, I was on my own.”
“Just five minutes. That’s all I’m asking. Please…”
“Why? So I can listen to more lies?”
“Just meet me. Once. I’ll explain everything.”
Alex didn’t want to. But he knew—she wouldn’t give up. She’d track down his address, show up at his door, unsettle his wife, frighten his daughters.
Two days later, they met in a quiet park on the outskirts of Manchester.
Jane Wilson sat hunched on a bench, frail and aged but still clinging to some fading elegance. Her hands trembled.
“Hello, love…”
“Alex,” he corrected coldly.
Her eyes lifted—full of regret.
“I know I failed you… but I had no choice—”
He said nothing. Visions of childhood flashed—her shouting, smashing plates, vanishing for nights with men while he waited alone.
“You left me with Auntie Claire. Said you’d be back in a month. Then you ran off to Spain with some bloke who promised you the world.”
“I thought he’d take care of us both… but he didn’t want a child. And I—”
“You chose him. Not me.”
A stifled sob.
“I’ve got no one left. My husband’s gone, his kids kicked me out. Nowhere to live. No money. Just… alone.”
“Feeling sorry for yourself?” He tilted his head slightly. “Who did I have to feel sorry for me at nine?”
“Forgive me… I didn’t know how to make it right. Kept waiting for you to reach out…”
“Not even a birthday card. Not once.”
Silence. Then, a whisper:
“You turned out good, though… you grew up strong.”
“I grew up because of the people you hated. Auntie Claire. My wife. My mates. Not because of you.”
She reached for his hand—he pulled away.
“I don’t blame you. But you’re nothing to me. Not even an enemy. Just… empty space.”
“I’m dying…” she whispered.
“Then you’d better find a priest. But not me.”
He stood and walked away without looking back.
For the first time in years, his chest felt light. The past had finally let go. And life—life went on.
