Margaret Whitaker stood in front of the peeling door of the block of flats, clutching an envelope in her trembling hands. The nine-storey building in the quiet suburbs of a small town, let’s say Southampton, felt alien, like something from another world. But somewhere inside, on the fourth floor, lived her son. Thirty years ago, she had left him—just a little boy with a messy fringe. Now he was thirty-five…
“Ridiculous,” she whispered, staring at the dim windows. “Pathetic, really.”
A couple of elderly women sat on the bench outside, gossiping away. One of them called out, “Who are you here to see, love?”
“To… to James. James Whitaker,” Margaret’s voice wavered. Saying her son’s name out loud felt like an echo from the past.
“Oh, Jamie!” the old woman brightened. “Such a lovely lad. Always polite, says hello to everyone. You’re family?”
Margaret didn’t answer, hurrying inside. What was she even to him? A mother who hadn’t seen him in three decades? A stranger with the same last name? In the lift, she pulled out a compact mirror—grey in her hair, lines around her eyes. At fifty-six, time couldn’t be hidden under makeup. Did he remember her face? Or was she just a blur in his memory now?
Fourth floor. Flat on the left. He was probably married—at his age, of course he would be. She raised her hand to ring the bell, but her fingers betrayed her, shaking too much. She stood there—one minute, two, five—before backing away. Unable to go through with it, she went back downstairs and dropped the envelope in the postbox instead.
*”James. I know I’ve no right to ask. But let me explain. Mum. Call me, here’s my number…”*
Mum. Such a strange word when you hadn’t said it in thirty years. She returned to her car and sat there until evening, watching the entrance. Then a tall man with a briefcase walked out—the spitting image of his father. That was him. And there, a young woman with shopping bags—probably his wife. They laughed about something, chatting away. A normal family, a normal evening. Had he read her letter? Would he call?
Her phone rang just as she was about to leave. It was Robert, her ex-husband.
“Why did you come?” His voice was tired, cold.
“Robert…”
“Don’t. Just tell me—why?”
“I want to see my son,” she choked out.
He scoffed, and the sound was pure bitterness.
“Your son? Thirty years, Margaret. Thirty years, and now suddenly you’ve changed your mind?”
“You don’t understand—”
“No, *you* don’t,” his voice dropped, sharper now. “Where were you when he was sick? When kids bullied him at school? When he got into uni? Where the hell were you all those years?”
She had no answer.
“He rang me. Said he threw your letter away,” Robert added. “Go home, Margaret. You’re thirty years too late.”
The dial tone cut through her. She sat there, staring at the darkened windows, remembering little Jamie calling for her at night. How she’d rock him, humming lullabies… Why had she left? Why hadn’t she fought for him?
The next day, she followed Robert to his office. He hadn’t changed—same straight posture, same sharp gaze. Just greyer at the temples.
“I told you to leave,” he snapped when he saw her.
“Robert, please. Just let me talk to him—explain—”
“Explain what?” His face twisted. “How you ran off with another man? How you built a new life? How you forgot about us?”
“I never forgot!” Tears spilled over. “I thought about him every day!”
“Thought?” He laughed bitterly. “I *raised* him. Alone. Sat up all night when he was ill. Taught him how to ride a bike. How to be a man. You? You just *thought*.”
She looked down. The office was silent except for the ticking clock.
“Know what he used to ask me as a kid?” Robert’s voice was almost a whisper now. *”Dad, why doesn’t Mum love me?”* What was I supposed to say?”
“I *loved* him! I still do!”
“No, Margaret. You loved yourself. Your freedom. Your dreams. Not him.”
She stumbled out of the building, barely steady on her feet. In the car, her hands shook too much to turn the key. All she could see was little Jamie asking why his mum didn’t love him. How could she have done this?
That evening, she went back to his flat. Saw his wife in the courtyard—recognised her from yesterday.
“Excuse me!” Margaret called, voice cracking. “Could I—just a moment?”
The woman turned, wary. “Who are you?”
“I’m—” The words burned. “I’m James’s mum.”
“Oh,” the woman—Sophie—let out a bitter laugh. “*That* mum.”
“Please, I just need to talk to him.”
“Why?” Sophie shook her head. “To hurt him again?”
“I wouldn’t—”
“Look,” Sophie adjusted her bag, “he never talks about you. *Ever.* It’s like you don’t exist. And if I were you—”
“Soph! Where’ve you been?” A voice cut in.
They both turned. There he was—tall, broad-shouldered, just like Robert back in the day. Frowning at them.
“James!” Margaret stepped forward, heart hammering. “It’s me—”
He stared at her like she was a stranger.
“I know who you are,” he said calmly. “And I don’t want to talk.”
“Darling—”
“Don’t call me that.” His voice turned sharp. “You left. You didn’t want me. Now I don’t want you.”
“Just let me explain!”
“Explain *what*?” He scoffed, just like Robert had. “How you left to start a new life? Got remarried? How you didn’t call for *thirty years*?”
“I did! The first year—”
“The *first year*,” he nodded. “And after that? Where were you when I was five? Ten? Fifteen? Where were you at my graduation? My wedding?”
Each word hit like a hammer.
“I’m going to be a dad soon,” he moved to shut the door. “I could *never* walk away from my child. Never.”
“You waited thirty years,” he said, gripping the door. “Now I’ll wait that long to forget you.”
The door slammed. Margaret stood in the empty hallway, hands pressed to her chest. Somewhere behind the walls, music played. Footsteps echoed on the stairs.
She dragged herself downstairs, legs giving out on the first floor. Sinking onto the windowsill, she pulled out her phone.
*”Robert,”* she typed. *”Thank you. For raising him. For making him the man he is.”*
The reply came minutes later:
*”Go home, Margaret. Don’t torture him—or yourself.”*
Back at the hotel, she packed. Pulled out an old photo—a little boy grinning at the camera, waving a toy car. On the back, faded writing: *”Jamie, age 3.”*
She almost left it for Sophie—maybe one day she’d pass it on. But no. Some bridges couldn’t be rebuilt. Some mistakes couldn’t be fixed.
On the train home, she booked a private compartment but didn’t sleep. Just watched unfamiliar towns flash by. Somewhere out there, her son lived his life—without her.
She opened her phone, found Sophie’s number. Typed:
*”When the baby comes, kiss him for his grandma. The one he’ll never have.”*
Then she powered off the phone and closed her eyes. Let the tears fall.
Three months later, she stumbled across an article online—a new bridge project. There he was—James, in a sharp suit, holding an award. Beside him, Sophie, noticeably pregnant. They were smiling. Happy. Whole.
Margaret printed the photo, placed it next to the old one—the little boy with his toy car. Thirty-two years between them. A lifetime.
*”Mum, why don’t you love me?”* The memory of his voice ached.
“I did,” she whispered to the photos. “I just didn’t know how to show it. And now it’s too late.”
She never tried to contact him again. Didn’t write. Didn’t call. Just checked his social media now and then—watched little Robert grow up, saw their family holidays, birthday parties.
A happy life. One she had no place in.
