Echoes of the Past: Margaret’s Regret
Margaret Whitaker stood before the peeling front door of a council block, clutching an envelope in her trembling hands. The nine-storey building in a quiet suburb of Blackburn felt alien, as if from another world. Yet somewhere on the fourth floor lived her son—the little boy with unruly fringe she’d left behind thirty years ago. Now he was thirty-five.
“Foolish,” she whispered, staring at the grimy windows. “Hopelessly foolish.”
On a bench nearby, elderly women traded gossip. One called out, “Who are you looking for, love?”
“James… James Whitaker.” Her voice wavered—her son’s name an echo from the past.
“Jamie? Lovely lad, always polite, says hello.” The woman eyed her. “You’re family?”
Margaret stayed silent, hurrying into the stairwell. What was she to him? A mother who’d vanished for three decades? A stranger who shared his surname? In the lift, she checked her reflection—grey hair, crow’s feet—no makeup could hide fifty-six years. Did he remember her face, or was she just a blur in his memory?
Fourth floor. The flat on the left. Probably married at his age. She raised a hand to ring the bell, but her fingers trembled. Minutes passed. Then, defeated, she descended and slipped the letter into his postbox.
*”James. I know I’ve no right to ask. But let me explain. Mum. Call me, here’s my number…”*
*Mum.* How strange that word sounded after thirty years. She waited in her car until evening, watching the entrance. A tall man with a briefcase—spitting image of his father. That was him. A young woman with shopping bags—his wife, surely. They laughed, chatting. A normal family, a normal night. Had he read her letter? Would he call?
Her phone rang as she prepared to leave. Victor, her ex-husband.
“Why did you come back?” His voice was ice.
“Victor—”
“Don’t. Just tell me—why?”
“I want to see our son.” Her throat tightened.
He scoffed, sharp with bitterness. “*Our* son? Thirty years of silence, and now you care?”
“You don’t understand.”
“No, *you* don’t,” he hissed. “Where were you when he was ill? Bullied at school? Starting uni? Where were you *then*?”
She had no answer.
“He called me. Said he burned your note.” Victor’s voice cracked. “Leave, Margaret. You’re thirty years too late.”
The dial tone stabbed her chest. She stared at the dark windows, remembering little James calling for her at night—how she’d sung him lullabies. Why had she left? Why hadn’t she fought?
The next day, she followed Victor to his office. Broad-shouldered, silver at the temples—unchanged but for time.
“I told you to go,” he snapped.
“Please. I just need to talk to him.”
“Talk?” Victor’s face twisted. “About how you left for another man? Built a new life? Forgot us?”
“I never forgot him!”
“Forgot?” He laughed bitterly. “*I* raised him. Nursed him through fevers. Taught him to ride a bike. You? You *thought* about him.”
Her head bowed. The office clock ticked.
“Know what he asked as a boy?” Victor whispered. *”Dad, why doesn’t Mum love me?”* What should I have said?”
“I *loved* him!”
“No. You loved your freedom. Your dreams. Not him.”
She fled, hands shaking too hard to start the car. Little James’s voice haunted her: *Why doesn’t Mum love me?*
That evening, she approached his wife in the courtyard.
“Excuse me!” Her voice broke. “A moment?”
The woman—*Emily*—turned, wary. “Who are you?”
“James’s… mother.”
“Ah. *That* mother.” Emily’s tone soured.
“Please, I need to speak to him.”
“Why? To hurt him again?”
“Jamie! You coming?” A voice cut in.
James stood by the door—tall, broad, Victor in his prime. He frowned at them.
“James!” Margaret stepped forward, heart hammering. “It’s me—”
“I know who you are.” His voice was steel. “And I don’t want to talk.”
“Son—”
“Don’t call me that.” His jaw clenched. “You left. For thirty years. Now *I* leave *you*.”
He took Emily’s arm. “We’re done here.”
Margaret crumpled. That night, in a cramped hotel room, she stared at an old photo—a three-year-old grinning, waving a toy car. All she had left.
Morning brought a call from Emily. “He doesn’t know I’m ringing.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, just…” A pause. “He never cries. But last night—I heard him in the bathroom.”
Margaret wept. “Help me talk to him. Five minutes.”
“I can’t.” Emily’s voice ached. “He’s my husband. I won’t betray him.”
“Like I did?”
“You know the answer.”
Silence. Then, softly, Margaret asked, “Tell me about him.”
A sigh. “He’s kind. Witty. Loves his job—civil engineer, just won a bid for a new bridge in Manchester.”
Her son—an engineer. She hadn’t even known.
“He’s a good father, too.”
“Father?” Margaret froze.
“Due in four months.”
A grandson. Her breath caught.
“A boy,” Emily added. “Viktor. After his grandad.”
*Of course.* Not after the woman who’d abandoned him.
That night, Margaret returned. James answered in a tee, mug in hand.
“You again?”
“Please. Just listen.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m your mother!”
“No.” His eyes were flint. “You birthed me. That’s all.”
“I know I failed—”
“Failed?” A bitter laugh. “The worst part? You never *tried* to come back.”
“James—”
“I’m having a son soon.” His grip tightened on the door. “*I’d* never leave him.”
The slam echoed. Margaret sank onto the stairwell, phone in hand.
*”Victor,”* she texted. *”Thank you for raising him.* ***Right.***”
His reply: *”Go, Margaret. For both your sakes.”*
On the train home, she printed a news article—James in a suit, accepting an award. Emily, glowing beside him. Happy. Whole.
She placed it beside the old photo—her boy, three, grinning. Thirty-two years between them. A lifetime.
*”Mum, why don’t you love me?”*
“I did,” she whispered. “I just… didn’t know how to stay.”
She never contacted him again. Just lingered on his socials, watching baby Viktor grow, their family holidays, their joy.
A life full of love. One she’d forfeited.
