The air was thick with whispers, like fog clinging to the cobbled streets of York.
*”Eleanor, why must you meddle?”* her friends murmured over teacups. *”She’s nothing to you now. He’ll marry again and forget you ever existed. Even little Oliver will grow up and never look back. You’re wasting your nerves—and your pence.”*
But shame gnawed at her. Shame that she had raised her son without a father’s firm hand, and now she paid the price for what she’d failed to teach him—a conscience.
Her Thomas had married seven years ago. His bride, Harriet, had come to York for university. They moved in together swiftly, renting a flat, building their own small world. From the start, Harriet and Eleanor never quite warmed to one another—no rows, just a cold, invisible wall between them.
Eleanor kept her distance. She worked dawn till dusk, too young yet for retirement. Visited when invited, called when it suited.
Two years in, Oliver was born. The family still rented, dreaming of a mortgage. But the moment the boy started nursery, the cracks appeared.
Thomas swore there was no other woman, but a mother *knows*. Sure enough, as soon as Oliver’s school days began, her son filed for divorce.
*”Mum, don’t make a scene. I’ll pay child support. Besides, Amelia’s pregnant—that’s my family now. Let Harriet sort herself out. She can go back to her parents in Dorset—cleaner air there,”* he said, eyes avoiding hers.
They argued fiercely. Harriet refused to leave—her village in Dorset had no work, no schools. And her parents hardly welcomed her with open arms. She searched for a cheap room to rent; the flat was too much alone.
Still, Eleanor kept in touch. When her niece passed down outgrown clothes for Oliver, she offered to deliver them—fitting required. Arriving at lunch, she found Harriet feeding the boy. A bowl of vegetable soup steamed between them.
*”Don’t like soup without meat…”* Oliver muttered. *”Mum couldn’t buy any, ’cause rent’s due.”*
Harriet turned to the window. Silently, she wept.
Eleanor couldn’t bear it. She took Oliver for a walk—bought groceries, sweets. Walking home, she remembered her own post-war childhood, eating watery broth at her gran’s. Back then, it was scarcity. Now? Just a father’s cold indifference.
That day, she began slipping Harriet money. Thomas didn’t know—until Oliver let it slip.
*”Nice, isn’t it? Can’t buy your granddaughter a bicycle, but you’ll pay their rent!”* he exploded.
*”Would you rather your son slept on the streets?”* she snapped. *”You walked away. She’s fighting alone. I’m ashamed of you. So yes—I’ll make up for your cruelty where I can.”*
*”So you’ve chosen a stranger over your own son?”*
Perhaps. But Oliver was no stranger. And as long as she drew breath, he wouldn’t eat empty soup. Even if her son never understood.
