— Mrs. Thompson, there was a strange man bothering your Emily on the playground.
— Bothering? What do you mean, Sarah? Where is he? Who was it?
— How should I know? I went over to ask who he was, but he bolted the second he saw me.
— That doesn’t sit right with me. Emily! Sweetheart, come here!
The five-year-old girl with messy, uneven pigtails skipped over to her mother and beamed up at her.
— Mummy! I saw the cutest puppies over there!
Margaret studied her daughter’s face, her motherly instincts prickling despite Emily’s cheerful demeanour.
— Where did you see them? Who showed them to you?
Emily frowned, shrugged.
— No one showed me. I just saw them. There were three—two black ones and one with white spots. Come on, I’ll show you!
Margaret gripped her daughter’s hand.
— Did a man approach you? Did he say anything? Was he bothering you?
Emily’s face scrunched in confusion.
— Mummy, what’s wrong? Your lip’s shaking. Nobody was bothering me! Some nice man just asked if I knew Margaret Thompson, that’s all.
Her heart lurched. Who would know her full name? Unless—
— What did he look like, this ‘nice man’?
Before Emily could answer, Margaret’s phone buzzed. Her husband was calling, and ignoring him wasn’t an option.
— Yes, darling?
She couldn’t shake the thought of the stranger talking to her daughter. She wouldn’t mention it to Richard—no need to worry him—and she warned Emily not to either.
— Daddy doesn’t need extra stress, she explained. Emily didn’t ask questions.
That night, she tossed and turned, sleepless. By morning, she had a splitting headache and no energy to think or move. The slightest motion sent waves of pain through her skull, so she decided she’d take the day off from chores.
— Let’s go out for dinner tonight, Richard suggested. Margaret agreed instantly.
Her second marriage was nothing like the first. With Richard, she felt safe. In return for not upsetting him, she received his affection effortlessly.
— Lovely idea! She smiled.
Her mood lifted—until she spotted a familiar figure by the neighbour’s doorstep as they left the house. She froze, heart hammering, straining to see clearer.
— Meg, love, what’s wrong? Richard called from the car.
— Mummy, come on! Where are you looking?
She slipped into the passenger seat but couldn’t tear her eyes from the man standing just metres away. As the car pulled off, a weight settled in her chest, making it hard to breathe.
At the restaurant, she couldn’t relax. When Richard stepped away to take a call, Emily piped up.
— Mummy, I saw that nice man again near our house today.
Margaret nearly gasped. She stared at her daughter, realisation dawning—the man who’d erased himself from her life over a decade ago was back. Memories of him were tangled with joy and dread. How was she supposed to live with this now?
— You saw him tonight? she asked numbly. Emily nodded.
— Yes, when we left for dinner. He was by the neighbour’s door, watching us.
Dinner dragged unbearably. As they left, Richard gently took her hand.
— What’s wrong, Meg? You’re not yourself.
She wanted to stay silent, but she couldn’t lie to him. Not when she loved him this much.
— Richard, Andrew is back.
He stopped, releasing her hand, eyes wide.
— Andrew? He called you?
— Mummy, who’s Andrew? Emily chirped.
— He’s… someone I know, she hedged, then looked at Richard. He didn’t call. I saw him by our house yesterday and today. It’s definitely him.
Richard said nothing. They drove home in silence. As they neared their street, Margaret knew this confrontation was inevitable. He stood on their doorstep, scanning passing cars—then locked eyes with her.
— You’re right, Richard murmured. That’s him. He’s found you.
— Can I talk to him? she whispered. If you’d rather I didn’t—
— Meg. Richard brushed her fingers. He’s your son. I can’t stop you.
She nodded, glancing back at Emily asleep in the car. Without a word, Richard offered,
— Go. We’ll drive around the block. No point waking her now.
Grateful, she stepped out. She approached Andrew, studying his face. A decade had changed him—faint lines, thinner hair, an expression no longer twisted with rage.
— Hello, she said first. He gave a stiff nod.
— I’ve been looking for you. Wanted to talk. Then I found out you married Richard, of all people, and had his kid.
His voice turned harsh. She saw it then—he hadn’t changed inside. Still the same selfish, bitter man, blaming everyone but himself.
— Did you come just to complain? she asked bluntly. I’m not interested.
— I’m your son. Not inviting me in? To your cosy little nest with Richard?
Another mother might’ve relented. But she knew Andrew.
— You’re not here to talk calmly. So why? Ten years without a word—why now?
Their last conversation had been a decade ago. Twenty-year-old Andrew had packed his bags, declared her dead to him for divorcing his father, and left.
— You ruined our family. Dad drank himself to death because of you. I never want to see you again.
She’d listened, heartbroken, as her only child spat hate at her.
Now he was back.
— I wasn’t happy. Not once after I found out you cheated on Dad with his best friend.
— You only heard one side, she shot back. You never let me explain. Why come now?
He smirked. Cruel, smug.
— I need money.
Disgust twisted inside her. No pity, no joy—just the same revulsion she’d felt for his father.
She’d spent nearly twenty years with Peter. Married young, deeply in love—until he changed. Slowly, year by year, into a monster.
The first time he hit her, Emily was seven. He’d always waited until Andrew was gone. To Andrew, Peter was a hero. To her, a tyrant.
His rages grew fiercer with alcohol. She’d endured, hiding bruises, shielding Andrew from the truth—until the night Peter grabbed a knife. She ran—straight to Richard.
Peter’s best friend had known about the abuse, tried to help, but Peter refused. Richard was the only one who’d known the truth.
— He won’t change, Richard had said that night. She hadn’t argued. She’d told herself Peter would wake up, realise his mistakes—but it only got worse.
So she left. Moved in with her mother. Peter drank himself to death after the divorce. Andrew, fed on his father’s venom, blamed her.
It took two years before she let herself love Richard.
— I know you’re scared of history repeating, he’d said. But not with me.
They married. Emily came three years later. At forty-five, Margaret had wanted another child—knowing she’d never mend things with her son.
Now he stood before her, sneering, demanding money, blaming her for his father’s ruin.
— If you hadn’t left Dad, we’d all still be happy.
She didn’t tell him the truth. Let Andrew keep his illusions.
— You’ll help me, right? I’ve stayed away for years. Struggled on my own.
— You chose that, she said. I never pushed you out.
— You wrecked our family, then play perfect mum now? Married Dad’s best friend, had a kid to trap Richard? You’re living comfortably—why not help your son?
She looked at him—saw Peter in his eyes.
— I died to you ten years ago. Leave, Andrew. Don’t ever come back.
His hatred burned.
— I wish you’d died instead of Dad.
A chill ran down her spine. She nodded.
— Maybe. But you can’t change the past. Go.
Watching him walk away, she felt nothing. Perhaps she really had died as his mother, long ago.
