Emily set out bowls of porridge, swirling jam into a funny face on her son’s portion.
“Boys! Breakfast’s ready!” she called, pouring freshly brewed tea into mugs.
Jamie slumped into his chair, eyeing the bowl with suspicion.
“I hate porridge,” he muttered.
“Since when? Oats are good for you,” Richard said, sitting opposite his son. He scooped up a spoonful and ate it with exaggerated relish. “Mmm… brilliant. Your mum’s a magician. No one makes porridge like her.”
Jamie gave his dad a doubtful look but picked up his spoon. Once he finished, Emily took the empty bowl and nudged his tea closer.
“Something on your mind?” she asked Richard. “You’ve been miles away lately. Work trouble?”
“I ate it all. When are we going ice-skating?” Jamie chirped.
“Go play for a bit,” Richard said. “Mum and I need to talk.” He caught Jamie’s frown. “Later. Promise.”
For a second, Emily thought she could read their son’s face—torn between throwing a tantrum or sulking in his room. She smiled and nodded, silently assuring him the trip wasn’t canceled.
Jamie slid off his stool and trudged out, shoulders hunched.
“So, what’s eating you?” Emily took his seat.
Richard swirled his tea, avoiding her gaze. “Don’t know how to say it. I’m still processing.”
“Are you having an affair? Planning to leave?” she asked bluntly.
Richard’s head snapped up. “Emily, Christ—where’d that come from?”
“Well, if it’s not work, what else would make you act like this? You didn’t even take the bins out yesterday after nodding. Don’t lie to me.”
His fingers tightened around the mug.
“My mum came to see me.” The words stuck in his throat.
Emily blinked. “In a dream? What, she gave you a message from beyond that’s had you in a fog?”
“Not a dream. She’s alive.” He shoved his cup away, sloshing tea onto the table. Emily grabbed a cloth and mopped it up.
“But she’s dead. Or were you lying all this time?” She tossed the cloth into the sink and sat back down.
“No, I wasn’t lying. She *was* dead to me.”
“Start from the beginning. Dead, alive—explain.”
Richard exhaled sharply. “I was ten. Dad drank. They fought constantly. He was jealous, even hit her sometimes. She covered the bruises, but I saw them.”
“That day, he came home plastered. Blamed her for his drinking. Mum stayed quiet at first—just wound him up. I went to my room, heard them shouting. Then a thud… silence.”
His voice flattened. “I came out. Dad was on the floor, blood from his head. Mum stood over him, hands clapped over her mouth.”
“She shoved me out, said he’d fallen, that she’d call an ambulance. But the police came instead. She left with them, told me to wait for Aunt Louise—Dad’s sister. I sat there until she arrived.”
Richard mimicked his aunt’s voice, bitter. “She sobbed, called Mum a murderer, said prison’s where she belonged. Then packed my things—said I’d live with her now. What could I do?”
“She poisoned me against Mum. Said she had lovers, that she’d planned it. I screamed that Mum loved Dad, but no one listened. Uncle Mark—Louise’s husband—told me to say my parents died in a crash. Or kids would bully me for having a killer mum.”
His jaw tightened. “Mum never came for me. No letters, no calls. I stopped waiting. They fed me, clothed me, but didn’t love me. Felt like a burden.”
“Once, I took a tenner from Louise’s purse. Don’t even remember why—she never gave me pocket money. She slapped me, threatened to send me to a home if I stole again.”
“Counting the days till I could leave. Dunno how I didn’t end up in trouble. After school, I moved here, studied engineering, met you.”
His laugh was hollow. “Lied so long about them being dead, I told you the same. Scared you’d leave if you knew.”
Emily gripped his hand. “God, Richard… you never saw her again?”
“Not till three days ago. She turned up at my office. Didn’t recognize her at first, but… I *felt* it.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Didn’t want to talk. Still angry—for leaving, for killing Dad, for ruining my life.”
“But her face… I listened. Went to a café near work. Emily—I’m glad she’s back.”
“Did she kill him?”
He nodded. “An accident. Dad swung at her; she pushed him back. He fell, hit his head on the table corner.”
“Prison?”
“Yeah. Bruises on his chest made it look premeditated. No marks on her—wasn’t seen as self-defense. Louise and neighbors testified against her.”
Richard’s voice cracked. “She wrote letters. I never got them. Louise must’ve binned them. One asked to visit me in jail. She showed me Louise’s reply—that I’d forgotten her, didn’t want a killer for a mum.”
Emily watched him unravel. “Why wait so long to find you?”
“Asked her the same. She was terrified I’d reject her. Said she’s watched me for years—knew everything about me. I never noticed.” He dug his fingers into his scalp.
“Sold her flat, moved here. Cleaned stairwells, worked shop floors—history degree and all. Schools wouldn’t hire her. Thought I’d be ashamed.”
“Now?”
“Tour guide at the local museum. Does city walks sometimes.”
Emily frowned. “Think I’ve seen her. What’s she look like?”
“Tall, thin. Sad eyes…”
“Right. A woman in a black coat, pink beret—lingered by our building once. I held the door; she shook her head.”
“That’s her. Said she came often.”
“What does she want?” Emily folded her arms.
“You disgusted she killed Dad? It was decades ago. She served her time.” Richard bristled. “Just wants to know us.”
“What do we tell Jamie? ‘Granny’s back from the dead’?”
“Say she lived abroad. Didn’t have our number.” He rubbed his face. “But that’s not what scares me. I lived thinking she abandoned me. Now I know she didn’t… but calling her ‘Mum’? Can’t do it.”
“Don’t blame you. But do you *believe* her? That it was an accident?”
His hands steadied. “Yes.”
“When are you seeing her?”
“Tomorrow. We’ll all go—”
“Richard, maybe just you first? Ease Jamie into it.”
“Yeah. Right.” He stood abruptly, voice light. “Jamie! Skates on—we’re off!”
That night, Emily lay awake, Richard finally sleeping soundly beside her. *I thought he was cheating. Bloody idiot.*
Staring at the ceiling, she remembered her own mother—strained after Dad left. Mum dated; Emily hated it. Once, after a row, she’d screamed, *”I hate you!”* Not grasping the word’s weight—just the opposite of love.
A teacher later explained: hating someone was wishing them gone.
They’d never mended things. Emily left for uni, calls grew sparse. *Kid grudges… Jamie’ll resent me too one day.*
She slipped out, sat at the moonlit kitchen table. *Richard got his mum back. Mine’s just a phone call away.* The clock glowed 12:30. *Too late. Tomorrow.*
At dawn, while Richard showered, Emily dialed.
“Emily? I was just thinking of you last night! Everything alright?” Her mum’s voice wavered between joy and worry.
“I’m sorry, Mum. I love you.”
“Darling, you’re scaring me. Are you okay?”
“Not saying goodbye—I want to see you. I’m pregnant. Richard doesn’t know yet.”
“Oh, sweetheart! I’ll come help—”
“Don’t need to. His mum’s nearby.”
“But… she died.”
“Turns out she didn’t. Long story. Love you.” She hung up as the shower stopped.
Time for breakfast, then meeting Richard’s mother. *Nervous? Me?* She filled the kettle.
**
We all carry childhood wounds we’re ashamed of. Blame our parents for our flaws. Forget they gave us life while we stockpile grudges.
Do we ever wonder how our silence cuts them?
By the time we muster the courage to apologize, it’s often too late.
No matter how old, everyone needs their mum. Only she truly understands, forgivesAs Jamie burst into the kitchen, skates clattering, Emily realized forgiveness wasn’t just for the past—it was the bridge to every tomorrow.
