Lucy set out the porridge bowls, drawing a funny face with jam on her son’s.
“Boys! Breakfast!” she called, pouring freshly brewed tea into mugs.
Tommy slumped into his chair and scowled at his plate.
“I hate porridge,” he grumbled.
“Since when? Oats are good for you. If you want to go ice skating, you need a proper breakfast,” Oliver said, sitting across from him and scooping a spoonful into his mouth. “Mmm… delicious. Your mum’s a wizard, I swear. No one makes porridge like her.”
Tommy eyed his dad skeptically but picked up his spoon. When he finished, Lucy cleared his plate and slid his tea closer.
“Something wrong?” she asked her husband. “You’ve been miles away lately. Work trouble?”
“I ate it all. When are we going skating?” Tommy chirped.
“Go play. Mum and I need to talk,” Oliver said, catching his son’s sulky look. “Soon. Go on.”
For a second, Lucy swore she could read Tommy’s mind—debating whether to cry (convinced skating was now cancelled) or stomp off to his room to stew. She gave him a reassuring nod: skating was still on, just later.
Tommy slid off his stool and stomped out, face like thunder.
“What’s eating you?” Lucy took his seat.
“Don’t even know how to start. It’s a mess,” Oliver muttered, turning his mug in circles.
“Are you having an affair? Is that it?” Lucy cut straight to it.
“Christ, Luce! Where’d that come from?” Oliver’s face flushed with indignation.
“Well, if it’s not work, what else’s got you like this? You forgot the bins yesterday after nodding like you’d do it. Spit it out—no lies.”
Oliver met her gaze.
“My mum came to see me,” he finally forced out. Lucy watched the words drag out of him.
“In a dream? What ghostly wisdom shook you up this bad?” she teased lightly.
“No. Alive.” Oliver shoved his mug away, sloshing tea. Lucy jumped up, grabbed a sponge, and mopped it.
“But she’s *dead*. Or were you lying all this time?” She flung the sponge into the sink.
“I wasn’t lying. She *was* dead to me. That’s the truth.” Irritation crept into his voice.
“Right. Dead, alive—start making sense. I’m listening.”
“What’s to explain? I was ten. Dad drank. They fought—he was jealous, hit her sometimes. She covered the bruises, but I saw.”
“That day, he came home wasted, yelling she drove him to it. She kept quiet, which just wound him up. I went to my room, heard them screaming. Then a thud—silence. I waited, then went out. Dad was on the floor, blood from his head. Mum… standing over him, hands clapped over her mouth.”
“She shoved me out, said he’d fallen, she’d call an ambulance. But the police came. She left with them, told me to wait for Auntie Margaret—Dad’s sister. I sat in the hall till she arrived. She sobbed over Dad, called Mum a murderer, said prison’s where she belonged. Then made me pack. ‘You’re living with me now.’ What could I do?”
“She poisoned me against Mum. I fought—screamed Mum loved Dad, that there was no ‘other man.’ No one listened. Uncle Jack told me to say my parents died in a crash. ‘Kids’ll bully you for having a killer mum.’”
“She never came. Never called. I stopped waiting. Auntie Margaret fed me, clothed me, but didn’t love me. Felt like a burden.”
“Once, I nicked a tenner from her purse. She caught me, slapped me. ‘Do it again, and it’s care for you.’”
“I counted the days till I could leave. Dunno how I didn’t turn out a delinquent. Got into uni here, met you.”
“The lie—parents dead—stuck. I was scared you’d leave if you knew the truth.”
“Bloody hell, Ol…” Lucy covered his hand with hers. “You never saw her again?”
“No. Till three days ago. She turned up at work—I didn’t recognise her, but I *knew*. Didn’t want to talk at first. Still angry she left, never reached out, ruined my life. But her face… I heard her out. We went to a café near work. Luce… I’m glad she’s back.”
“What’d she say? Did she kill him?”
Oliver nodded. “Like I said—an accident. Dad lunged, she shoved him. He fell, hit his temple on the table…”
“Prison?”
“Yeah. Fresh bruises on Dad’s chest—they said she’d hit him first. No marks on her. Ruled it wasn’t self-defence. Auntie Margaret and neighbours testified against her.”
“She swore she wrote. Letters never reached me. Auntie Margaret must’ve binned them. One asked to bring me for a visit. She showed me Auntie’s reply: ‘He’s forgotten you. Doesn’t want a killer for a mum.’ I never knew. And when I grew up, I never looked for her. All those years…”
Lucy watched his pain. “Why’d she wait so long?”
“I asked. She was scared. Said she kept tabs on me—knew everything, watched from afar. I never noticed.” Oliver raked fingers through his hair. “Sold her flat, moved here to be near me. Scrubbed stairwells, cleaned shops—history degree and all. Schools wouldn’t hire her. Thought I’d be ashamed. She wasn’t wrong.”
“Now?”
“Tour guide at the museum. Does city walks sometimes.”
Lucy paused. “Think I’ve seen her. What’s she look like?”
“Normal? Tall, thin. Sad eyes…”
“That’s her. Black coat, pink beret? I held the door for her once—she wouldn’t come in.”
“Yeah. Said she came often to watch us.”
“What does she want?” Lucy hugged herself.
“Does it bother you? That my mum killed my dad—even by accident? She served her time. Just wants to know us.”
“What do we tell Tommy? ‘Surprise, a grandma’?”
“Easy. Say she lived abroad. Didn’t have our number. That’s not what scares me. It’s… I lived without her, believing she abandoned me. Now I know she didn’t. But ‘Mum’ feels wrong. And lying feels worse.”
“First, I didn’t want to see her. Now I’m ashamed I never looked.”
“I get it. Kid’s grudges run deep. But do you believe her? That it was an accident?”
“Thought about it for days. Yes.” His spine straightened.
“You seeing her again?”
“Tomorrow. All of us. Don’t give me that look. She’s my mum.”
“Maybe just you go first? Prep Tommy…”
“Yeah. Let’s skate now—he’s waited long enough. We’ll adjust. Me—a mum. Tommy—a gran. Doesn’t feel real. People say you’re always a kid while your parents live, but I don’t feel it. I unlearned needing her.” He tugged his hair again.
“How’d you talk to her? What’d you call her?”
“Nothing. She talked; I listened. Funny thing… telling you this, I realised—I never stopped waiting. Right, skating? Tommy! Get your coat—we’re off!”
Now Lucy was the one lost in thought. That night, sleep evaded her. Oliver, though, slept soundly for the first time in days. *And I thought he was cheating. Idiot.*
Staring at the moonlit ceiling, she remembered her own mum—their rocky bond, especially after Dad left. Mum dated; Lucy hated it. Skipped home when men visited. When Nigel moved in, she nearly ran away. Once, after a row about curfew, she’d screamed *I hate you.* She hadn’t known what it meant then—just that love felt gone.
Later, someone explained hate was wishing someone dead—erasing them. And that’s exactly what she’d done. Left for uni, barely called. Never made peace.
She tossed. *I’ll call tomorrow. Apologize. Childhood grudges… Tommy’s growing. I’ll mess up too. How do I stop him ever hating me?*
In the kitchen, she watched the moon. *Life’s twisted. Oliver lost his mum and found her. Mine’s alive, but we’re strangers. Call now?* The clock glowed 12:30. *Tomorrow. I’ll say I love her.*
At dawn, while Oliver showered, Lucy dialled.
“Lucy! I was up all night thinking of you. What’s wrong?” Her mum’s voice wavered between joy and worry.
“Mum, I’”Mum, I’m sorry—I love you, and I want us to start over.”
