**Childhood Grudges**
Emma spread the porridge onto the plates, drawing a silly face with jam in her son’s.
“Gentlemen! Breakfast!” she called, pouring freshly brewed tea into mugs.
Tommy sat at the table and frowned at his plate.
“I don’t like porridge,” he muttered.
“Since when? Oats are good for you. If you want to go ice-skating, you’ll need a proper breakfast.” James sat opposite his son, scooped up a spoonful, and took a bite. “Mmm… delicious. Your mum’s a miracle worker. Trust me, no one makes porridge like her.”
Tommy gave his father a doubtful look but picked up his spoon. When he finished, Emma cleared the empty plate and slid his tea closer.
“Something bothering you?” she asked her husband. “You’ve been miles away lately. Work trouble?”
“I ate all of it. When are we going skating?” Tommy asked excitedly.
“Go play. Mum and I need to talk.” James caught his son’s sulky expression. “Later, I promise. Off you go.”
For a second, Emma felt she could read Tommy’s thoughts—hesitating between crying in case skating got cancelled or sulking in his room. She smiled and nodded, reassuring him it would happen, just not yet.
Sliding off his stool with a pout, Tommy stomped out of the kitchen.
“What’s eating you?” Emma took his seat.
“I don’t know how to say it. I don’t even understand it myself,” James said, spinning his teacup.
“Are you having an affair? Do you want to leave?” Emma asked bluntly.
“Emma, what? How could you even think that?” James flushed with indignation.
“What else would have you this worked up? You forgot to take the bins out yesterday. You keep zoning out. Just tell me—no lies.”
James studied her face.
“My mother came to see me,” he finally forced out. Emma could tell the words cost him.
“In a dream? What did she say from beyond the grave that’s had you in knots?” she joked weakly.
“No. Not a dream. She’s alive.” James shoved his cup away, sloshing tea onto the table. Emma grabbed a sponge and wiped it up.
“But she’s dead. Or were you lying this whole time?” She tossed the sponge into the sink and sat back down.
“I wasn’t lying. She *was* dead to me,” James snapped, irritated at her confusion.
“Alright, slow down. Dead, alive… explain. I’m listening.”
“I was ten. Dad drank. They fought constantly. She was beautiful, and he was jealous—even hit her sometimes. She covered the bruises, but I saw.”
James swallowed. “One day, Dad came home wasted. Started yelling that she drove him to it. She stayed quiet, which just made him angrier. I went to my room but heard them shouting. Then—a thud. Silence. I waited before peeking out. Dad was on the floor, arms splayed. Blood trickling from his head. And Mum… standing over him, hands pressed to her mouth.”
“She shoved me back, said he’d fallen, that she’d call an ambulance. But the police came. She left with them, told me to wait for Aunt Margaret—Dad’s sister. I sat there until she arrived.”
James’ voice tightened. “She sobbed over Dad, called Mum a murderer, said she belonged in prison. Made me pack a bag. Told me I’d live with her now. What could I do?”
“She poisoned me against Mum. Said awful things—that she’d cheated, that she was cruel. I screamed that she was lying, but no one listened. Uncle Robert—her husband—told me to keep quiet. ‘Say your parents died in a crash,’ he said. ‘Or kids’ll bully you for having a killer mum.’”
James exhaled sharply. “Mum never came for me. No calls, no letters. I stopped waiting. They fed me, clothed me, but didn’t love me. Felt like a burden.”
“Once, I took a fiver from Aunt Margaret’s purse. Don’t even remember why. She caught me, slapped me. Said next time, she’d send me to a children’s home.”
“I counted the days till I could leave. Dunno how I didn’t turn out a delinquent. After school, I moved here, got into uni, met you.”
James rubbed his face. “I lied so much about them being dead, I even lied to you. Scared you’d leave if you knew.”
“God, James…” Emma covered his hand. “You never saw her again?”
“No. When she showed up at my work three days ago, I didn’t recognise her—but I *knew*. Didn’t want to talk. Still angry she abandoned me, ruined my life. But the way she looked at me… I listened. We went to a café nearby.” His voice cracked. “I’m glad she’s back, Em.”
“Did she… kill him?”
James nodded. “An accident. Dad lunged at her. She pushed him. He stumbled, hit his temple on the table’s edge.”
“Did she go to prison?”
“Yeah. Fresh bruises on Dad’s chest. They said she attacked him first. No marks on her. Ruled it wasn’t self-defence. Aunt Margaret and the neighbours testified against her.”
James swallowed. “She wrote me letters—never got one. Aunt Margaret must’ve trashed them. In one, Mum begged to see me. Even showed me the reply: ‘He doesn’t want a murderer for a mother.’ I never knew.”
“But why wait so long to find you?”
“Asked her the same. She was scared. Said she’d followed my life—saw me, knew about us. I never noticed.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Sold her flat, moved here. Scrubbed floors, stocked shelves—history degree and all. Thought I’d be ashamed.”
“Now?”
“Tour guide at the county museum, does walking tours sometimes.”
Emma paused. “Think I’ve seen her. What’s she look like?”
“Tall, thin. Sad eyes…”
“That woman by our building! In the long black coat, pink beret? I held the door—she wouldn’t come in.”
“Yeah. She came often, she said. Just to see us.”
“What does she want?” Emma hugged herself.
“Does it bother you? That she killed him, even by accident? She served her time. Just wants to know us.”
“What do we tell Tommy? ‘Granny’s back from the dead’?”
“Say she lived abroad. Didn’t call ’cause she lost our number.” James sighed. “But that’s not what scares me. I lived decades without her, believing she chose to leave. Now I know she didn’t—and I still can’t call her ‘Mum’.”
He straightened. “I believe her, Em. It was an accident.”
“When are you seeing her?”
“Tomorrow. All of us.”
“James—maybe just you first? Tommy needs—”
“You’re right. We’ll skate today. Give us time to… adjust.” He stood abruptly, calling, “Tommy! Skates on—we’re going!”
For once, James slept soundly that night. Emma didn’t. Staring at the ceiling, she thought of her own mum—their fights after Dad left, her resentment when Mum dated. The day she’d screamed *I hate you* without knowing what it meant.
An old teacher had told her: *Hate is wishing someone gone. Like they’re dead to you.*
They’d never reconciled. Like she’d lost her, too.
Emma slipped out to the kitchen, watching the moon. *James got his mum back. I never lost mine—just pushed her away.*
At half past midnight, she nearly called. *Tomorrow,* she decided. *I’ll say I love her.*
At dawn, while James showered, Emma dialled.
“Emma! I was just thinking of you—is everything alright?” Her mum’s voice wavered between joy and worry.
“Mum… I’m sorry. I love you.”
“Darling, what’s wrong? You sound—”
“I’m pregnant. James doesn’t know yet.”
“Oh, sweetheart! I’ll come, help however—”
“Don’t. His mum’s here now. She’s… alive.”
“But I thought—”
“Later. Love you.” She hung up as the shower stopped.
Time for breakfast, time to meet his mother. *Odd,* she thought, *I’m nervous.* The kettle whistled.
***
We all carry childhood pains we’d rather forget. We blame our parents, resent their mistakes. But they gave us life—and we hold grudges.
Do we ever think how they feel when we don’t call?
By the time we muster the courage to apologise, it’s often too late.
Everyone needs their mum. No matter how old. Because only she’ll understand. Only she’ll forgive.
