**Diary Entry**
This morning, I returned to my office in London, my mind still haunted by yesterdays events at the market. The shouts of the crowd, the accusationsand that womans gaze, as if it pierced straight through to my soul. I tried to shrug it off. *They dont understand. Life is a battle. The weak fall, the strong rise.*
But guilt gnawed at me. Those eyes Where had I seen them before?
The next day, my business partner, Mr. Whitmore, stormed in, his face grim.
“James, we have a problem,” he said. “That scene at the marketits gone viral. The videos everywhere. Thousands are calling you a disgrace. If we dont act, your reputations ruined.”
“What?” I snapped, but when I saw my own face on his phonekicking that frail womanI went pale. The caption was brutal: *”Millionaire humiliates starving mother.”*
Whitmore sighed. “Find her. Offer money, housingmake it public. Frame it as charity. Its the only way.”
I clenched my teeth but nodded. I despised grovelling, but my reputation mattered more.
That afternoon, I returned to the market. And there she was, sitting in the same spot, the same tattered coat, the same sorrow in her eyes. When she saw me, she didnt flinchjust watched.
“Madam,” I began stiffly. “I wish to make amends. Ill give you money. A home. Food.”
She studied me, as if searching her memories. Then, softly: “Jamie?”
My heart stopped. That namespoken so gentlyonly one person had ever called me that. Mum.
“What did you say?” My voice shook.
Her trembling hands clasped together. “Jamie my boy is it you?”
I stepped back. “Impossible. My mother died twenty years ago.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “No, love. Im alive. Your father took you when you were six. I searched for yearsletters, pleasbut no one answered. I lost everything except hope.”
A tightness gripped my chest. Fragments of memory surfacedsoap, a gentle hand in my hair, a lullaby. I didnt want to believe her.
“This is a trick. You want money,” I growled, but the conviction was gone.
Slowly, she reached into her coat and pulled out a crumpled photo. A little boysix years old, clutching a toy carthe same one Id played with as a child. Beside him, a younger version of her, smiling.
My resistance shattered. My knees buckled.
“God” I whispered. “Mum and I I kicked you.”
Tears streamed down my face. The millionaire whod built an empire on cold ambition now knelt on the pavement before a woman in rags.
“Forgive me” I sobbed. “I didnt know I couldnt see”
Eleanor reached up, cupping my face. Her fingers were frail, but her touch was full of love.
“No need for forgiveness, Jamie. I always knew youd come back to me. My love never faded.”
A crowd had gathered, silent, watching as the mighty businessman crumbled into his mothers arms.
Days later, headlines declared: *”Millionaire Reunites with Homeless Mother.”* But none of it mattered now. I brought her home, called doctors, gave her comfort. But more than thatwe talked. For hours. She told me of the years alone, the struggle, the pain, the hope of seeing me again.
And as I listened, something inside me healed. The emptiness money could never fill began to fade.
One evening on the terrace, I squeezed her hand. “Mum, all these years, I thought wealth gave my life meaning. But it was you.”
Eleanor smiled, her tears glistening. “Family, my love, is what truly matters. Never forget that.”
And at last, I understoodno fortune, no palace, could ever compare to one word: *Mum.*
