Twelve Years On
“Please, Im begging you, help me find my son!” The womans voice wavers on the edge of tears. “Hes all I care about now.”
Margaret sat down next to the host on the faded studio sofa, wringing her hands with theatrical flair. She had dressed in the most modest outfit she owned, skipping sleep the night before to appear pale and wan. She needed to look every inch the suffering mother, wanting to tug at peoples heartstrings so desperately that help might come pouring in.
“My greatest wish is to make amends with my son,” she murmurs, each word clearly an exertion. “Ive tried everything I can think of. I went to the police, hoping theyd assist. But they refused to even take my statement! They said Simon is already an adult, left ages ago. If Id never cared before, why was I coming now”
The host nodded attentively, tilting his head just enough. Privately, he doubted much of Margarets version. This smacked of an ordinary family riftshed fallen out with her son and ignored him for years, now arriving with a story when it might suit her. He couldnt blame the police for turning her away. But viewers loved this sort of thing, loved wringing out every last bit of drama.
“So, your falling out with Simon led to all this?” he asked calmly, sweeping his gaze across the rows of viewers. Some looked wary. Others, more credulous, already felt sorry for this “heartbroken” mother.
Margaret nodded, dabbing at her eyes as tears glistened. She drew a deep breath, mustering herself to continue.
“It all started twelve years ago. My Simon lost his heart, fell properly in love. He was set on marriage. I understood, but that girlshe was all wrong! Drinking, smoking, always out in some dodgy crowd Worst of all, she dragged Simon right in after her!”
The woman paused, reliving those days in the hush. The host let the silence hang, granting her ample space to recover.
“I tried to talk sense into him, to warn him,” she went on. “But he wouldnt have it. In his eyes, I was a mother who refused to let go. One evening he just snapped, slammed his fist on the table and shouted, Im leaving!”
Margaret gave a shaky sob; the host promptly handed her a tissue, which she pressed gratefully to the corner of her eye, careful not to smudge her makeup. She sat in silence for a moment, then pressed on:
“He left. Packed his things while I was at work and vanishedno note, no explanation. He changed his number and cut all tiesfamily, friends, everyone. All because of her”
Her voice quivered and she squeezed her eyes shut as if holding back a flood.
“Sorry, keeping myself together is hard,” she whispered, gripping the tissue tight.
Margaret bowed her head so her hair fell to shield her expressiona carefully practised move to heighten the sense of heartbreak. The script demanded that she break down now, to unleash sobs and display her raw wound. In truth, not a fraction of her pain was real, but she knew the effect she needed on her audience.
The host knew perfectly well the tears were for show, but played along.
“We feel your pain,” he nodded, motioning for an assistant to fetch some water. “Take your time, tell us as you can.”
A perfectly measured pause. The host held itnot too brief, not too long.
“And what do you know about Simon now?” he prodded, leaning forward as though genuinely invested.
Margaret looked up, eyes trained in equal measure on despair and hope.
“A friend saw him in London,” she replied, her voice trembling (whether from emotion or craft, it was hard to say). “They only spoke a moment, but it seems Simon even changed his surname! How am I supposed to find him now? I cant do it aloneplease, someone must have seen him!”
She turned to face the camera so the audience at home could fully grasp her anguish, staring right down the lens as if to reach into every sitting room in England.
“Just recently I was in hospital,” she pressed on, now letting some real worry leak through, “and it hit methe years are getting on. Who knows how long Ive left? I dream of hugging my son, of telling him all is forgiven, of asking for his forgiveness too”
A photograph of a young man appeared on screen. Early twenties, fair hair, grey-blue eyes, tall, pleasant looking, but without any distinguishing featurea dozen young men on any high street. Margaret reflected how surely Simon had changed over the years: matured, maybe grown a beard or got a new haircut, perhaps gained a little weight. He might even wear glasses now, or walk completely differently. The thought of how impossible the search might be only tightened her resolve.
“If anyone recognises the young man in this photo, please contact our studio,” the host said in his gentle, measured tone. “The numbers at the bottom of your screen.”
Filming over, Margaret took her leave from the crew, slowly making her way towards the doorsno need to break character with so much at stake.
Outside, her friendUrged her into the programme, Annwaited. Margaret shot her a restrained but clearly pleased smile.
“Well? Did it work?” she asked quietly, a smug note threading her words. “Think I won them over?”
Ann had watched the audience closely; she was certain their plan had worked. Thered been many a red-eyed spectator, some dabbing away tears, others whispering and shaking their heads. Ann grinned, just visibly.
“Some women were about in tears. Im sure it wont take long to find out where your precious boy lives then you can ask for what youre owed. Hes living the high life, cant even spare a penny for his own mother!”
Margaret winced involuntarilythe crassness of it grated on her, even though she knew Ann wasnt far wrong.
Until recently, Simon had barely crossed Margarets mind. Thoughts of her son were fleeting, and never with longing. That changed the day Ann ran into someone from their old area, whod spotted Simon in London, recounted the changes in his life.
An extraordinary carluxury on wheels, the type you see purring along Mayfair. Clothes from a designer whose prices made Margarets head spin. Watches engraved and exquisitely craftedutterly out of the ordinary. Simon was seen leaving one of the most expensive restaurants in the city, evidence enough that he was both earning and spending with visible flair. A couple of hours there, with bills rarely below a few hundreds, said plenty.
Margaret could not have feigned any deep curiosity about Simons life. What mattered was moneythe money he ought, by rights, to give her! After all, shed given him life! Time for him to pay her back.
“Hell be found soon,” she almost murmured, more to herself than Ann. “Just waitIll be set up for life”
And why not? Margaret was convinced Simon wouldnt dare cast her out. Evidently, he was moving in high circlesthe likes who abhor scandal. No, hed play the doting son for the cameras, keen for good publicity. With a public appeal like this, hed have no choice!
How naïve She had no idea shed wandered straight into the careful trap her son had set.
***************************
Twelve Years Ago
Simon returned home at nine oclock, shattered. Hed just finished his final, and hardest, exam. His head whirled with facts and figures, eyes gritty from hours of revision, muscles taut from stress. All he wanted was to collapse into bed and sleep for a week. But Simon knew better than to expect such luxury.
From the corridor, he heard raised voices inside the flat. A manssharp, irritable. A womanssofter, apologetic. Him again, in their home. Simon grimaced: always seemed to be there when Simon returned, as if on purpose.
Simon slid his key into the lock, eased open the door, hoping he might just slip down the hallway and vanish into his room, putting it all off until tomorrow. But as soon as he stepped over the threshold, he almost tripped over a pile of bags dumped by the entrance.
He stared at them in confusion. Why were his suitcases out? He recognised his travel bags instantly. Something was very wrong.
“Whats all this?” he called out, trying to keep his composure. “Whos moved my things? Whats happening?”
His voice was much louder than intended, tension flaring despite himself. Simon dropped his rucksack and folded his arms, waiting for an answer. The voices stopped. A few seconds later, his mother entered the hallway.
At the sight of him, Margarets face changedher nose wrinkled, she gave a dismissive sniff and turned on her heel to leave. Simon glared after her, baffled and increasingly uneasy.
Kicking off his shoes, he strode to the kitchen, where voices had been. The door was ajar, and he saw at once a scene that made his fists clench. At the table, completely at ease, sat Johnthe man behind the gruff voice. Johns arm draped comfortably over the back of the chair, a mug of tea in his hand. He flicked his eyes over Simon, then back to Margaret.
Simon bristled.
“And whats he doing here?” he said, looking to his mother for any sign of embarrassment, any clue this was all some misunderstanding.
“Havent you told him yet?” John asked Margaret, a trace of mockery in his tone, phone spinning in his hand. “Dragging it out a bit, arent you?”
“Dont act as if Im not standing right here!” Simon snapped, his anger rising. “I have every right to be here! More than you! Who are you, and whys your son in my house?”
He didnt get any further. Margaret turned on him, firm, unflinching.
“From today, you wont be living here anymore. Your old room belongs to Johns son now.”
Simon could only stare, staggered. He scrutinised his mothers face, looking for a flicker of kindness or humour to suggest a joke. But she was stiff-backed, her lips pressed tight and thin. John only nodded, as if the matter were trivial, sipping his tea.
“Waitwho says you get to decide where I live?” Simons voice wobbled, but he made it come out steady.
He was stunned. Hed known his presence got in his mothers way, but to be tossed out so abruptly, without warning or discussion, was unthinkable.
“Dad was planning to leave the flat to me” he tried to argue, seeking an anchor in this sudden disaster.
Margaret folded her arms, chin raised, putting on a mournful expression, though Simon saw the pretense.
“He was, but he died quite suddenly,” she returned coldly. “He never altered the willhis old one stands, from before you were born. I am the sole owner. I choose who lives here. From today, youre banned. Youre a grown manstop clinging to your mothers apron strings! Arent you ashamed?”
Each word was a slap. Simon felt a hot protest rising, but bit it back. He was being cast out of the very home where hed grown up, where every creak and crack in the walls was familiar.
A nervous twitch tugged at his eyebrowa sign of serious stress. His thoughts racedwas his fathers “accident” truly accidental? Was someones hand behind it?
He glared at John, lounging there, untouched by the scene, adding to the injustice.
“Are you serious?” Simon turned once more to his mother, desperately searching for any sign she might reconsider. “Youd put your own son out on the streets?”
Margaret only shrugged, as if shed suggested rearranging furniture.
“Ive even packed for you. From now on, someone else lives here. Dont come back without my say-so.”
“Youre joking, right? Where am I supposed to sleep?” Simons voice came out quiet with tightly-wrapped anger.
His face showed a bewildered grief. He still hoped this was some wretched, twisted joke, but Margarets face was immovable.
He wanted to leap at John, to shake him, to shout, Who are you to decide my fate? But Simon only clenched his fists, exhaled, and stayed still.
“Youll be fine,” Margaret intoned. “Youve friendssomeone will put you up. From there, you can sort yourself out.”
It was as if she were speaking about moving a booknot her sons life. Simon felt a hard ball of injustice, but kept it inside.
“And by the way,” Margaret added, lifting her chin further, “Ive taken the money for your final year at university. Youll have to earn the fees yourselfI need the money more. Weddings coming up.”
The words hit harder than he expected. For a second he was speechlesshis mother didnt just want him out: she wanted to sever every support, to ensure no soft landing at all.
But he would not beg. Never, not for her. Hed take a break, get a job, save up for his course. He had his wits and two handsenough.
Simon nodded grimly, accepting her challenge. He caught her eye, seeking any last glimpse of warmth, but only met steel. In that moment, he knew: there was no going back. The bond was destroyed.
He could never forgive her.
***************************
“Have you seen it?” Nick angled his phone across the desk towards Simon, impatience in his voice. “A pal from where youre from just sent itaired a few minutes ago.”
Simon looked up from the document hed been reading, his fingers slackening as he let the folder drop. Thered be no more working today. A strange mixturepart grim satisfaction, part hollow ironyrose inside him.
“Ive seen it,” he answered with a twist of a smile. “Apparently Anns husband didnt keep quiet about seeing me. Thats what I wanted anyway. Let my mother see what she lost.”
Leaning back in his office chair, Simon absently ran his hand over his neat shortest hair. He replayed the TV show in his mindhis mother, so carefully tragic, speaking of her “lost” son. Twelve years back, with icy calm, she chucked him out, cut him off, stole his uni fund. Now she was desperate to play the bereaved mum card.
He had his revenge, silent and calculated. Not through a public scenenot yetbut simply by showing what hed made of his life. Hed built a career, crossed borders, made a new home, carved out a solid lifeall with no help, no blessing, no input from her.
She knew, now, how much shed losther son, who could have supported her, if she had chosen differently. If she hadnt thrown him away for another man and child; if she hadnt taken his money; if she hadnt cast him out and extinguished the last of their bond.
Soon, she would learn the final truthshe would have no help from him. Not a penny. No word of comfort, no second chance. Simon had decided: the past was finished. The future was his alone, beyond her grasp, outside of her power to manipulate.
The woman who bore him would never reach himneither in body nor in spirit. And that, at last, was everything that mattered.
