Mother, you really shouldnt bother coming now, my son Alex said. Think about it: the journey is long, an overnight train, and youre not as spry as you used to be. Spring is here, youve got a garden full of work, dont you?
I know, I know, I replied, but we havent seen each other in ages. I also want to meet your wife properly they say you should get to know your daughterinlaw better.
Alright then, Alex offered, lets wait until the end of the month. Well all come to you then; Easter gives us a long weekend.
Honestly, I was already packing, ready to make the trip. But Alexs reassurances kept me at home, waiting for him instead.
Days turned into weeks and no one arrived. I called Alex several times; he let the calls go straight to voicemail. Eventually he called back, saying he was terribly busy and that I shouldnt wait for him.
I felt a pang of disappointment. I had been preparing a feast for his arrival, his wife, the little family Id never seen. Alex had only been married six months, and I still hadnt met his wife at all.
When I was thirty I decided to have a child on my own. I never married, but I wanted a son. It may have been a reckless choice, but I never regretted it. Money was always scarce, and we survived rather than lived comfortably. I held down several jobs just to ensure my child never went without.
Alex grew up and earned a scholarship to study in London. To help him with his first expenses, I even took seasonal work in the Netherlands, sending money back for his tuition and rent. My motherly heart swelled with pride each time I could ease his burden.
By his third year at university Alex found parttime work and began supporting himself. After graduating he landed a decent job and became financially independent. He visited home only once a year, and I, a lifelong Londoner, had never once set foot in the countryside where his father grew up.
When Alex announced he was getting married, I started saving. I put away £1,800, hoping to buy a present and perhaps a wedding dress for my future granddaughter.
Six months ago Alex called with the longawaited news: Mum, Im getting married. He added, Dont come for the ceremony; well only have a small civil registration now, and the wedding will be later.
I was hurt, but I tried not to show it. Alex introduced me to his fiancée over a video call. She was beautiful, welldressed, and her father seemed a prosperous businessman. All I could do was smile and be glad for my sons good fortune.
Weeks passed and Alex still didnt come, nor did he invite me to his flat. My longing to see my daughterinlaw and hug my son grew unbearable, so I bought a train ticket, packed a basket of homemade foodbread, boiled potatoes, beetroot, eggs, dried apples, pickled mushrooms, cucumbers, tomatoes, and a few jars of jamand set off. I called Alex before boarding.
Youre really coming, Mum? Im at work and cant meet you, he said. Heres the address, just get a taxi.
I arrived in London early the next morning, hailed a cab, and was shocked by the fare. Still, the city was bright and beautiful, and I watched the Thames glide past the window. The door opened and my daughterinlaw, Imogen, stood there, not even smiling or offering a hug. She dryly gestured me toward the kitchen. Alex wasnt home; hed left early for work.
I set down my bags and laid out the food: potatoes, beetroot, eggs, the jam, everything. Imogen watched silently, then said, All this is useless. We dont eat that. We get deliveries every day and I dont like cooking because the kitchen smells afterward.
Before I could respond, a small boy of about threeandahalf toddled in. This is my son, Daniel, Imogen announced.
Daniel? I repeated, unsure.
Its Daniel, not Danilo. I dont like it when people change my sons name, she snapped.
Im sorry, Daniel, I said, trying to smooth things over. Im Margaret.
Not Ilona, Margaret, she corrected. In this city we dont twist names, but you wouldnt know that, would you?
I felt tears well up, not because Alex had a wife and child, but because hed never spoken to me about them. The shock didnt end there. On the wall hung a large portrait of a wedding party.
Ah, there was no wedding? I ventured, attempting to change the subject.
What do you mean no wedding? There were two hundred guests. You just didnt show up because Alex said you were ill. Perhaps its better that way, Imogen replied, measuring me from head to toe.
Will there be breakfast? I asked, hopeful.
Sure, she said, placing a teacup and a few slices of expensive cheese before me. Thats our idea of breakfast.
I was used to a hearty morning meal after a long train ride, so I tried to fry some eggs and toast the bread Id brought. Imogen forbade me, saying the smell would linger. She refused the bread, claiming they were on a healthconscious diet. I felt humiliated; the money Id saved for this day seemed wasted.
I sipped my tea while Imogen stared at me. The little boy clung to my leg, seeking affection. Imogen waved her hand, Dont touch him; I dont know why youre here.
I offered the boy a jar of raspberry jam, saying, Youll love this with your pancakes. She snatched the jar from my hands, shouting, How many times must I tell you? Were on a strict dietno sugar!
The tears I had been holding burst. I left the kitchen, put on my shoes, and walked out onto the platform without a word from Imogen. I sat on a bench, let the tears flow, never feeling more alone.
Later I saw Imogen strolling with Daniel, discarding all my jars and containers into a trash bin. She gave me no explanation. I repacked my belongings and hurried to the station. By some luck a fellow passenger had returned a ticket, and I managed to buy an evening one.
Outside the station I found a small café and bought a bowl of stew, a piece of fried meat, potatoes, and a salad. I ate hungrily, paying a fair priceafter all, I deserved a decent meal.
I stored my bags in a locker and had a few hours left to wander London. The citys sights cheered me a little, and I almost forgot my sorrow. On the train home I could not sleep; I wept, feeling abandoned by the only son I ever hoped would be my anchor.
Now I sit with the £1,800 I saved for his wedding. Do I give it to Alex, prove that Ive always cared for him, or keep it because he never earned it? The answer, Ive learned, lies not in the money but in the expectation I placed on anothers happiness. Life has taught me that love cannot be forced, and the most valuable gift we can give is the freedom to choose our own path, even if that path leads us away from us.
