He’s ashamed of us: how my son forgot who raised him
In his spotless white kitchen, in a perfect flat with floor-to-ceiling windows on the eleventh floor, Oliver sipped fragrant coffee from an expensive mug. His crisp suit was freshly pressed, his hair neatly styled, his face calm and assured. This was the life he was used to—polished, flawless, with no reminders of the past. Then—a knock at the door. He frowned. Terrible timing. Setting the mug down on the marble counter, he headed for the door, reluctant.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me, love… your mum.”
He froze. Outside, hunched against the cold, stood a woman in a worn puffer coat, a scarf over her hat. In her hands, a bulky bag—jars of homemade jam, honey, wrapped-up parcels. Beneath her coat, cracked wellies peeked out. Her lips trembled, not just from the chill but from nerves.
“Mum? Why didn’t you call?” he muttered through clenched teeth, glancing over his shoulder—he couldn’t risk the neighbours seeing.
“Sweetheart, your number wasn’t working. I had to come—we’ve got trouble at home. We need your help.”
He sighed, stepping aside to let her in. Grabbing her elbow, he hurried her inside and shut the door. His eyes darted around—how to hide her?
Oliver had been in London for years. Graduated uni with top marks, landed a job at a big firm straight away. A mix of connections, luck, and grit had shot him up the ladder fast. He rarely visited his parents, who still lived in a village near Bath. The odd phone call—Christmas, maybe Easter—was all he managed. His past was something he kept tucked away, never something he boasted about.
“What’s wrong, Mum?” he asked coolly as she fumbled with her gloves.
“Your cousin, little Jamie, he’s poorly. Your brother Tom and his wife Sarah are struggling—their second baby’s just come, she’s not working, and Tom helped you out every month back when you were studying… Love, could you spare a bit? They’re in a real bind.”
Before he could answer, another knock. He spun around.
“Stay quiet!” he hissed. “Don’t come out. For God’s sake, don’t let anyone see you!”
He shut the bedroom door and hurried back. At the threshold stood his colleague, Simon.
“Oi, Ollie, the concierge said your mum’s here?” Simon squinted. “Bit confused—I thought you said your parents died in a car crash in Spain?”
“Ah, she got it wrong. Just some old dear at the wrong flat. Sorted now,” he brushed it off. “Listen, fancy popping to the shop? Emily’s coming over—boss’s daughter. Gotta make it special. Might be serious between us.”
He winked and all but shoved Simon out. Back inside, he glanced at the bedroom. There, perched on the edge of the bed, sat his mum. Her eyes—glassy. She’d heard everything.
“Son… you tell people we’re *dead*?” Her voice wavered. “Why lie? Where’d you learn such shame?”
He grimaced.
“Mum, enough. How much d’they need?”
“Forty…” she murmured.
“Thousand pounds?”
“Goodness, no! Just regular quid…”
“You wrecked my evening over *that*? Here. Fifty. Don’t turn up like this again. Please. I’ve got a different life now. We’re not the same.”
He booked her a taxi, got her a cheap room near the station, and bought her a return ticket. Said goodbye without even looking at her.
Late that night, he and Emily walked into the bedroom. She perched on the bed, glancing around—then her gaze landed on the bag.
“What’s this rubbish, Oliver? And what’s that smell?”
“Cleaner’s fault. Always dragging in junk. I’ll dock her pay this month,” he said airily, turning away.
Meanwhile, in a rattling train carriage, his mum rode home. Staring out at the passing streetlights, she swallowed tears. One thought looped in her mind—where had she and his dad gone wrong? When did they lose him? How had he come to be ashamed of their scent, their hands, their life?
And why had the love they’d raised him with turned into such pain for them?
