He’s Ashamed of Us: How My Son Forgot Who Raised Him
In his spotless new kitchen, inside a flawless flat with floor-to-ceiling windows on the eleventh floor, Nigel slowly sipped fragrant coffee from an expensive mug. His freshly pressed suit, neatly styled hair, and calm, confident face spoke of a life he’d grown accustomed to—polished, seamless, free of any reminders of the past. Then, the doorbell rang. He frowned. Terrible timing. Setting the mug down on the marble counter, he reluctantly walked to the door.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me, love… your mum.”
He froze. On the other side, hunched against the cold, stood a woman in a worn-down puffer coat, a scarf tucked over her hat. In her hands—a bulging bag: homemade preserves, jars of honey, tins wrapped in cloth. Beneath her coat peeked cracked wellies. Her lips trembled, but not just from the cold.
“Mum? Why didn’t you call?” he hissed under his breath, glancing nervously down the hallway—God forbid a neighbour saw.
“Sweetheart, your number wasn’t workin’. I had to come—there’s trouble at home. We need your help…”
He sighed, stepping aside to let her into the hallway. Gripping her elbow, he hurried her inside and shut the door. His eyes darted—how to hide her?
Nigel had lived in London for years. Graduated top of his class, landed a job at a prestigious firm—a mix of connections, luck, and ambition had shot him up the ladder. His parents, still in their village near Leeds, hardly saw him. He rang them only on Christmas or Easter. The past was something he buried, never spoke of, certainly never claimed with pride.
“What’s happened, Mum?” he asked coolly as she struggled with her mittens.
“Your nephew, little Alfie, he’s taken poorly. Darren and Emily are barely managing. With the new baby, Emily’s not workin’, and remember how your brother sent you money every month when you were at uni? Love, they could really use a kindness…”
Before he could reply, the doorbell rang again. He spun around.
“Stay quiet!” he snapped. “Don’t you dare come out. If anyone sees you—”
He shut the bedroom door behind her and rushed to greet his guest. His colleague, Simon, stood there, smirking.
“Nigel, the concierge said your mum’s here?” Simon raised a brow. “Thought you told us your parents died in a boating accident in Spain?”
“Ha! Wrong flat. Some confused old woman—already sorted it,” Nigel waved him off. “Listen, fancy popping to the shops? Poppy’s coming over—the boss’s daughter. Gotta impress, eh? Could be serious.”
He winked and practically shoved Simon out. Back inside, he glanced toward the bedroom. There, perched on the edge of the bed, sat his mother. Her eyes—glassy. She’d heard everything.
“Son… you told people we were dead?” Her voice wavered. “Why lie? Where’d you learn such shame?”
He grimaced.
“Mum, enough. How much do they need?”
“Four hundred…” she whispered.
“Thousand pounds?”
“Good heavens, no! Just pounds!”
“You ruined my evening over this? Here. Take fifty. Don’t turn up like this again. Please. I’ve a different life now. We’re different people.”
He booked her a cab, a cheap room near the station, and a return ticket. Said goodbye without looking her way.
Late that night, with Poppy by his side, he led her into the bedroom. She sat on the bed, scanning the room—then her nose wrinkled.
“What’s that rubbish? Nigel, what’s that smell?”
“Bloody cleaner—always leaving junk. She’s losing her bonus this month,” he muttered, turning away.
Meanwhile, in a shuddering train carriage, his mother stared out at the blur of streetlights, swallowing tears. One thought lingered—where had they gone wrong? When had their boy started despising their scent, their hands, their very lives?
And why had the love they’d poured into him turned into such unbearable sorrow?
