He’s Ashamed of Us: How My Son Forgot Who Raised Him
In his spotless new kitchen, inside a flawless apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows on the eleventh floor, Oliver sipped aromatic coffee from an expensive mug. His crisply ironed suit, neatly styled hair, and composed expression spoke of a life he’d grown accustomed to—polished, uninterrupted, free of reminders from the past. Then, the doorbell rang. He frowned—bad 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. Outside, hunched against the cold, stood a woman in a worn-out coat, a scarf wrapped over her woolly hat. In her hands was a bulky bag—jars of preserves, honey, homemade treats tied up with cloth. Beneath her coat peeked cracked wellies. Her lips trembled, more from nerves than the biting wind.
“Mum? Why didn’t you call?” he hissed under his breath, glancing nervously down the hallway—God forbid a neighbour spotted her.
“Sweetheart, your number wasn’t working. I had to come—we’ve got trouble. It can’t wait…”
He exhaled sharply, stepping aside to let her into the hallway. Gripping her elbow, he hurried her inside before shutting the door. His eyes darted around—how could he hide her?
Oliver had lived in London for years. Graduated university with honours, landed a job at a top firm. Connections, luck, and determination had paid off—his career soared. He rarely visited his parents in their village near York. The occasional call on Christmas or Easter kept them at arm’s length. His past was something he buried, never spoke of. Certainly nothing to be proud of.
“What’s wrong, Mum?” he asked coldly as she struggled with her mittens.
“Your cousin, little Alfie, he’s poorly. Darren and Emily are barely managing—they’ve got the new baby now, and Emily’s not working. Remember how your brother sent you money every month when you were studying? Love, they could really use some help…”
Before he could reply, the doorbell rang again. He spun around.
“Stay quiet!” he snapped. “Don’t come out. For God’s sake, don’t let anyone see you!”
He shut the bedroom door behind her and rushed to greet his guest. Standing there was his colleague, Simon.
“Oi, Ollie, the concierge said your mum’s here?” Simon squinted. “Bit confused—thought you said your parents died in a car crash in Spain?”
“Oh! Wrong flat. Some confused old lady, lost. Sorted it already,” Oliver brushed him off before adding, “Listen, could you grab some wine on your way back? Meeting Sophie tonight, the boss’s daughter. Gotta impress her, yeah? Might be something serious.”
He winked and practically pushed Simon out. Returning, he glanced toward the bedroom. Inside, his mother sat rigidly on the edge of the bed, eyes glazed. She’d heard everything.
“Son… did you really tell people we were dead?” Her voice shook. “Why lie? Where did you learn this shame?”
He scowled.
“Mum, enough. How much do they need?”
“Forty…” she whispered.
“Thousand pounds?”
“Goodness, no! Just regular quid—”
“You ruined my evening over this?” He pulled out his wallet. “Here. Fifty. Don’t turn up like this again. Please. I have a different life now. We’re not the same.”
He booked her a taxi, reserved a dingy hotel near the station, and bought her a return ticket. Said goodbye without so much as a glance.
Late that night, he and Sophie slipped into the bedroom. She perched on the bed, surveying the room, then her gaze landed on the forgotten bag.
“What’s this rubbish? Oliver, why does it stink?”
“Bloody cleaner again. Always dragging junk in. I’m docking her pay this month,” he muttered, turning away.
Meanwhile, in the rattling carriage of a train, his mother rode home. She stared at the passing streetlights, swallowing tears. Wondering—where had she and his father gone wrong? When had they lost him, that he now shrank from their scent, their hands, their very existence?
And why had the love they’d given him turned into such unbearable hurt?
