I remember it as if it were yesterday, though the years have already turned the memory to a soft amber. My son, Alex, had once asked me not to travel now. Mum, the journey would be longan overnight train to London and youre not as spry as you used to be, hed said, his voice gentle but firm. Think of the spring work in the garden; you have plenty to keep you busy. He tried to persuade me to wait until the end of the month, when Easter holidays would give us all a few days off.
I had already packed my mind with the idea of going, but I trusted his words and stayed at home, waiting for him to arrive. The promised visit never came. I rang Alex a few times; each time his call went straight to voicemail. When he finally returned, he told me he was terribly busy and that I should not keep waiting.
It broke my heart. I had been preparing a modest feast for Alex and his bride, a woman I had never seen. He had only married half a year earlier, yet I had not set eyes on his wife. Alex was the son I bore as a single mother, at the age of thirty. I had never married, so I chose to bring a child into the world for myself. It may have seemed a folly, but I never regretted it, even when money was scarce and we lived handtomouth. I took on three jobs at oncecleaning houses, stitching garments, and serving in a local caféjust to make sure my boy never went without.
When Alex won a place at university in London, I went as far as taking seasonal work in the Welsh valleys, sending him a regular parcel of cash to cover tuition and rent. My motherly heart swelled with pride at being able to support him. By his third year he had found a parttime job and, after graduation, a fulltime post that allowed him to stand on his own two feet.
He would come home, but only once a year, if that. I had never left my hometown of Bath, and the thought of ever setting foot in the capital seemed a distant dream. When Alex announced he was to be married, I resolved to be there. I began to set aside a sumsixty thousand pounds over many yearsso that I could attend the ceremony without a worry.
Six months ago Alex called with the longawaited news: Mum, Im getting married. He warned me, however, that the civil registration would take place soon and the wedding celebration would be held later, and that I need not travel. I felt a sting of disappointment, yet I pressed on. Through a video call Alex introduced me to his fiancée, Eleanor. She was stunning, with golden hair and a smile that seemed to belong on a society page. Her father, he told me, was a prosperous businessman. All I could think of was how well the match suited my son.
Time slipped by, and still Alex did not summon me home nor extend an invitation. My longing to see my daughterinlaw and to hug my son grew intolerable. I bought a train ticket, packed a sack with homecooked farefresh bread, boiled potatoes, beetroot, eggs, dried apples, pickled mushrooms, cucumber slices, and several jars of jamand set off. Before I boarded, I phoned Alex. Mum, youre impossible! Im at work and cant meet you. Heres the addresstake a taxi, he said brusquely.
I arrived in London at dawn, called a black cab, and the fare shocked me; the citys morning light, however, was a balm as I watched the Thames glitter through the window. Eleanor opened the door, but offered no smile, no embrace. She merely gestured toward the kitchen, saying Alex had already left for his early shift.
I began to unload my provisions: potatoes, beetroot, eggs, dried apples, pickled mushrooms, cucumbers, tomatoes, and jars of jam. Eleanor watched in silence, then shrugged, We dont eat that here. We have food deliveries every day, and I dont like cookingafterward the kitchen smells for ages. Before I could respond, a small boy of three and a half toddled in. This is my son, Daniel, Eleanor announced. Its Dan, not Daniel, I corrected, and she snapped back, Im Ilona, not Ilona. In this city we dont twist names, but you wouldnt know that, would you?
A wave of tears rose, not because Alex had taken a wife with a child, but because I had been kept in the dark. I turned to the wall and saw a grand wedding portrait. Oh, the wedding never happened? I tried to steer the conversation. No, it didtwo hundred guests. You just werent there; Alex said you were ill. Perhaps thats for the best, Eleanor replied, scanning me from head to toe.
She placed a delicate cup of tea and a few slices of expensive cheese before me, calling it breakfast. My English upbringing told me a proper morning meal should be hearty, especially after a nights travel, so I intended to fry the eggs and slice my own bread. Eleanor, however, forbade any cooking, citing a strict health regimen. Were on a cleaneating plan; no fried foods, no sugar, she declared, snatching the jam from my hand and shouting, How many times must I say we dont eat sugar?
I felt my resolve crumble. I sipped the tea in silence, the room heavy with an unnatural hush. The boy clung to my leg, seeking a hug, but Ilona waved his hand away, You cant. I dont know what youre bringing into our home. I offered him a jar of raspberry jam, hoping for a small kindness, only to have it torn from my grasp. We dont need that, she said, her tone sharp.
The sadness that had been building burst forth. I left the kitchen, put on my shoes, and walked out into the corridor without a word from her. I lingered by the stairwell, sat on a bench, and let the tears flow as never before. After a while I spotted Ilona taking the child for a walk, discarding my packed provisions into a bin as if they were trash.
There were no more words. I gathered what remained, trudged back to the station, and, by some luck, managed to exchange my ticket for an evening departure. Near the station a modest eatery offered me a bowl of beef stew, a slice of fried meat, potatoes, and a side salad. I ate hungrily, paying what I could; after all, I deserved a decent meal after such an ordeal.
I stored my remaining bags in a locker, gave myself a few hours to wander the streets of London, which, despite everything, held a strange charm. I fell asleep on the train, not from exhaustion but from sorrow, crying softly as the scenery blurred past. Alex never called to ask where I was; he never inquired after his mother at all.
Now, looking back, I wonder what to do with the sixty thousand pounds I saved for his wedding. Should I send it to him, a reminder that his mother always cared? Or should I keep it, for I feel he has not earned it through any regard for my love? The question lingers, as does the ache of a mother who once hoped a modest train ride would finally bring her the reunion she had dreamed of for decades.
