Helen paces back and forth across the living room, unable to settle. For days now, Tom has been coming home late. Last night, he didn’t return until dawn. She scolded him—he could have at least called so she wouldn’t worry. They argued. Now she waits again, counting the steps, glancing at the clock.
“He has someone. But he could ring. Sooner or later, he’ll marry. I’ll have to get used to it. Who knows what sort of wife he’ll end up with? More trouble. Best not to dwell. He’s grown, but still—my heart aches.” Helen can’t stop the spiral of worry.
She used to laugh at mothers who smothered their grown sons. Now she’s no better. Every girl he’s brought home, if he bothered to introduce them, seemed unworthy. Like all mothers, she believes he should consult her on something as important as marriage. She knows best. The thoughts crowd her mind, endless. If only he’d come home already.
The lock clicks. Helen jumps, though she’s waited for the sound. “Finally!” She rushes to the hall, then stops short, retreating to the kitchen, sitting stiffly at the table.
“Mum, why are you still up?” Tom stands in the doorway.
“You know I worry. You could’ve called,” she snaps.
“I’m an adult, Mum. I don’t need to account for every move.”
“Where were you?” She glares.
“At Sophie’s.” His voice softens, lowers.
“Another girl—and hardly the last. You’ve only one mother.” She can’t hide the bitterness.
“Another? She’s the only one—like you, Mum.” He kisses her cheek. “Don’t speak badly of her. You’ll regret it later. How would I ever choose a wife if I didn’t meet anyone? You always said not to marry the first girl I fancied. Didn’t you?”
“I did,” Helen admits. “So, you’ve chosen?”
Tom crouches beside her, searching her face. Her heart swells. He looks so like his father—the same eyes, the same smile.
“I have, Mum.” He buries his face in her lap.
“Then introduce us,” she says, gentler now.
“I will, only—” He lifts his head.
“What? Is something wrong?” She nearly asks if he’s bringing home some stray, like the puppies and kittens he used to drag in as a boy.
Kindness to animals is one thing, but you can’t keep them all. Back then, she’d pretend to sneeze, claiming allergies. Tom would find them homes—never left them on the street. That trick won’t work now.
The question burns her tongue, but his warning look silences her.
“She’s perfect, Mum. Beautiful, cooks well—I love her. But she’s not alone.”
“A married woman?” Fear must show on her face, because he quickly shakes his head.
“No. She has a son. He’s five.”
“Five?” Helen gasps. “How old is she?”
“Don’t shout. Yes, she’s older.”
“I see.” Fury steals her breath.
Her boy, her sunshine, the one she’d move mountains for—in love with an older woman, a mother no less!
“What do you see, Mum? I love her. People make mistakes—you’ve said so yourself.”
“Yes. But some mistakes last a lifetime. And young, free girls don’t interest you anymore?” she spits.
“This is why I didn’t tell you. I knew you wouldn’t understand. Remember how you defended that girl at work—the one left with a baby? You said she’d find a good man to be a father. Why can’t that man be me?”
“Love fades, son. I adored your father, and he left us.”
“Exactly, Mum. No guarantee a young girl would stay forever. Sophie’s who I love—her and her boy. He’s brilliant. Even if you refuse to accept them, I won’t leave her. Understood? Enough.”
“Tom, I raised you to be happy—”
“This is my life. If you interfere, I’ll go.” He turns, leaves.
“Son.”
Morning comes. He leaves without breakfast. They don’t speak. He returns late, locks himself away. Helen is lost, unsure how to mend things.
It feels like yesterday she rocked him to sleep, kissed his scraped knees. Now? A grown man’s life. Acceptance doesn’t come easy.
“Tom, we should talk,” she tries.
“We will—when you’re ready to listen.”
“He really loves her. Push him, and you’ll lose him,” warns Mabel, the wisest at work.
Helen confides over lunch, needing comfort, advice.
“I know I’m wrong, but I couldn’t stop myself—”
“Did you expect him to stay forever? He needs your support, not your judgment. Did his grandmother welcome you?”
“Not at first. But I was younger, no child.”
“She still found faults. Mothers always do. Some adapt. Others wage war. Which will you choose? He’s not off to war—just in love.”
Helen calms, slowly. Three weeks of silence is too long. She resolves to visit Sophie, ask her to let Tom go. She steels herself, gets the address from his mate.
Tuesdays and Fridays, Tom hits the gym after work. She has time. But turning up empty-handed seems hostile. A cake? A peace offering—and she’s not here for peace. A toy? For the boy, not his mother. The boy’s innocent.
She browses the shop, getting carried away—this car today, that one next time. Except there won’t be a next time.
She rings the bell. A pretty woman answers. A smiling boy darts out behind her, puzzled by the stranger.
“Hello, I’m Tom’s mum,” Helen says.
“I thought so. Come in, Harry, go play.”
Helen removes her shoes, slips into large slippers—Tom’s, likely. The flat is cosy, clean.
“I’m Harry. Look at my plane! It makes engine noises!”
“Brilliant. I brought you something.” She presents a small box.
His eyes light up. For fifteen minutes, they inspect the car, testing its features.
“The doors open!” He rolls it across the floor, delighted.
“You like it?”
“Loads! How’d you know I wanted this?”
“Guessed. I’ve got a grown-up son.”
She forgets her purpose. Sophie drifts in and out, listening, then busies herself in the kitchen. Probably dinner. Helen only remembers when she realises Tom will arrive soon. Where else would he be?
“I should go.”
“Won’t you wait for Tom?” Sophie asks.
“Will you come back?” Harry pleads.
“I will.” She means it.
Walking home, she recalls his joy. How quickly he trusted her. Warmth fills her. She liked Sophie’s quiet grace, letting them bond.
At home, she imagines Tom gone for good, the flat empty. Loneliness claws at her. She cries.
Next morning, she tells Mabel about the “confrontation” that wasn’t. How she longed to hug Harry, breathe in that sweet childish scent all mothers adore.
Then Tom calls, casual, inviting her over. Sophie’s baked a cake—he’ll expect her. He knows she visited but gives the address anyway.
After work, she shops. Cake or no, a guest brings gifts. She buys Harry the other car she’d eyed, plus four coloured glass cups.
“Thanks, Mum.” Tom kisses her like before. He helps with her coat. “Four cups?”
“Thought one’s for me—when I visit.”
Sophie smiles.
“Make it five, Mum. I’ve been waiting to ask Sophie.” He produces a velvet box. “Will you marry me?”
“What?” Helen gasps. “You’re—?”
“Not yet. But soon. A girl.” He grins, hugging her. “You’ll be a grandma.”
“You’re my grandma?” Harry’s face is pure wonder.
