Childhood Wounds
Emily spooned porridge into bowls, swirling strawberry jam into a smiley face on her son’s portion.
“Gentlemen! Breakfast!” she called, pouring freshly brewed tea into mugs.
Liam slumped into his chair and scowled at his bowl.
“Don’t like porridge,” he grumbled.
“Since when? Oats are good for you. If you want to go skating, you need a proper breakfast.” James sat across from his son, scooped a spoonful, and took a bite. “Mmm… delicious. Your mum’s a miracle worker. Believe me, no one makes porridge like she does.”
Liam gave his dad a skeptical look but picked up his spoon. When he finished, Emily cleared his empty bowl and nudged his tea closer.
“Something wrong?” she asked her husband. “You’ve been distant lately. Work trouble?”
“I ate it all. When are we going skating?” Liam chimed in eagerly.
“Go play. Mum and I need to talk.” James caught his son’s pout. “Later, promise.”
For a second, Emily thought she could read Liam’s mind—torn between tears, fearing skating might be cancelled, or sulking in his room. She smiled and nodded, reassuring him they’d go, just not yet.
Liam slid off his stool and stomped out, face sour.
“So, what’s eating you?” Emily took his seat.
“Don’t know how to start. I don’t even understand it myself,” James muttered, spinning his mug.
“Are you having an affair? Is that it?” Emily cut straight to it.
“Em, what? How could you even think that?” James flushed with indignation.
“Well, if it’s not work, what else has you so tied up? Yesterday, I asked you to take the bins out. You nodded, then forgot. You’re miles away. Just tell me—no lies.”
James studied her, then exhaled.
“My mother came to see me,” he forced out.
Emily watched the words cost him.
“In a dream? What’d she say from beyond the grave that’s had you in a funk for days?” she joked weakly.
“No. Not a dream. In person.” James shoved his mug away, sloshing tea. Emily grabbed a sponge and wiped the spill.
“But she’s dead. Or were you lying all this time?” She tossed the sponge into the sink.
“I didn’t lie. She *was* dead to me,” he snapped.
“Right. Dead, alive—explain. I’m listening.”
“What’s to explain? I was ten. Dad drank. They fought constantly. Mum was beautiful, and he was jealous. Hit her sometimes. She covered the bruises, but I saw.”
His voice tightened. “That night, Dad came home wasted. Blamed Mum for his drinking. She stayed quiet—worse. I went to my room but heard them shouting. Then a crash. Silence. I waited, then crept out. Dad was on the floor, bleeding from his head. Mum stood over him, hands clamped over her mouth.”
“She shoved me out, said he’d fallen, that she’d call an ambulance. But the police came. Mum left with them, told me to wait for Aunt Margaret—Dad’s sister. I sat in the hall till she arrived. She sobbed, called Mum a murderer, said she belonged in prison. Then she packed my things. Said I’d live with her now. What could I do?”
“She poisoned me against Mum. I screamed that Mum loved Dad, that she’d never hurt him. No one listened. Uncle John, Aunt Margaret’s husband, told me to say my parents died in a crash. Said kids would bully me for having a killer mum.”
James’s voice cracked. “She never came for me. No letters, no calls. I stopped waiting. They fed me, clothed me, but didn’t love me. I felt like a burden.”
“Once, I stole a fiver from Aunt Margaret’s purse. Don’t remember why. She never gave me pocket money. She hit me, threatened to send me to a home if I ever stole again.”
“I counted the days till I could leave. Dunno how I didn’t turn out a delinquent. After school, I moved here, enrolled at uni, met you.” He rubbed his face. “I lied so long about my parents being dead, I couldn’t tell you the truth. Scared you’d leave if you knew.”
“God, James…” Emily covered his hand. “You never saw her again? Your mum?”
“Not till three days ago. She showed up at my office. Didn’t recognise her at first, but I *knew*. Didn’t want to talk. Still angry—for leaving me, for killing Dad, for ruining my life. But she looked at me… and I listened. We went to a café near work.” His throat worked. “Em, I’m ashamed to admit it, but I’m glad she’s back.”
“What did she say? Did she… do it?”
James nodded. “Like I said—an accident. Dad swung at her. She pushed him. He fell, hit his head on the table corner.”
“Did she go to prison?”
“Yeah. Fresh bruises on Dad’s chest made it look like she’d attacked him. No marks on her. They called it murder. Aunt Margaret and the neighbours testified against her.”
His voice turned raw. “She wrote me letters. Never got one. Aunt Margaret must’ve trashed them. One asked to see me. Mum showed me Aunt Margaret’s reply—that I’d forgotten her, that I didn’t want a killer for a mother. I never knew. And when I grew up, I never looked for her. All those years…”
Emily watched his pain. “Why wait so long? Why not come when she got out?”
“I asked. She was scared. Said she’d kept tabs on me, watched from a distance. Sold her flat, moved here. Worked as a cleaner—history degree and all. Thought I’d be ashamed.” His laugh was hollow. “She wasn’t wrong.”
“Now?”
“Tour guide at the local museum. Does city walks sometimes.”
Emily tilted her head. “Think I’ve seen her. What’s she look like?”
“Tall, slim. Too thin. Sad eyes…”
“That woman by our building! In the long black coat and pink beret. I held the door—she wouldn’t come in.”
“That’s her. Said she came often to watch us.”
“What does she want?” Emily folded her arms.
“Does it bother you? That my mum killed my dad, even by accident? She served her time. Just wants to know us.”
“What do we tell Liam? Where’s Granny been?”
“We’ll say she lived abroad. Didn’t have our number. That’s not what frightens me. I lived decades without her, believing she abandoned me. Now I know she didn’t… but I can’t call her ‘Mum.’”
His hands trembled. “At first, I refused to speak to her. Now I’m ashamed I never looked.”
“I get it. Childhood wounds run deep. But do you believe her? That it was an accident?”
“I’ve thought of nothing else. Yes, I believe her.”
“When are you seeing her?”
“Tomorrow. We’ll all go—”
“Whoa. Maybe just you first? Liam needs easing into this.”
“You’re right. Skating first. We’ve time to adjust. To me having a mother, Liam a grandmother.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Funny—people say you’re always a kid while your parents live. I never felt that. I unlearned the word ‘Mum.’”
“How’d you address her?”
“Didn’t. Just listened.” He stood suddenly, brisk. “Right. Skate time. Liam! Coat on, lad!”
***
That night, Emily couldn’t sleep. James, for once, was peaceful. *And I thought he was having an affair. Bloody idiot.*
Staring at the ceiling, she remembered her own strained relationship with her mother. The fights after Dad left. Mum dating—men smirking at the dinner table. When Nigel moved in, Emily nearly ran away. Once, after a curfew row, she’d screamed, “I hate you!” She hadn’t known what it meant then—just that she didn’t *love* her in that moment.
Later, someone explained hate was wishing someone dead, erasing them. That’s what she’d done. Left for uni, kept calls polite, visits brief. Never reconciled.
Emily tossed. *I’ll call tomorrow. Apologise. Childhood wounds… Liam’ll grow up. I’ll meddle, he’ll resent me. How do I stop him screaming he hates me?*
She padded to the kitchen, moonlight pooling on the tiles. *James lost his mum and found her. I never lost mine, yet we’re strangers. Call now?* The oven clock read 12:30. *Tomorrow. I’ll say I love her.*
Next morning, while James showered, Emily dialled.
“Em!”Hello, Mum—I just wanted to say I love you,” she whispered, heart lighter as her mother’s joyful sob echoed through the phone, promising a new beginning for them all.
