Childhood Hurts
Emily spread the porridge onto plates, drawing a funny face in jam on her son’s portion.
“Gentlemen! Breakfast is ready!” she called, pouring freshly brewed tea into mugs.
Tommy sat at the table and scowled at his plate.
“I don’t like porridge,” he grumbled.
“Since when? Oatmeal’s good for you. If you want to go skating, you’ll need a proper breakfast.” Robert sat down opposite his son, scooped up a spoonful, and ate it.
“Mmm… Delicious. Your mum’s a magician. Trust me, no one makes oatmeal like her.”
Tommy eyed his father skeptically but picked up his spoon. When he finished, Emily took the empty plate and slid his tea closer.
“Something wrong?” she asked her husband. “You’ve been miles away lately. Trouble at work?”
“I ate it all. When are we going skating?” Tommy piped up.
“Go play. Mum and I need to talk.” Robert caught his son’s sulky look. “Later. Promise.”
For a second, Emily swore she could read Tommy’s mind—torn between tears, fearing the rink trip might be cancelled, or stomping off to stew in his room. She smiled reassuringly and nodded—skating was still on, just delayed.
Tommy slid off his chair and trudged out of the kitchen, pouting.
“So, what’s eating you?” Emily took his seat.
“Don’t know where to start. I don’t even understand it myself,” Robert admitted, spinning his teacup.
“Is there someone else? Are you leaving?” Emily cut straight to it.
“Em, what? How could you even think that?” Robert flushed with indignation.
“Well, if work’s fine, what else could have you this tied up in knots? Yesterday, I asked you to take the bins out. You nodded, then forgot. You’re distracted. Just tell me the truth.”
Robert studied his wife.
“My mother came to see me,” he finally forced out. Emily could see the words cost him.
“In a dream? What ghostly revelation’s had you in a funk for days?” she joked weakly.
“No. Not a dream. Alive.” Robert shoved his cup away, sloshing tea. Emily snatched a cloth and wiped it up.
“She’s dead. Or were you lying all this time?” She tossed the cloth into the sink and sat back down.
“I wasn’t lying. She *was* dead to me,” he snapped, irritated at having to explain.
“Alright, slow down. Dead, alive… Explain. I’m listening.”
“What’s to explain? I was ten, maybe. Dad drank. They fought constantly. She was beautiful—he was jealous. Hit her sometimes. She covered the bruises, but I saw.”
That day, his father stumbled home blind drunk. Started blaming his mother for his drinking. She stayed quiet, which only made him angrier. Robert retreated to his room, listening to their shouts. Then a heavy thud—silence. He crept out later. His father sprawled on the floor, a trickle of blood from his head. His mother stood over him, hands clamped over her mouth.
She shoved Robert out, saying Dad had fallen, she’d call an ambulance. But the police came instead. She left with them, promising to return, told him to wait for Aunt Margaret—his father’s sister. He sat in the hallway until she arrived, weeping, calling his mother a murderer, saying prison was too good for her. Then she ordered him to pack—he’d live with her now. What could he do?
She poisoned him against his mother. He’d scream that his mum was kind, loved his dad, that there’d been no other men. No one listened. Uncle James, Aunt Margaret’s husband, warned him to keep quiet. “Let people think your parents died in a crash,” he’d said. “Or kids’ll bully you for having a killer for a mother.”
His mother never came for him. No letters, no calls. He stopped waiting. They fed him, clothed him, but didn’t love him. He felt like a burden.
Once, he stole a fiver from Aunt Margaret’s purse—for what, he couldn’t recall. She didn’t give him pocket money. She caught him, slapped him, threatened foster care if it happened again.
He counted the days until he could leave. Somehow, he didn’t turn into a delinquent. After school, he moved away, enrolled at university, met Emily.
He’d lied for so long about his parents being dead that he kept it up—even with her. Terrified she’d leave if she knew the truth.
“God, what you’ve been through.” Emily covered his hand. “Did you ever see her again? Your mum?”
“No. When she showed up at my office three days ago, I didn’t recognize her—but I *knew*. Felt it. At first, I refused to speak to her. Still angry she’d abandoned me, killed Dad, ruined everything. But the way she looked at me… I agreed to listen. We went to a café near work.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Em, I’m ashamed to say it, but… I’m glad she’s back.”
“What did she tell you? Did she… do it?” Emily watched him tensely.
Robert nodded.
“Like I said—an accident. Dad swung at her; she pushed him away. He lost his balance, hit his temple on the table’s edge.”
“They sent her down for it?”
“Yeah. Dad had fresh bruises—they thought she’d attacked him during the fight. No marks on her. They called it premeditated. The neighbors and Aunt Margaret testified against her.”
She’d written letters, he learned. He never got them—Aunt Margaret must’ve destroyed them. One begged for a visit. She showed him the reply: *He’s forgotten you. Doesn’t want a murderer for a mother.* He never knew. And when he grew up, he never looked for her. Never asked. All those years…
“But why now? Why wait till after prison?”
“I asked the same. She was scared, she said. Terrified I wouldn’t believe her, wouldn’t forgive her. All this time, she’d watched from afar—knew everything about me. And I never noticed.” He gripped his hair.
She’d sold her flat, moved closer—worked as a cleaner, though she’d studied history. Schools wouldn’t hire her. Thought he’d be ashamed. She wasn’t wrong.
“Now?”
“Guides at the local museum. Does city tours sometimes.”
Emily paused.
“I think I’ve seen her. What’s she look like?”
“Plain. Tall, slender—too thin, really. Sad eyes…”
“That’s her. A woman in a black coat, pink beret—stood by our building last week when Tommy and I came home. I held the door, but she wouldn’t come in.”
“That’s her. She said she’d come often—just to see us.”
“What does she want?” Emily wrapped her arms around herself.
“Does it bother you, knowing my mother killed my father—even by accident? It was decades ago. She served her time. She just wants to know us.”
“What do we tell Tommy? Where’s this granny suddenly appeared from?” Emily shivered.
“Easy. Say she lived abroad. Lost touch. That’s not what worries me. I lived all these years believing she abandoned me. Even knowing the truth now… I can’t call her ‘Mum.’”
At first, he’d refused to speak to her. Now, he hated himself for never searching.
“I get it. Childhood wounds. But—do you believe her? That it was an accident?”
He straightened. “I’ve thought of nothing else. Yes.”
“When are you seeing her?”
“Tomorrow. We’ll all go. Don’t look at me like that. She’s my mother.”
“Rob, maybe just you first? Prep Tommy…”
“Right. We’ll skate now—he’s waited long enough. Gives us time to adjust. Me, having a mother. Him, a grandmother.” He stood, suddenly lighter. “Tommy! Get ready—we’re off!”
Now it was Emily’s turn to think. That night, she lay awake while Robert slept soundly for the first time in days. *I thought he was having an affair. Fool.*
Staring at the ceiling, she remembered her own strained relationship with her mother. The fights after her dad left. Her mum dated; Emily hated it. She’d storm out whenever men visited. When Nicholas moved in, she nearly ran away. Once, during a row about curfew, she’d screamed *I hate you.* She hadn’t understood the word then—just knew she didn’t *love* her in that moment.
Later, someone explained: to hate someone was to erase them. Wish them dead.
Things never mended. So she’d lost her mother too—treated her like a ghostShe reached for her phone, dialed her mother’s number again, and whispered, “Let’s not wait until it’s too late.”
