Vera Nicholson stood in front of the scuffed-up door of the block of flats, clutching an envelope in her trembling hands. The nine-storey building in the quiet outskirts of Sheffield felt foreign, like something from another world. But up there, on the fourth floor, lived her son. Thirty years ago, she’d left him—a little boy with messy blonde hair. Now he was thirty-five…
“Pathetic,” she whispered, staring at the grimy windows. “Just completely hopeless…”
On the bench by the entrance, a group of elderly women were swapping gossip. One of them called out:
“Who are you here for, love?”
“Anthony… Anthony Thompson,” Vera’s voice shook—her son’s name sounded like an echo from the past.
“Oh, Tony?” the woman perked up. “Lovely lad, always polite, always says hello. You family?”
Vera stayed silent, hurrying into the building. Family? A mother who hadn’t seen him in thirty years? Or just some stranger who happened to share his last name? In the lift, she pulled out a compact mirror. Grey streaks in her hair, faint wrinkles at her eyes—at fifty-six, there was no hiding time. Did he remember her face at all? Or was it just a blur now?
Fourth floor. Flat on the left. He must be married—at his age, he had to be… Vera raised her hand to the buzzer, but her fingers betrayed her, trembling. She stood there a minute, two, five… Then, without pressing it, she walked back down and shoved the envelope into the postbox.
*”Anthony. I know I’ve no right to ask. But give me a chance to explain. Mum. Call me—here’s my number…”*
Mum. Such a strange word when you hadn’t said it in three decades. Vera returned to her car and sat there until evening, watching the building. A tall man with a briefcase walked out—the spitting image of his father. That was him. Then a young woman with shopping bags—his wife, probably. They were chatting, laughing. A normal family, a normal evening. Had he read her letter? Would he call?
Her phone rang just as she was about to leave. It was Victor, her ex-husband.
“Why did you come?” His voice—so familiar—was tired and cold.
“Victor…”
“Don’t. Just tell me—why?”
“I want to see my son,” Vera’s voice cracked.
He scoffed, and the sound was full of pain and bitterness.
“Your son? Thirty years of nothing, and now suddenly you care?”
“You don’t understand—”
“No, *you* don’t,” he cut in, quieter but firmer. “Where were you when he was sick? When kids bullied him at school? When he got into uni? Where were you *all those years*?”
Vera said nothing. What could she say?
“He rang me. Said he binned your note,” Victor added. “Leave, Vera. You’re too late. Thirty years too late.”
The dial tone sliced through her. Vera sat staring at the dark windows. She remembered little Anthony, calling for her at night. How she’d pick him up, rocking him, humming a lullaby… Why had she left? Why hadn’t she fought for him?
The next day, she went back. Waited until Victor left for work, then followed. Parked outside his office, walked in after him. He hadn’t changed—same straight posture, same sharp gaze. Just greyer at the temples.
“I told you to go,” he said when he saw her.
“Victor, please. I just want to talk to him. To explain—”
“Explain what?” His face twisted. “How you left for another man? How you built a new life? How you forgot us?”
“I *never* forgot!” Tears spilled over. “I thought about him every day!”
“Thought?” He gave a bitter laugh. “*I* raised him. On my own. Sat up when he was ill. Took him to school. Taught him to be a man. And you—you just *thought*.”
Vera looked down. The office was quiet, just the tick of a clock.
“D’you know what he asked as a kid?” Victor’s voice dropped to a whisper. *”Dad, why doesn’t Mum love me?”* What was I supposed to say?”
“I *did* love him! I *do*!” Vera gasped through tears.
“No, Vera. You loved *yourself*. Your freedom. Your dreams. Not him.”
She stumbled out of the office, legs weak. In the car, her hands shook so badly she couldn’t start the engine. All she could see was little Anthony asking why his mum didn’t love him. How could she? *How?*
That evening, she went back to his flat. Spotted his wife in the courtyard—recognised her from yesterday.
“Excuse me!” Vera called, voice breaking. “Could I… talk to you?”
The woman turned, wary.
“Who are you?”
“I—” Vera’s throat burned. “I’m Anthony’s mum.”
“Oh. *That* mum.” The woman—Emma—sounded bitter.
“Please. I need to speak to him.”
“Why?” Emma shook her head. “To hurt him again?”
“No, I—”
“You know,” Emma adjusted her bag, “he never talks about you. *Ever.* Like it doesn’t exist. And if I were you—”
“Em! You coming?” A voice cut in.
They both flinched. Anthony stood by the entrance—tall, broad-shouldered, just like Victor in his youth. He frowned at them.
“Anthony!” Vera stepped forward, heart in her throat. “It’s me—”
He looked at her like she was a stranger.
“I know who you are,” he said flatly. “And I don’t want to talk.”
“Son—”
“Don’t call me that.” His voice turned sharp. “You left. You didn’t want me. Now I don’t want you.”
“Let me explain!”
“What’s to explain?” He gave the same bitter laugh as Victor. “How you left to start over? Got remarried? Didn’t call *once* in thirty years?”
“I *did* call! That first year—”
“The *first year*,” he nodded. “Then what? Where were you when I was five? Ten? Fifteen? Where were you at my graduation? My wedding?”
Each word hit like a hammer. Vera swallowed tears.
“I’ve got a son on the way,” he said, stepping back. “I’d *never* leave him. *Never.*”
“Anthony…”
“You waited thirty years,” he grabbed the door handle. “Now I’ll take just as long to forget.”
The door slammed. Vera stood in the empty hall, hands pressed to her chest. Music played faintly behind a wall. Someone’s heels clicked down the stairs.
She trudged downstairs, legs giving out on the first floor. Sat on the windowsill, pulled out her phone.
*”Victor,”* she texted her ex. *”Thank you for raising him. For making him… who he is.”*
The reply came minutes later:
*”Go, Vera. Don’t torture him. Or yourself.”*
Back at the hotel, she packed. Took out the old photo—a little boy grinning, waving a toy car. On the back, faded writing: *”Tony, age 3.”*
She thought about leaving it for Emma—maybe one day she’d pass it on… But no. Some bridges can’t be rebuilt. Some mistakes can’t be fixed.
On the train home, she booked a sleeper but didn’t sleep. Just stared out the window at passing towns, houses, lives. Somewhere out there was her son. A stranger now. Forever.
She opened her phone, found Emma’s number. Typed:
*”When the baby’s born, kiss him for the grandma he’ll never have.”*
Then she switched off her phone and closed her eyes. Tears rolled down, but she didn’t wipe them away.
…Three months later, she stumbled on an article about a new bridge. There was Anthony—in a sharp suit, holding an award. Emma stood beside him, pregnant bump obvious. They were smiling. Happy. Young. Whole.
Vera printed the photo, placed it next to the old one—where a three-year-old waved his toy car. Thirty-two years between them. A lifetime.
*”Mum, why don’t you love me?”* The words echoed.
“I did,” she whispered to the photos. “I just didn’t know how to show it. And now it’s too late.”
She never tried to contact him again. Never sought him out. Never wrote. Just sometimes, rarely, checked his socials. Watched as little Victor grew up, as they went on holidays, celebrated birthdays.
A happy life. One she’d never be part of.
