On his pristine white kitchen in a flawless flat with panoramic windows on the eleventh floor, Oliver leisurely sipped aromatic coffee from an expensive cup. He wore a freshly pressed suit, his hair neatly styled, his face calm and assured. This life—presentable, uninterrupted, free from reminders of the past—had become his norm. Then, a knock at the door. He frowned. Inconvenient. Setting the cup on the marble table, he reluctantly walked over.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me, son… Mum.”
He froze. Beyond the door, hunched against the cold, stood a woman in a worn-out coat with a scarf over her hat. In her hands, a bulging bag—jars of preserves, honey, homemade treats bundled in cloth. Beneath her coat peeked cracked winter boots. Her lips trembled, less from the chill than from nerves.
“Mum? Why didn’t you call?” he muttered through gritted teeth, glancing sideways—what if a neighbour saw?
“Your phone wouldn’t answer, love. I had to come—we’re in trouble. We need you…”
Sighing, he stepped aside, ushering her into the hallway. Gripping her elbow, he hurried her inside and shut the door. His eyes darted—how to hide her?
Oliver had lived in London for years. Excelling at university, he landed a prestigious job. Ambition and luck propelled him—his career soared. His parents, still in their little Yorkshire village, scarcely saw him. He rang them sporadically—Christmas, perhaps Easter. His past was something he tucked away, never something to flaunt.
“What’s wrong, Mum?” he asked coldly as she struggled with her gloves.
“Your nephew, little Freddie, he’s poorly. Your brother Henry and his wife Claire are barely managing. The new baby’s come, Claire’s not working—you remember how Henry sent you money every month when you were studying… Love, just a little help, they’re struggling…”
Before he could reply, another knock. He stiffened.
“Stay quiet,” he hissed. “Don’t come out. For heaven’s sake, don’t let anyone see you!”
Shutting her in the bedroom, he rushed to the door. His colleague Marcus stood there.
“Oi, Ollie, the concierge said your mum’s here?” He raised a brow. “Thought you said your parents died tragically in Spain?”
“Ah! Mistaken identity. Some odd old woman, wrong flat. Sorted it now,” he brushed it off. “Listen, could you fetch some wine? Emma’s coming over—the boss’s daughter. Need to impress. Things might get serious.”
Winking, he nudged Marcus out. Returning, he glanced toward the bedroom. There, perched on the edge of the bed, sat his mother. Her eyes—glassy. She’d heard everything.
“Son… you tell people we’re dead?” Her voice quavered. “Why lie? Where did you learn such shame?”
He grimaced.
“Mum, enough. How much do they need?”
“Three…” she whispered.
“Thousand pounds?”
“No, just pounds…”
“You ruined my evening for this? Here’s fifty. Don’t turn up like this again. Please. I’ve moved on. We’re different people.”
He booked her a taxi, a cheap hotel room near the station, and a return ticket. Said goodbye without a glance.
Late that night, Emma sat on the bed, eyeing the worn bag in the corner.
“What’s this rubbish, Oliver? It stinks.”
“Cleaning lady’s mess. Always dragging in junk. I’ll dock her pay this month,” he said dismissively.
Meanwhile, in a rattling train carriage, his mother stared at passing streetlights, swallowing tears. She wondered—where had they gone wrong? When had their son grown ashamed of their scent, their hands, their lives?
And why had the love they’d poured into him turned into such sorrow?
*Pride may lift you high, but it’s the roots that keep you standing when the winds of life grow cold.*
