He’s Ashamed of Us: How My Son Forgot Who Raised Him
In his pristine white kitchen, inside his perfect flat with panoramic windows on the eleventh floor, Oliver slowly sipped fragrant coffee from an expensive cup. He wore a freshly pressed suit, his hair neatly styled, his face calm and confident. This was the life he had grown accustomed to—polished, seamless, with no reminders of the past. Then—a knock at the door. He frowned. Terrible timing. Setting the cup down on the marble counter, he reluctantly made his way to the entrance.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me, love… Mum.”
He froze. On the other side of the door, hunched against the cold, stood a woman in an old puffer coat, a scarf wrapped over her woolly hat. In her hands—an oversized bag: jars of preserves, honey, homemade treats bundled in cloth. Beneath her coat peeked cracked wellies. Her lips trembled, less from the chill than from nerves.
“Mum? Why didn’t you call?” he asked through gritted teeth, glancing around sharply, praying none of the neighbours saw.
“Sweetheart, your number wouldn’t go through. I came anyway—we’ve got trouble. We need your help…”
He sighed, stepping aside to let her into the hallway. Gripping her elbow, he hurried her inside and shut the door behind them. His eyes darted—how to hide her?
Oliver had lived in London for years. He’d studied hard, graduated with first-class honours, landed a job at a top firm. Contacts, a bit of luck, and relentless ambition had paid off—his career skyrocketed. His parents, still in their village near York, rarely saw him. He called occasionally—Easter, Christmas—but kept his past tucked away. Certainly not something to boast about.
“What’s happened, Mum?” he asked coldly as she struggled with her mittens.
“Your cousin, little Tommy, he’s poorly. Ryan and Sarah are barely coping. They’ve got their second baby now, Sarah’s not working, and you know your brother helped you every month when you were at uni… Love, just a little something would go a long way for them…”
Before he could reply, the doorbell rang again. He spun around.
“Stay quiet!” he hissed. “Don’t come out. God forbid anyone sees you!”
He shut the bedroom door and rushed back to the entrance. His colleague, Simon, stood there, smirking.
“Oi, Ollie—concierge said your mum’s here?” He raised an eyebrow. “Thought you told us your parents died in a crash in Spain?”
“Ah! She must’ve got the wrong flat. Some odd old woman, wrong address. Sorted now,” Oliver brushed him off. “Listen, fancy nipping to the shops? Emily’s coming over—boss’s daughter. Gotta make this dinner perfect. Might finally get serious with her, you know?”
He winked and all but shoved Simon out. Returning, he glanced toward the bedroom. There, perched on the edge of his bed, sat his mother. Her eyes—empty. She’d heard everything.
“Son… you really told them we’re… dead?” Her voice shook. “Why lie like that? Where’d you learn such shame?”
He grimaced.
“Mum, enough. How much do they need?”
“Fifty…” she whispered.
“Thousand pounds?”
“Don’t be daft! Just fifty quid…”
“You ruined my evening over this?” He pulled out his wallet. “Here. Take it. Don’t just turn up like this again. Please. I’ve got a different life now. We’re different people.”
He booked her a cab, got her a room in a cheap hotel near the station, and bought her a return ticket. Said goodbye without looking back.
Late that night, he and Emily walked into the bedroom. She perched on the bed, glancing around—then her nose wrinkled.
“What’s that rubbish? Oliver, what’s that stink?”
“Cleaner’s mess. Always dragging in junk. I’ll dock her pay this month,” he muttered, turning away.
Meanwhile, in a rattling train carriage, his mother rode home. She stared out the window at blurring streetlights, swallowing tears. One question looped in her mind: where had they gone wrong? Where had they lost their boy, that he now cringed at their smell, their hands, their very existence?
And why had the love they’d poured into him turned into this aching wound?
