I knew I had been a terrible mother. I came to see my son—”I don’t have a mother,” he replied, and walked away.
When James turned three, our family fell apart—my husband packed his things and left. No explanations, no regrets. I was left alone with a child, no support, an empty purse, and bitterness in my heart. Months later, I took a job abroad, hoping to rebuild my life and give my boy a proper future.
I left Jamie in my mother’s care. She was the one who took him to nursery, helped him learn rhymes, pressed his school uniform when he started reception. She was the one who comforted him at night when he cried from loneliness. Me? I sent parcels, money, letters. But visits were rare. There was always something—work, chores, new relationships.
Yes, I fell in love. In another city, another country, with another man. And in time, I realised my son didn’t fit into that new life. I tried to deny it, but it was true. He became something distant, a weight, a painful reminder of what I’d run from.
When James finished school, he went to university. Graduated with honours. He landed a job at an international firm and moved to Germany, travelling often, climbing the ranks. I was proud, though I watched from afar.
Once, in France, he met a girl named Eleanor. She was English too. Love sparked between them. Soon they were living together. When Eleanor fell pregnant, they returned to London, married, and bought a flat. Their son, Oliver, was born. James wanted more children, but his wife didn’t—she still had dreams of her own.
He threw himself into work, travelling even more, trying to make up for it with money, gifts, trips. He was exhausted, but he thought he was doing the right thing.
Then he came home early from a trip—nearly two months ahead. Eleanor wasn’t there. Oliver was playing with the nanny, who faltered, claiming Eleanor had gone to the gym. Something in her voice gave it away. As James unpacked gifts, Oliver ran up, took a toy, and said,
“I already have one! Uncle Edward gave me the same!”
It all became clear. Eleanor confessed: she’d been seeing Edward for over a year. “You’re never here,” she said. “I got tired of being alone.”
The next day, James filed for divorce. “You can see Oliver. But the flat is mine. You and your lover can find somewhere else,” he said calmly. She begged—what about Oliver’s home? But he wouldn’t bend.
Two weeks later, she stood at their door with the boy.
“Edward and I are leaving. Oliver should stay with you for now. I’ll come for him once we’re settled.”
“He doesn’t want Oliver around, does he?”
She didn’t answer.
So began their new life—just the two of them. James quit his job, started his own business to stay close to his son. At first, Oliver asked about his mother, but the questions faded. Eleanor never called, never came back. James didn’t marry again—betrayal had left its mark for good.
Years passed. Oliver grew up. One grey evening, a woman approached their door. Aged, regret in her eyes.
“I barely found where you lived. I want to see my son. I know I did everything wrong…”
Oliver looked at his father, who nodded.
“Yes. This is your mother.”
The boy lifted his gaze and said quietly:
“I don’t have a mother.”
He turned and went inside. I stood frozen, staring into her empty eyes. No words were needed.
“You heard him. Don’t come back.”
I closed the door and went to my son. Behind that door was my only real family.
