You know, I kept telling myself all summer that James was just busy with work. Three months went by without so much as a call. Sunday used to be our thinghed phone around noon, just as I was finishing up the roast and hed be sipping his coffee. Sometimes midweek I’d get a quick text: asking about my blood pressure, if Id been to the doctor, if Mrs. Baxter downstairs was still making a racket. Nothing big, just our little check-ins. After Bill died, those Sunday calls were honestly the only thing keeping me above water.
Sixty-one now, four years a widow, over three decades in the councils planning officeand then suddenly, its just me in a quiet flat, days stretching out long, with that one phone call on Sundays as my only anchor.
But in May, James went silent.
At first, I didnt worry too much. The first week I figured hed just forgotten. Sent a quick texthe replied, Flat out at work, will call soon. Never did. Second week, another text from me. His turn: All good, Mum, well chat soon. Third weeknothing. I rang him, hed answer hours later, messages short as if someone else was texting for him.
You know, it was my friend Janetmet her ages ago at pilates at the community centrewho finally said it straight:
Sarah, go see him. Somethings off.
Maybe hes dating someone and feels awkward saying, I tried to rationalise, but more to calm myself than her.
Well he ought to call his mother then, she shrugged.
But I hesitated. James never liked surprises. Years back, when Bill was still with us, we once popped in unannouncedJames looked mortified, as if wed caught him doing something dreadful, but really the kitchen was just messy. He always liked his own space. I thought I understood that. Or wanted to, at least.
By August, I just couldnt sit with it anymore. I bought a National Express ticket to Liverpoolthree hours up the motorway. Packed a jar of my homemade strawberry jam and a slab of lemon drizzle cake, because even since he was a teenager, hes always had a soft spot for it. The whole journey I was rehearsing what Id sayjust that I missed him, that he didnt need to call every day, but once a week surely isnt too much. That Im his mum, not a burden.
Climbing up to his floor, the third, last door on the right with the brown doormat that said Cheers!a silly gift from me for his housewarming years ago.
The mat was gone.
Instead there was a plain grey one. I rang the bell. A young woman opened upmid-thirties, short brown bob, tracksuit, cup of tea in hand.
Hello, Im looking for James Wilson, I said, trying to stay calm.
She squinted at me.
No James here. Ive been renting this flat for the last six months.
I just stood there, clutching lemon cake and jam, completely winded. She (her name was Emily, I found out) let me in, probably because I looked like I might faint on her doorstep.
The flat was completely different. Furniture, curtains, even the wall colournothing like I remembered. There was nothing of James anywhere.
Emily had got the flat through an agency, never even met the landlord. She gave me the letting agents number. I just sat there, on a sofa where James used to sit, ringing him on the spot.
The agent confirmed itJames Wilson let out his flat back in February. No forwarding address, but yes, he paid on time, bank transfers from his UK account.
I got the last bus back to Oxford that night. Oddly, I didnt cry. I was too stunned. My only sonmy rock through losing Bill, the one who helped with my tax return and always said, Mum, Ill be here for youhed moved out, let his flat to a stranger, and not told me a single thing.
I held off calling for three days. Part of me wanted him to call first. He didnt.
On the fourth day, I texted: I was in Liverpool. I know you dont live there anymore. Call me.
He rang an hour later. First time Id heard his voice really live, not just on voicemail, in three months.
Mum Im sorry. I should have told you.
Where are you? I asked.
Silence. Heavy, loaded silence.
Im in Edinburgh. Since March.
I just sat in my kitchen, staring out at Mrs. Daniels hanging up her washing. Life outside looked utterly normal, while mine was spinning.
James talked for a long time. He said after dad died, he just couldnt breathe sometimes. My calls, my questions, the care packageshe felt suffocated. But couldnt tell me, knowing it would devastate me. So he ran, took the worst routedisappearing.
If I hadnt left, Mum, I think Id have drowned. Not because of you, just being expected to step into dads shoes, to be whats missing.
I wanted to shout that Id never asked that of him. But if I was honest, all those calls, all those updates about doctors appointments and who owed what on the water billId been treating him less as a son, more as a substitute husband.
I didnt say it aloud. I wasnt ready.
Come home for Christmas, I managed.
I will, Mum. I promise.
I stayed sitting at the kitchen table for ages afterwards. The lemon cake Id carted all the way to Liverpool just sat there. I had a slice on my own. Still tasted brilliant. It always did.
James came home that December, sat across from me at the Christmas tableBills old seat, but not in his place anymore. Just as himself. An adult man whod done something painful, for reasons of his own. We didnt mention Edinburgh during Christmas dinner. Maybe one day we will. Maybe not.
Janet sometimes asks if Ive forgiven him. I dont really know. But nowadays, when he calls on Sundaysand he does, right on timeI try to talk a bit less, ask more about him. Its not much, but its a start.
Sometimes, the biggest love a mum can show her grown-up child is letting them goeven if no one teaches us how.
