The phone rang precisely at midday, slicing through the stillness of my waiting. I remember how I hurried to pick up the receiver, unconsciously straightening the imaginary crease in my best tablecloth, set out just for this occasion.
“Tom? Is that you, love?”
“Hi, Mum. Happy birthday.”
Toms voice was muffled and weary, as if coming from the depths of a cellar.
“Mum, please dont be upset. I cant make it. Not at all.”
I fell silent, my gaze landing on the ornate bowl of prawn cocktail Id fussed over all morning.
“Cant make it? Tom, its my seventieth. A milestone.”
“I know, Mum, I really do. But works got me by the throat. Projects due, everyones counting on me, you know how it is. Partners wont give me a minutes peace. Its chaos.”
“But you promised.”
“Mum, this isnt a whim. I cant just walk away. People are depending on me. I physically cant get out of it.”
A pause fell, broken only by the crackle of the line.
“Ill pop round during the week, just us two. I promise. Alright? Take care.”
The call ended.
Slowly, I placed the receiver back onto the old rotary phone.
Seventy years.
Rushed deadlines.
The rest of the day drifted by as if in a fog. Mrs. Lane from downstairs stopped by with a bar of dark Bournville chocolate. We sat for a short while, each sipping a finger of brandy “for the spirit.”
I tried to smile, to ask about the latest show on telly. But the celebration shrank to the four corners of my kitchen and fizzled out before it ever truly began.
Late that evening, after I changed into my faded flannel dressing gown, I took my iPad and flicked absent-mindedly through Facebook.
Photos of peoples gardens, kittens, recipes.
And suddenlya garish, unmistakably festive post.
Sarahs page, my daughter-in-law.
A brand new post. Uploaded just twenty minutes before.
A restaurantThe Chaucer, or something in that vein. Gilded décor, waiters with white gloves, live music, crystal glasses.
Sarah. Her mother, Mrs. Penelope Hopkins, beaming, draped in pearls, holding a grand bouquet of red roses.
And Tom.
My son Tom, in his pale, pressed shirt, arm wrapped around his mother-in-law.
Hes smiling.
The very Tom who told me he was under siege at work, with monstrous partners breathing down his neck.
I pinched to zoom in on the photograph. The picture came into focus on their joyful, slightly flushed faces.
The caption: “Celebrating our lovely Mums 65th! Moved the party to the weekend for everyones convenience!”
“Convenience.”
I knew full well when her birthday was. The week prior. Tuesday.
They moved it. To my birthday.
To my seventieth.
I scrolled through the photo gallery.
Theres Tom, making a toast, raising his glass of brandy high.
There they are, all together, roaring with laughter. The table heaped with oysters and a mountain of canapés.
I looked at Toms smiling, at-ease, contented face.
It was never about the restaurant. Nor the lavish roses, the likes of which Id never seen.
It was about the lie.
A bold, unbothered, practical lie.
I shut the iPad.
The flat, heavy with the scent of untouched food, felt empty.
My seventieth birthday, so simply turned into an inconvenience.
A date easily brushed aside for his mother-in-laws celebration.
Monday morning greeted me with a bitter trace in the air.
The jellied beef, which I had prepared so carefully, wasnt as fresh. The prawn cocktail had slumped, leaking a tear of mayonnaise. The honey-glazed ham wore an unsavoury sheen.
I fetched the largest bin I had.
Methodically, plate by plate, I swept my birthday into it.
My effort. My hope.
There went the aubergine rolls Tom always loved. There followed the remains of my homemade Victoria sponge.
Each piece that fell into the black sack sent a dull ache through me.
It was worse than hurt. It was erasure.
I had simply been crossed out, politely, with the excuse of “urgent work.”
I washed the dishes. Hauled the heavy, betrayal-scented rubbish out to the bins.
And waited.
He had promised to “pop round in the week.”
When the phone finally rang, it was Wednesday.
“Mum, hi! How are you? Sorry, Ive been snowed under.”
That same everyday, slightly hurried voice.
“Im alright, Tom.”
“Listen, Ive got your present with me. Ill nip in for fifteen minutes. Sarah will pick me up after, we have tickets.”
“Tickets?”
“Yes, to that trendy new play. Sarah got them, you know how she is.”
He arrived an hour later.
He thrust a heavy, glossy box into my hands.
“There you go. Happy birthday again.”
I looked at the picture. An air purifier, replete with lights and ionisation.
“Thank you,” I set it down by the hall.
“Sarah picked it out. Very state-of-the-art, good for the health.”
He walked into the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water straight from the tap.
“Mum, havent you got anything to eat?”
“I threw it all out. On Monday.”
Tom grimaced.
“Blimey, Mum. You could have rung, Id have come round and picked it up”
I watched the back of his head.
Always the idealist, I clung to excuses for him. Sarah insisted. He didn’t want to. He hadnt known.
But here he stood, still lying.
“Tom.”
“Yes?”
“I saw the photos.”
He froze, glass in hand. Slowly turned.
“What photos?”
“From the restaurant. Saturday. On Sarahs page.”
Toms face flinched, then set into irritation.
“Right. So thats it, then.”
“You told me you had work.”
“Mum, for goodness sake, what difference does it make?”
“The difference is, you lied to me.”
Tom slammed the glass down so hard, water spilled over.
“I didnt lie! I was working! I slogged through to Friday! Didnt sleep a wink!”
“And Saturday?”
“Saturday, Sarah put on a party for her mum! You know what shes likeeverything has to be showy! What was I supposed to do?”
He raised his voice.
“Was I meant to split in two? I didnt even want to go anywhere! I was shattered!”
I looked at him.
My grown-up, forty-year-old son.
He was shouting because hed been caught out.
“You could have just told the truth, Tom. Said, Mum, Im not coming, were celebrating with Penelope Hopkins.”
“And what difference would that have made? So you could give me grief all week?”
“So you wouldnt give me grief”that was his sole reason.
“Mum, thats my family. Sarahs my wife. Did you want me to start a row with her over this?”
He looked at me almost with disdain.
He was on the defensive, making me the culprit.
Then the doorbell rang.
“Thatll be Sarah. Got to go, Mum.”
He snatched his coat.
“The purifiers easytheres instructions. Does you good!”
And he was gone, leaving me alone in the kitchen.
I stared at the wet ring his glass left on the tabletop.
The knot in my chest tightened.
My attempt at a proper talk had failed.
He hadnt just lied. He had chosen the lie as the easiest path.
And my birthday was simply an obstacle.
The week passed in a strange, numbed daze.
Still, I unboxed the “gift.” “A useful thing.”
I fiddled with the manual, filled the tank, plugged it in.
The machines soft blue light illuminated, and a gentle hum filled the room.
There it wasnot a scent, but the absence of one.
The air in my flat, always comfortingly seasoned with old books, dried lavender, and my favourite English Rose perfume, now became sterile.
Clinical. Lifeless.
Foreign.
As if someone had scoured my home with bleach, washing away every trace of me.
I tried to adjust. “Sarah picked it.”
The machine buzzed, glowed, “ionised.” But in my bones, breathing in the cleansed air, I felt myself suffocating.
I opened the window, but the sterility refused to clear, mingling with the winter chill, making everything colder.
On Sunday, dusting the cabinet, my hand found a frame.
A photograph. I was fifty in it. Tom, then still at university, hugging me. Smiling, wild-haired, bright-eyed.
On the back, in faded blue ink by his own hand: “To the best and most loved mum in the world! Your Tom.”
I sat on the sofa.
Looked at the grinning young man in the picture.
And listened to the soulless hum of the purifier.
There was my son. The true one. The boy who left notes for me and bought mimosa on his grant.
And over therethat “useful thing,” delivered by a stranger, to keep me quiet.
A present not for me, but instead of me. A token payment.
All my cherished beliefs, that he was “good at heart, pushed by others,” crumbled.
At last, I could see the truth, clear as a bell and cold as steel.
I picked up the phone.
Dialled his number.
“Tom, hello.”
“Mum? Whats happened?” There was the usual wariness.
“Yes. Come over, please.”
“Ive plans, Mum. Sarah”
“Come over. And take back Sarahs present.”
A pause.
“Take it back? What do you mean?”
“Just that. I dont want it. Come and fetch it.”
I hung up.
He arrived forty minutes later. Cross, red-faced, at the door.
“Whats this about? What do you mean, Sarahs present?”
I was standing in the middle of the room, calm.
“I dont want it, Tom. Take it away.”
I pointed to the machine, droning in the corner.
“Are you serious? Thats expensive! Its for your health!”
“My health, Tom, is when my son tells me the truth on my seventieth birthday.”
He recoiled as if struck.
“Here we go again! I explained!”
“No. You didnt. You shouted, then left.”
“For goodness sake, it was just a birthday! We had a do at the Hopkinss! Whats the crime?”
“The crime is the lie, Tom.”
“I lied so you wouldnt be upset!”
“You lied for yourself, to make it easierto avoid explaining why Sarahs mother means more to you than your own one.”
A direct hit.
He opened his mouth, and then his mobile rang in his pocket.
He snatched it up. “Sweetheart” glowing on the display.
Tom hoisted a look from me to the phone and answered.
“Yes, Sarah?”
“”
“Im at Mums. Yes, shes kicking off again about your present.”
“”
“I dont know what she wants, alright? Ill be home soon, I promise!”
He hung up.
For the first time, I saw a flicker of shame in his eyes.
He stood there, caught between the mother who told him the truth and the wife awaiting him for their “theatre night.”
“Mum, I its not like that”
“Go, Tom.” I waved him away. “Sarahs waiting.”
I moved to the window, a silent dismissal.
He hesitated, shrugged, grabbed his coat and left.
I went over, pulled the purifiers plug from the socket.
The low mechanical hum vanished, and my homes familiar scents began to drift back.
A couple of days passed.
The box with the “useful thing” loomed by the door, as though in accusation.
Tom didnt call. He didnt come to collect it. He must have been waiting for me to “cool off” and simply accept.
I realised he wasnt going to.
I rang a courier firm, gave them Toms office addresshe was head of department in a glass-panelled office block.
I paid the courier in pounds, out of my own small pension and watched as two young lads carried it away.
I closed the door behind them.
That was the act. Wordless, but firm.
I wasnt sending back the thing. I was returning them their sterile world, their dishonesty, their hush-money.
That evening the phone rang.
Sarah. Her number flashing.
“Mrs. Turner?” her voice shrill with anger.
“Yes, Sarah?”
“What is the meaning of this? You sent the present back? Toms colleagues all saw the courier drag it in!”
“It didnt suit me.”
“Didnt suit? We paid two hundred for that! It was a gift from us!”
“A gift, Sarah, is from the heart. Not to pay off a lie.”
Stunned silence.
“How dare you!” she shrieked. “Tom nearly lost his job over youworked himself to the bone, and youyouve always been selfish! Never happy with anything!”
“Goodbye, Sarah.”
I ended the call.
I could picture what was happening there now.
Knew the row Sarah was making for Tom.
But for the first time, I didnt care. I felt something rotten was finally cut.
He came late that night, near midnight.
Alone.
A single, hesitant knock on my door.
I opened to find Tom, smaller somehow. Drained, pale.
He walked straight to the kitchen, sat down at the old stool.
I stayed near, not turning on the bright light.
“She said if I came here tonight I neednt come home at all.”
He stared at the table.
“I Mum. Im sorry.”
He raised his eyes.
“I never meant to lie.”
“But you did.”
“SheSarahsaid youd sulk either way. If I told the truth, youd brood and sulk; if I lied, youd get over it. That it was easier that way.”
I said nothing.
There it was, the web of manipulationeasier.
“She said your birthday wasnt anything big. Nothing like her mums. Thered be guests and a fuss at Penelopes, and here just Mrs. Lane?”
“And you?” I asked softly. “Did you think so too?”
Tom took a long while.
“Im tired, Mum. So worn out.”
He put his hands over his face.
“I was just trying to keep everyone happy. And now”
He gave a single, low sob.
“Forgive me for not coming. I should have. I really am sorry.”
I looked at his broad, hunched shoulders.
My ideals hadnt completely crumbled. He was my sonjust a weary, muddled man.
I placed my hand on his shoulder.
Not to pardon him at once. But to give him something solid to hold.
“Its your choice, Tom, how you live.”
“I I dont know anymore.”
“But with me, just honesty.”
He nodded, head down.
“Could I just sit here a while?”
“Of course.”
I fetched his favourite mug and the teapot.
“Let me make us a cup of tea.”
Six months slipped by.
My flat lost all waft of that sterile, foreign smell.
It returned to normalbooks, sometimes a whiff of Rescue Remedy, bunches of dried thyme.
Much had changed since that night.
No, Tom didnt leave Sarah. I never expected he would. They shared a mortgage, endless complicity, routines too rooted.
Such people dont release their grip on their other halves easily.
But Tom changed.
He started coming over.
Not “nipping in for fifteen minutes,” but really visiting.
Every Saturday afternoon. Bringing bakers cheese or my favourite cherry Swiss roll.
We sat in the kitchen together.
He talked about work. About wanting a new car. About his latest colleague.
He never once griped about Sarah.
And never lied again.
I, too, changed.
My idealists belief in his sainthood had faded.
I didnt dread his calls anymore. I simply lived.
I saw the real man before menot the boy from university, but a tired adult doing his best to stay upright.
Our relationshipfree of liesbecame more complicated. But honest.
I didnt win my son backI won back my dignity.
One such Saturday, as we drank tea and shared a slice of cherry roll, Toms phone rang.
I saw the name”Sweetheart”.
I braced myself, kept stirring sugar.
Tom sighed and took the call.
“Yes, Sarah.”
He listened, face greying as before.
“”
“No. Im at Mums.”
“”
“Sarah, I told you, Saturdays Im here. We agreed.”
“”
He closed his eyes.
“Its not that I dont care. Im just at Mums. Ill be home tonight, as promised.”
He cut the call, placed his mobile face down.
The air tensed.
“Sorry, Mum.”
“Its nothing, love,” I said calmly. “Help yourself to more cake.”
He looked at me.
In his eyes: gratitude.
He never asked for help. He never complained.
He just made a choice. And that choice was to be here, sharing tea in my kitchen.
I saw his hand reach for another slice.
And I realisednot an end, but a beginning.
My seventieth, missed by my son, had become his coming of age.
A son Id always loved had, at last, stopped being a boy.
