The phone rang precisely at midday, cutting through the quietly tense air like a knife. I picked up in haste, my thumb nervously smoothing out an imaginary crease on the special tablecloth I had laid out just for today.
Oliver? Darling?
Hi, Mum. Happy birthday.
Olivers voice was tired, slightly muffled, as though he was calling from the bottom of a well.
Mum, promise me you wont be upset, but I cant make it today. Honestly.
I didnt say anything straight away. My eyes rested on the prawn salad Id spent half the morning preparing.
How do you mean, you cant? Oliver, Im seventy today. Seventy.
I know, Mum. Its just works a nightmare. Deadlines brought forward, clients are relentlessyou know what the business is like. Everythings on my shoulders.
But you promised…
Its not just me, Mum, I cant let anyone down right now. I just physically cant get away.
There was a pause, filled only with static.
Ill drop by later this week, just us two. I mean it. Love you.
A click, then silence.
I let the receiver rest in its cradle.
Seventy years old.
Unforgiving deadlines.
The evening went by in a blur. Angela from next door popped in with a bar of Bourneville dark chocolate. We had a little sherry to lift the spirits.
I tried to smile, to nod, to tell her about a TV show. But the day dwindled to the size of the kitchen, dimmed and fizzled out before it could ever begin.
Quite late, already changed into my old flannel dressing gown, I reached for my tablet. Aimlessly, I scrolled through my Facebook feed.
Gardens, grandchildren, recipesthen a bright, brash splash of colour.
Charlottes pagemy daughter-in-law.
A new post. Uploaded just twenty minutes ago.
A restaurantone of those upmarket places you see in the Sunday papers. Gilded mirrors, waiters in white gloves, live piano, the whole works.
Charlotte. Her mother, Margaret, radiant in pearls, with a massive bouquet of deep red roses.
And Oliver.
My son, Oliver. In a crisp pale shirt, hugging his mother-in-law.
Hes smiling.
The very same Oliver for whom there was a crisis at work and impossible clients.
I enlarged the photo so I could see their happy, animated faces.
The caption read: Celebrating Mums big 65! We moved the party to the weekend so everyone could comeso special!
So convenient.
I remembered exactly when Margarets birthday wasthe week before, on a Tuesday.
Theyd moved it.
To my birthday.
My seventieth.
I flicked through the carousel. Theres Oliver giving a toast, glass of cognac held high. Theres the whole family, Charlotte beside him, laughing, heads thrown back over oysters and every imaginable starter.
I stared at my sons jubilant, relaxed face.
It wasnt the restaurant. Or the ostentatious bouquet bigger than any Id ever had.
It was the lie.
The plain, easy, everyday lie.
I closed the tablet.
The kitchen, thick with the aromas of untouched party food, felt deserted.
My seventieth birthday, my milestone, was nothing more than an inconvenience. A date that could be pushed aside for someone elses celebration.
Monday morning greeted me with a sour, musty notea party that never was.
The meat Id so lovingly cooked was no longer fresh. The prawn salad was limp; the roasted pork glazed with a filmy sheen.
I took out the biggest bin liner I had and methodically scraped away my own birthday.
All my care. All the waiting.
The aubergine rolls that Oliver always likedgone. The last slices of my homemade Victoria spongescooped in with the rest.
Every piece that landed in the black sack thudded inside mea dull, steady ache.
It wasnt just disappointment. It felt like erasure.
I washed up, tied the bag, and took it outside, heavy with betrayal.
And then I waited.
Hed promised hed come sometime this week.
The phone rang, finally, on Wednesday.
Mum! How are you? Sorry, been swamped.
Same casual, slightly rushed tone.
Im fine, Oliver.
Ive got your present in the car, Ill just pop by for fifteen minutesCharlottes picking me up after, weve got theatre tickets.
Theatre tickets?
Yeah, you know, Charlotte got us these. So, Ill just dash in, alright?
He arrived an hour later.
Handed me a heavy, glossy box. Happy birthday again, Mum.
I looked at the label. Air purifierwith ioniser and night-light.
Thanks, I murmured, setting it down in the hallway.
Charlotte chose it. Really clever bit of kitgood for your health, apparently.
He wandered off to the kitchen, poured a glass of water straight from the tap.
Mum, you havent put anything out to eat?
I threw everything away. On Monday.
He pulled a face. Blimey. You couldve rung, Id have picked something up
I watched him in silence.
Id clung to his excuses, believed Charlotte mustve insisted, that he didnt want to lie, or didnt know.
But here he was, still lying.
Oliver.
He hadnt looked at me. Yeah?
I saw the photos.
He froze, water glass in hand, turned.
What photos?
At the restaurant. Saturday. On Charlottes page.
His face changed, hardening, a flash of irritation.
Oh. I see. So, here we go
You said you had work.
Mum, for heavens sake, whats the difference?
The difference is, you lied to me.
He put his glass down so sharply water sloshed over the rim.
I didnt lie! I was working! Didnt sleep Friday night, wrapping it all up!
And on Saturday?
Saturday was for Charlottes mum. You know what shes likeshe wanted the big affair! What did you expect me to do?
He got louder.
I was shattered. I didnt even want to go! I was worn out!
I just looked at him.
There he wasmy grown-up, forty-year-old son.
Shouting because hed been caught out.
You couldve just told me the truth, Oliver. Mum, I cant comewere having a do for Margaret.
And what difference would that have made? So you could guilt-trip me for a week?
So that was it.
Mum, shes my family. I had to be there. Would you rather I gave Charlotte grief instead?
He looked at me, almost with resentment.
He defended himself by making me the villain.
The bell rang; Charlotte had arrived.
Right, thats Charlotte. I have to go.
He snatched up his coat.
Read the instructions for the air purifier, Mum. Itll do you good.
He dashed out, leaving me in the kitchen, staring at the spreading watermark from his glass.
The knot tightened.
My attempt to have an adult conversationa dignified, clear discussionhad failed.
He hadnt just lied. He had chosen the lie because it was easier.
And my birthdaymy seventiethwas simply inconvenient.
The week slid by in a weird, numbed state.
I eventually unpacked the present. A useful thing.
Fiddling around with the settings, I filled the tank and plugged it in.
The machine glowed blue and hummed quietly.
It wasnt a new smell. It was the lack of any smell at all.
My flat, always redolent of things I lovedold books, dried lavender, the faint trace of my favourite Yardley violet scentbecame clinical.
Sterile.
As if someone had wiped away every trace that I ever lived here.
I tried to get used to it. Charlotte chose it.
The air purifier purred, blue light shining, ionising everything. And I found it harder and harder to breathe in that scrubbed atmosphere.
I cracked open the window, but the cold air only diluted the emptiness, making it feel even more barren.
On Sunday, I decided to dust the china cabinet.
My hands moved automatically until they found a photo frame.
There I was, fifty, Oliverthen a studentbeside me, his smile beaming, hair all a mess, eyes sparkling.
On the back, in faded ink, hed written: For the worlds best mum. Love you always, Oliver.
I sat down on the settee.
I stared at that smiling boy in the photo. Then listened to the unfeeling hum of the air purifier.
There was my son. The real one. The one whod scribbled me notes, who used to buy me daffodils out of his student grant.
And now, a useful thing, bought not for me but to buy off some imagined debt.
Id lost my faith in easy explanations.
I saw it all with a surgical, cold clarity.
I reached for the phone.
Dialled his number.
Oliver, hello.
Mum? Something up? That old defensive tone again.
Yes. Please come round.
Ive got plans, Mum. Charlotte
Just come. And bring Charlottes present. I dont want it here.
Pause.
What do you mean?
I mean it, Oliver. I dont need it. Just come and get it.
I hung up.
He came round forty minutes later, red-faced and angry.
What are you playing at? Whats this about the present?
I stood in the centre of the room. Calm.
I dont want it, Oliver. Take it away.
I pointed at the softly humming machine in the corner.
You cant be serious. That thing wasnt cheap! Its good for you!
My health, Oliver, is knowing my son doesnt lie to me on my seventieth.
He recoiledlike Id hit him.
Here we go again! I already explained
No. You shouted at me and stormed off.
Oh, for heavens sake, Mum! So we had a dinner with Margaretthats not a crime, is it?
The lie was.
I only lied so you wouldnt get upset!
Noyou lied so itd be easier for you, I answered, level. So you wouldnt have to say why Charlottes mum matters more to you than I do.
Right on target.
He opened his mouth, and just then his phone ranga cartoon heart flashing on the screen: Kitten.
Oliver glanced at me, then at the phone, and answered.
Yeah, Charlotte?… Im at Mums. Yes, shes kicking off about the present… No, I dont know what she wants! Look, Im coming, alright?
He ended the call, looked at me.
For the first time, something like shame flickered across his face.
He stood between methe calm mother whod finally spoken the truthand his wife, waiting with theatre tickets.
Mum, I… He faltered. Its not like that…
Off you go, Oliver, I said quietly. Charlottes waiting.
I retreated to the window. Our conversation was finished.
He hesitated, shrugged, grabbed his coat, and fled.
I was left in silence.
I strode over to the air purifier and pulled the plug from the socket.
Instantly the drone ended.
My homes familiar scents seeped back in.
Two days later, the box with the useful thing still squatted by the front door, quietly accusing.
Oliver hadnt called. He hadnt come for it. He was waiting for me to calm down and let it go.
But I realisedI didnt want him to come.
I picked up my phone and rang the courier service.
Gave the address. Olivers office block in the City, where he worked as a department head.
I paid the delivery fee. Two blokes carried the hefty box out for me.
Shutting the door, I feltfinallysomething had happened. Not a word, but a decision.
It wasnt the object I was returning. I was returning them their sterile world, their lies, their buy-off.
That evening, the phone rang.
Charlottes number.
Hello, Mrs Edwards? Her voice rang tight with barely contained fury.
Yes, Charlotte?
What is going on? You sent the present back! The courier brought it right to Olivers office. All the secretaries saw!
It wasnt for me.
It wasnt for you? We spent five hundred pounds! It was a gift from us!
Charlotte, a present is supposed to be from the heart, not payback for lying.
For a second, there was stunned silence.
How dare you! she snapped. Oliver nearly missed out on a contract because of you! He worked himself into the ground, and youyoure always so selfish, always complaining!
Goodbye, Charlotte.
I hung up.
I knew the storm Id just unleashed at their end.
I knew Charlotte would be berating Oliver.
But for the first time, I simply didnt care. Id cut that festering cord.
He appeared late. Almost midnight.
Just one knocksmall, almost apologetic.
I opened the door.
Oliver stood there. Not the angry, defensive man from before. But my Oliver. Drawn, pale, exhausted.
He made his way straight to the kitchen. Slumped on a stool.
I stood nearby, the main light off.
She said if I came here… I shouldnt bother coming home.
He stared at the table.
Mum… Im sorry.
He looked up.
I didnt want to lie.
But you did.
Charlotte saidshe said youd be offended either way. If I told the truth youd sulk, if I lied, youd just calm down quicker. Its easier that way.
I didnt say anything.
There it was. Manipulationso much easier.
She said your birthday wasnt really a big deal. Not like her mums. That Margaret had guests, standing, you know; and you just hadwhat, neighbour Angela?
And you? Did you think that?
Long pause.
Im just so tired, Mum. Tired of all of it.
He covered his face with his hands.
I only wanted… to keep everyone happy. But in the end…
A single, muffled sob.
Im so sorry I didnt come. I really am.
I watched his hunched shoulders.
My ideals hadnt all crumbled. He was still my son. Just lost, and tired.
I stepped over and rested my hand on his shoulder.
Not forgiveness, not yet. Just a point of support.
Its your choice, Oliver. How you want to live.
II dont know.
But with mejust honesty.
He nodded, still not looking at me.
Can I… just sit here a while?
Sit as long as you like.
I fetched his favourite mug and my old teapot.
Lets have some tea.
Half a years drifted by.
The flat no longer smells empty or sterile.
It smells, as ever, of books, a hint of camomile, and dried thyme hanging by the window.
A lot changed after that night.
No, Oliver didn’t leave Charlotte. I never expected him to. Theres the mortgage, the routine, roots too tangled to pull up.
People like Charlotte dont let go of their target that easily.
But Oliver himself changed.
He didnt just drop in for a quick fifteen minutes. He truly came.
Every Saturday afternoon, without fail. Brought farmers cheese from the market, or my favourite cherry bakewell.
We sat in the kitchen.
Hed tell me about work, the car he thought of swapping, a new bloke at the office.
He never once complained about Charlotte. Never, after that night, told me a lie.
And Id changed too.
My idealistic faith in his absolute goodness faded.
I stopped seeing his phone calls as a verdict on my life. I just lived.
I saw not the student Oliver, but a weary grown man, struggling to find his balance.
Our relationship, without lies, grew more complicatedbut more real.
I didnt get my boy back. I got my dignity.
One Saturday, as we were sipping tea and eating cherry bakewell, his phone rang.
I glimpsed the nameKitten.
A ripple of tension, but I stirred my tea and waited.
Oliver sighed, pressed the button.
Yes, Charlotte.
He listened, his face clouding as before.
…No. Im at Mums.
…Charlotte, I told you Id be here Saturday. Thats how it is.
Pause.
It doesnt mean I dont care about you. Im just with Mum. Ill be home this evening, like I said.
He hung up, flipped the phone over.
There was a heavy pause.
Sorry, Mum.
Thats alright, love, I said matter-of-factly. Have another slice.
He looked at me.
Thankful.
He didnt ask for help, didnt plead.
Hed simply chosen to be here nowwith me, in my kitchen, with a cup of tea.
I watched his hand reach for another slice of bakewell.
And I understoodthat difficult night was not an end, but a beginning.
My seventieth, the birthday he missed, had marked the start of his adulthood.
The son Id cherished had, at last, stopped being just a boy.
