She returned.
—Son…
—Don’t call me that. My name is Andrew.
—Andrew… Andy… Son!
Mary Elizabeth lifted her head, her voice trembling with desperation as she stared at the man standing before her. But Andrew stood rigid, unmoved by her pleading.
—I asked you not to call me “son.”
—But I’m your mother! Your own mother!
—You remembered that far too late.
Andrew studied the woman perched on the park bench, his mind flooding with childhood memories—sharp, painful fragments from more than thirty years ago. Three decades. Half a lifetime. He had convinced himself they would never meet again, yet fate had other plans.
Two days earlier, his phone had buzzed with an unknown number. He’d ignored it at first, assuming a scammer or telemarketer—but something gnawed at him, telling him this was different.
—Yes? he answered coldly.
Static crackled on the line before a hesitant female voice whispered:
—It’s me. Hello.
—Who’s “me”? he snapped, his throat tightening.
His pulse hammered as though his heart would burst from his chest. He wanted to hang up, block the number—until she spoke again.
—It’s me. Your mother.
Darkness swarmed his vision. Instinct screamed at him to end the call. But after a deep breath, he forced out:
—I don’t have a mother. Wrong number.
The words tumbled out, raw and uncontrolled. He hung up, staring at the blank screen, willing away the memories surging back. But the phone vibrated again. She was relentless. Mary Elizabeth always got what she wanted.
—I told you everything I had to say, he growled, though emotions raged inside him. —Don’t call again.
—Just one meeting! she begged. —Just hear me out!
—How did you even get this number?
—Aunt Margaret gave it to me.
Andrew grimaced. Of course. His mother had always been persuasive. His aunt would never have handed over his number lightly—unless worn down by her sister’s persistence.
—I don’t want to see you, he said flatly.
—It matters to me! Just one meeting, son!
He agreed—not for her sake, but to keep her from hounding his wife and children. Thirty minutes of his time was a small price to pay.
Mary Elizabeth had vanished when Andrew was nine. For months, he waited by the window in Aunt Margaret’s kitchen, refusing to eat, refusing to believe she wouldn’t return.
—She’ll come back! he’d sobbed, tears streaking his face. —She loves me!
—Andy, his aunt had sighed, —your mother only loves herself. One day, you’ll understand.
Back then, he’d hated Aunt Margaret. Later, he realized she was the only one who told him the truth.
His mother had been striking, magnetic—and ruthless. She set her sights on married men, drawn to their power and wealth. One of them was his father.
Edward William was older, established, with a wife and two children. But Mary didn’t care. She wanted him—and when she got pregnant, she gave him an ultimatum: divorce or she’d end it.
Edward panicked, his heart giving out before he could make the choice. Mary was left with nothing—except a child she never wanted.
—I hate him! she’d screamed, though no one knew if she meant Edward or the unborn son she now carried.
Andrew grew up unwanted. A burden. His mother ignored him, scolded him, made him feel invisible. When he pretended to be sick for attention, she walked right past him.
Then came Victor. Her new lover, wealthy, divorced—and cruel. He “disciplined” Andrew with fists, enforced rigid schedules, forced him into martial arts he despised.
Andrew hated Victor. Hated how much glee he took in his suffering. And when Mary discovered Victor’s affairs, she wailed, cursed him—vowed never to trust a man again.
A year passed in uneasy quiet. Then she met Jack Fowler, an American academic visiting London. Within weeks, he swept her off her feet.
—Come to America with me, he said.
She agreed—on one condition.
—Leave the boy behind, he told her. —We’ll have our own.
And just like that, she was gone.
Andrew was nine. He waited. Believed she’d come back. Aunt Margaret told him the truth years later: Mary had returned after five years, married another wealthy man, settled in London. She never asked about her son.
Andrew buried her memory. Married. Had daughters. Told them they had no grandmother.
Until now.
—What do you want from me? he asked, staring at the frail woman before him.
—Help, son, she rasped. —I’m ill.
His expression didn’t falter. Time had carved lines of regret into her face, but he felt nothing.
—I’m sorry, but I’m not a doctor.
She shook her head. —You’ve grown cold. I remember a sweet boy who loved me.
—That boy died thirty years ago.
—I’m alone now, she whispered. —My husband’s gone. His children threw me out. I have nowhere to go.
—Pity, he replied. —Yet you stole another woman’s husband. Reaped what you sowed.
—How cruel, she scoffed. —Is this how you treat your mother?
—Yes, he said plainly. —To the woman who abandoned me.
—What about me? Tears brimmed in her eyes, but Andrew felt no pity. Only emptiness.
—You? He shrugged. —You survived without me for thirty years. Keep going.
He turned and walked away. For the first time in years, his chest was light. No guilt. No anger. Just silence.
The past was dead. And so was she.
