She Returned
“Son…”
“Please don’t call me that. My name is Andrew.”
“Andrew… Andy… Son!”
Mary Elizabeth lifted her head, her eyes full of sorrow as she stared at the man standing beside her. Her voice trembled with hope, desperation, and a plea for mercy, but Andrew remained silent, unmoved by her words.
“I asked you not to call me ‘son.'”
“But I’m your mother! Your own mother!”
“You remembered that far too late.”
Andrew looked at the woman perched on the bench, memories of his childhood flooding back—painful, even after thirty years. Thirty years! Nearly half a lifetime, and he’d believed they would never meet again. Yet fate had other plans.
Two days earlier, an unknown number had flashed on his phone. He’d nearly ignored it, assuming it was another scammer or pushy salesman. But something stirred within him, whispering that this call was different.
“Yes?” he answered curtly, professionalism shielding him.
Static crackled in his ear, and just as he prepared to end the call, a hesitant woman’s voice echoed through the line.
“It’s me. Hello.”
“Who is ‘me’?” he coughed, his throat tightening. “Speak clearly!”
His heart lurched, as if ready to tear free from his chest. Discomfort coiled in his gut, urging him to hang up. But he pressed the phone closer, bracing himself.
“It’s me. Your mother.”
Andrew’s vision darkened. Instinct screamed at him to slam the phone down, to block the number. Instead, he forced a deep breath.
“I don’t have a mother. You’ve got the wrong number.”
The words tumbled out, raw and uncontrolled. He ended the call, staring blankly at the screen as memories crashed over him. He prayed the conversation wouldn’t repeat. He was wrong.
The phone buzzed again. His mother was relentless—yes, it was her. Mary Elizabeth had always been stubborn. If she wanted something, she’d claw her way to it.
“I’ve said all there is to say,” he snapped, steady despite the storm inside him. “Don’t call again.”
“Just one meeting! That’s all I ask! Hear me out, please!”
“How did you get this number?” Andrew asked, the formal “you” slipping out unbidden. Strange, but she was a stranger now. He’d excised her from his life long ago.
“Aunt Margaret gave it to me.”
Andrew scowled. Of course. Mary had weaseled it out of her sister. Aunt Margaret would never have surrendered his number willingly, but his mother had a way of bending people to her will.
“I don’t want to see you. There’s no point.”
“There is for me! Just once, son!”
Andrew agreed. He knew refusal would only drive her to his doorstep—to pester his wife, his children. Half an hour with her was the lesser evil.
Mary Elizabeth vanished from Andrew’s life when he was nine. For months afterward, he’d waited by Aunt Margaret’s kitchen window, barely eating, refusing to play. His aunt scolded him, tried reasoning with him, but Andrew clung to hope.
“She’ll come back!” he sobbed, tears streaking his face. “She’s my mum! She loves me!”
“Andy, your mother loves no one but herself,” Aunt Margaret said gently. “One day, you’ll understand.”
He’d despised her then, believing she’d driven his mother away. Years later, he’d realize the truth—Aunt Margaret had been his anchor.
Mary had been striking in her youth, confident, bewitching men with ease but keeping them at arm’s length. One of them, however, had been Andrew’s father.
Frederick William was married, with two children, a devoted wife, and a prestigious position. None of that deterred twenty-five-year-old Mary. If anything, his wealth and connections made him more appealing.
The thirty-year age gap meant nothing. Frederick doted on her, renting her a flat so she could finally leave her sister’s home.
“Building happiness on another’s misery never ends well,” Margaret warned, but Mary scoffed.
“What do you know? You lost your husband, and now you lecture me?”
To bind Frederick to her, Mary took a risk. She became pregnant, then threatened to end it—and their relationship—unless he left his wife.
Frederick agonized, steeling himself for the confrontation. Then, one evening, he collapsed from a heart attack, leaving Mary with nothing.
By then, abortion was no longer an option. She had no choice but to bear the child.
“I hate him!” she screamed, biting her lip. Margaret never knew whom she truly hated—Frederick or the unborn son she carried.
Andrew grew up unloved, a nuisance in his mother’s eyes. She scolded him, ignored him for days, made him feel invisible. He cried, feigned illness, anything to break her silence—all in vain.
Then came Victor. Divorced, comfortable, promising marriage once he secured a house in London. He called Andrew “son,” beat him “for discipline,” and enforced a rigid routine—cold showers at dawn, breakfast precisely at 6:40, karate after school.
“I don’t want karate!” Andrew once protested and earned a slap.
How he loathed Uncle Victor! How he rejoiced when Mary discovered his infidelities. She wailed, cursed him, vowed never to trust men again.
A year passed quietly before Jack Scout arrived—a young linguist researching Old English. They met at a museum, where a friend had dragged Mary.
A week later, Jack was her new lover. A month after that, he invited her to America—on one condition: Andrew stayed behind.
“You’ll bear me my own,” Jack said, and Mary agreed without hesitation. Work was scarce, money tight, and America promised a fairy-tale life.
She packed in haste, deposited Andrew with Margaret, mumbled a farewell, and promised to return for him in a month or two.
He was nine. He waited, certain she’d come back.
She never did.
Years later, Andrew learned she’d returned to England after five years, married another wealthy man in London, and forgotten him entirely. He erased her from his life.
“I didn’t exist for her. Let it stay that way.”
He helped Aunt Margaret, visited often, but they never spoke of Mary. Once or twice, she tried, but Andrew shut her down.
He married, fathered two daughters, told his wife the truth. To his girls, he simply said they had no grandmother. Not every child did. They never questioned it.
Then, after thirty years, her voice slithered through the phone.
Two sleepless nights later, he met her. She’d aged into a withered old woman, hunched and pitiful.
“What do you want from me?” he demanded.
“Help, son,” she croaked, ignoring his warning. “I’m ill.”
Andrew felt nothing. The beauty she’d once wielded had rotted away, leaving only the marks of her sins.
“I’m not a doctor.”
Mary shook her head. “You’ve grown cold. I remember a sweet boy who loved me.”
“That boy died thirty years ago. I have people who matter to me now.”
“I’m alone, Andrew. My husband passed two months ago. His children kicked me out. I’ve nowhere to go, no money for medicine.”
Andrew exhaled. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have stolen another woman’s husband. You reap what you sow. But that’s not my problem.”
“You’re cruel.” She smiled bitterly. “Is that any way to treat your mother?”
“It is,” he said firmly. “For the mother who abandoned me. Who never cared. I’m leaving now.”
“What about me?” Tears welled in her eyes, but he felt no pity. Only an eerie, hollow calm.
“You?” He shrugged. “You survived thirty years without me. Keep going. You always did.”
He turned and walked away. For the first time in decades, his heart was light. No guilt, no anger. The past was buried where it belonged.
