**Diary Entry – 14th May, 2023**
She came back.
“Son…”
“Please, don’t call me that. My name is Edward.”
“Edward… Eddie… My boy!”
Margaret lifted her head, her tired eyes searching his face. Her voice was thick with hope, desperation, even something like pleading—but Edward just stood there, unmoved, as if her words meant nothing to him.
“I asked you not to call me ‘son.'”
“But I’m your mother! Your real mother!”
“You remembered that far too late.”
He stared at the woman hunched on the bench, and memories of his childhood clawed at him. Even after thirty years, the pain hadn’t dulled. Thirty years—half a lifetime. He’d convinced himself they’d never meet again, never speak. But fate had other plans.
Two days ago, an unknown number flashed on his phone. He almost ignored it, assuming it was another scam call or sales pitch. But something made him answer.
“Speak,” he said curtly.
Static. Background noise. He was about to hang up when a hesitant voice broke through.
“It’s me… hello.”
“Who’s *me*?” His throat tightened. “Go on, then.”
His heart hammered, like it might burst from his chest. He wanted to end the call right then, but something made him press the phone closer.
“It’s me… your mum.”
Darkness swallowed his vision. His first instinct was to slam the phone down, block the number, erase the moment. But after a breath, he managed:
“I don’t have a mother. Wrong number.”
The words came out raw, uncontrolled. He hung up, staring blankly at the screen, willing the memories away. He hoped—prayed—it was over. But no.
The phone vibrated again. She was persistent. And now he was sure: it *was* her. Margaret had always been relentless when she wanted something. If she’d decided to reach out, she wouldn’t stop until she got her way.
“I’ve said all I need to,” Edward snapped, though inside, he was boiling. “Don’t call again.”
“Just one meeting! That’s all I ask! Hear me out—please!”
“How did you get this number?” He used *you*, not *Mum*. She was a stranger to him now.
“Aunt Beatrice gave it to me.”
Edward clenched his jaw. Of course. His aunt would never have handed it over willingly, but Margaret must’ve worn her down. Typical.
“I don’t want to see you. There’s no point.”
“*I* need this!” Her voice cracked. “Just once, son—please!”
In the end, he agreed. Not for her sake—but because he knew she’d hound his wife, his kids, turn up at his doorstep. Better to waste half an hour than endure her pestering.
Margaret had vanished when Edward was nine. For months, he’d waited by Aunt Beatrice’s kitchen window, barely eating, refusing to play outside, certain his mother would return. His aunt scolded him, told him to let go—but Edward couldn’t.
“She’ll come back!” he’d sobbed. “She loves me!”
“Eddie, your mother only loves herself. One day, you’ll see that.”
Back then, he’d hated Aunt Beatrice, blamed her for driving Margaret away. Only years later did he realise his aunt had been right—and that she’d done more for him than his own mother ever had.
Margaret had always been striking, confident. Knew her worth, knew how to reel men in—but only kept the ones who could give her what she wanted. One of them was Edward’s father.
William Harrington was married. Two kids, a loving wife, a high-paying job. None of that stopped twenty-five-year-old Margaret. The money, the connections—that’s what mattered.
The thirty-year age gap didn’t bother her either. William doted on her, rented her a flat, finally gave her the independence she craved.
“You can’t build happiness on someone else’s pain,” Aunt Beatrice warned.
Margaret just scoffed. “What do you know? You lost your husband—don’t lecture *me*.”
To tighten her grip on William, she got pregnant. Threatened to leave, to end it, unless he divorced his wife.
William agonised, delayed—then dropped dead of a heart attack.
“I *hate* him!” Margaret had screamed.
Edward never knew if she meant William… or him.
He grew up unwanted. A nuisance. Margaret ignored him for days, weeks. No words, no eye contact—like he didn’t exist. Those silences cut deeper than any slap.
Then came Victor. Divorced, comfortable, promising to marry Margaret once he got his London flat. He called Edward “lad,” beat him “for discipline,” enforced brutal routines:
“Up at six. Cold shower. Breakfast at six forty. School by seven ten. Judo after.”
“I don’t *want* to do judo!”
The backhanded strike came fast. Edward loathed Victor—rejoiced when Margaret caught him cheating. She wailed, cursed him, swore off men forever.
For a year, it was quiet. Then Jack Scout arrived—an American linguist researching Old English. They met at a museum. A week later, they were inseparable. A month later, he offered her a life abroad.
On one condition: no Edward.
“You’ll give me my *own* children,” Jack said.
Margaret didn’t hesitate.
Jobs were scarce, money tighter. America? A dream. She packed fast, dumped Edward with Aunt Beatrice, mumbled something about fetching him “in a month or two.”
He was nine. He believed her.
She never came back.
Years later, Aunt Beatrice told him Margaret *had* returned—married some wealthy businessman in London, lived there ever since. Never asked about her son.
So Edward erased her.
Helped his aunt, visited often—but his mother’s name was forbidden. He married, had two daughters. Told his wife the truth. Told his girls, “Not everyone has a grandmother.” They never asked why.
And now, after thirty years, *her* voice.
Two days of dredging up memories—most of them bleak. No warmth, no love. Just absence.
“What do you want?” Edward asked coldly, standing over the frail woman now.
“Help, son,” she rasped, still using that word. “I’m ill.”
He studied her. The beauty, the charm—gone. Just a tired old woman, her face lined with regrets and hard living.
“I’m not a doctor.”
“You’ve grown cold,” she whispered. “You used to be so kind.”
“That was thirty years ago. I have people to love now.”
“I’m alone, Edward. My husband died. His children threw me out. No home, no money—I can’t even afford medicine.”
“Pity,” he clipped. “Stole another woman’s husband, did you? Built your happiness on ruins? Sounds like you’re paying for it now. Not my problem.”
“You’re cruel.”
“To the woman who abandoned me? Absolutely.” He checked his watch. “I have to go.”
“And what about *me*?” Her eyes welled—but he felt nothing. Just hollow.
“You? Keep living. You managed thirty years without me. Shouldn’t be hard.”
He turned, walked away.
For the first time in decades, his heart was light. No guilt, no anger. Just… peace.
Some ghosts are best left buried. And some people? They earn the loneliness they’re given. **- E.H.**
