— Son…
— Sorry, but I’m not your son. Don’t call me that. My name is Andrew.
— Andrew… Andy… Son!
Margaret looked up, her desperate gaze searching his face. Her voice trembled with hope, pleading, but Andrew stood rigid, unmoved by the weight of her words.
— I asked you not to call me that.
— But I’m your mother! Your own flesh and blood!
— You remembered that far too late.
Andrew stared at the woman hunched on the park bench, and for the first time in decades, his childhood came rushing back—sharp, painful, and unwelcome. Thirty years. Half a lifetime. He’d thought they’d never cross paths again, yet here she was.
Two days ago, his phone had rung with an unknown number. He’d nearly ignored it, assuming a scam or telemarketer, but something—an uneasy twinge—made him answer.
— Speak, he’d said curtly.
Silence, then static. He’d almost hung up when a thin, faltering voice broke through.
— It’s me… hello.
— Who’s ‘me’? His throat tightened, a knot forming before he even understood why. — Out with it!
His heart stalled as if bracing for impact. Every instinct screamed to end the call, but he pressed the phone closer, listening.
— It’s me. Your mother.
Darkness swam in his vision. His first urge was to slam the phone down, block the number, erase it. But he inhaled sharply and forced his voice steady.
— I don’t have a mother. You’ve got the wrong number.
The words spilled out, raw and unchecked. He disconnected, staring at the blank screen, drowning in memories he’d locked away. A foolish hope that the call was a fluke—shattered when it rang again.
— I’ve told you everything I have to say, Andrew snapped, though his chest burned with emotions he couldn’t name. — Don’t call again.
— Just one meeting! One! Please, just hear me out—
— How did you get this number? Cold. Formal. She was a stranger.
— Aunt Beatrice gave it to me.
His jaw clenched. Of course. His mother had always been relentless. Beatrice would never have handed over his number—unless she’d been worn down, desperate to rid herself of a persistent sister.
— There’s no point in meeting.
— For me, there is! Just once!
He agreed. Not for her sake, but because he knew refusing meant she’d show up at his door, harass his wife, his children. Better to spare half an hour than endure a siege.
Margaret had vanished when Andrew was nine. Months passed where he’d sat by the window at Aunt Beatrice’s, barely eating, refusing to believe she wouldn’t return.
— She’ll come back! He’d sobbed, wiping tears with his sleeve. — She loves me!
— Andrew… Beatrice had sighed. — Your mother loves no one but herself. One day you’ll see that.
He’d hated her then, blamed her for his mother’s abandonment. Years later, he understood—Beatrice had been the only one who told him the truth.
Margaret had been beautiful once. Confident. She knew her worth and wrapped men around her finger—until she chose one. Edward Bennett. Married. Wealthy. Powerfully connected.
None of it deterred her. Edward was twenty years her senior, but he spoiled her—apartments, gifts, promises. When she fell pregnant, she gave him an ultimatum: divorce or she’d leave him.
He died of a heart attack before the conversation could happen.
— I hate him! She’d screamed, lips bleeding from her teeth. Beatrice never knew if she meant Edward… or the unborn child.
Andrew grew up unwanted. A nuisance. His mother ignored him for days, weeks—no words, no touch. Like he was nothing.
Then came Victor. Divorced. Rich. Full of empty vows. He called Andrew “lad,” beat him for disobedience, enforced a rigid routine—cold showers at dawn, martial arts he despised.
When his mother discovered Victor’s affairs, she wailed, cursed men, swore off love—until Jack Cooper arrived. A British linguist, charming, flattering. Within weeks, he offered her a new life—in London.
— But not the boy, Jack had said.
She left without hesitation.
Andrew waited. Believed. Until Beatrice told him the truth: Margaret had returned years later, married some wealthy businessman in London, never once asked about her son.
He buried her memory. Married. Had daughters. Told them they had no grandmother—some people didn’t, and that was that.
Now, thirty years later, her voice clawed its way back.
— What do you want? He stood over the frail woman, voice ice.
— I need help, son… Her wheezing grated his nerves. — I’m ill.
His expression didn’t waver. The beauty she’d once wielded was gone, replaced by lines of regret and vice.
— I’m not a doctor.
— You’ve grown hard. I remember a kind boy who loved me.
— That boy died thirty years ago.
— I have nothing, Andrew. Her tears meant nothing to him. — My husband passed, his children threw me out—
— Took another man from his family, did you? Built your happiness on wreckage. Now you pay for it. But that’s not my burden.
— How cruel you’ve become.
— With reason. He turned away. — You lived without me for thirty years. Keep doing it.
As he walked, the weight lifted. No guilt. No rage. Just quiet.
She was the past. And the past stayed where it belonged.
