She Came Back
—Son…
—Sorry, but I’m not your son. Don’t call me that. My name is Andrew.
—Andrew… Andy… Son!
Margaret lifted her head and gazed sorrowfully at the man beside her. There was so much hope, desperation, and pleading in her voice, but Andrew stood silent, as if her words meant nothing to him.
—I asked you not to call me that.
—But I’m your mother! Your real mother!
—You remembered that a bit too late.
Andrew looked at the woman hunched on the bench and thought of his childhood. The memories were painful, even though it had been over thirty years since he’d last seen her. Thirty years! Half a lifetime. It had seemed certain they’d never meet again, never speak—but fate had other plans.
Two days ago, his phone had buzzed with an unknown number. He’d almost ignored it, assuming it was a scammer or some pushy telemarketer. But something told him it wasn’t just another nuisance call.
—Yes? he answered flatly, all business. —Go on.
There was shuffling on the line, static. He was about to hang up when he heard a faint, hesitant voice.
—It’s me. Hello.
—Who’s ‘me’? he asked, clearing his throat as a lump formed. —Speak up!
His heart stuttered, as if ready to leap out of his chest. The discomfort made him want to end the call right then, but he clenched the phone tighter.
—It’s me. Your mum.
The world went dark for a second. His first instinct was to slam the phone down and block the number immediately. But after a deep breath, he forced out a reply.
—I don’t have a mother. You’ve got the wrong number.
The words tumbled out, sharp and uncontrolled. He ended the call and stood there, staring at the screen, shoving back the flood of memories. He’d hoped the conversation was over—but he was wrong.
His phone buzzed again. She was persistent. And by now, Andrew had no doubt—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, he answered roughly, though his insides churned. —Don’t call again.
—Just one meeting! That’s all I ask! Please, just hear me out!
—How did you get this number?
—Aunt Rita gave it to me.
Andrew winced. Of course she’d found a way. Aunt Rita would never have handed over his number willingly—but Margaret must’ve worn her down. Bloody nuisance.
—I don’t want to see you, he said. —What’s the point?
—The point is me! Just one meeting, son!
In the end, he agreed. Better to waste half an hour than have her turn up at his doorstep, pestering his wife and kids.
Margaret had vanished when Andrew was nine. For months after she left, he’d sat at Aunt Rita’s kitchen window, barely eating, refusing to play outside. His aunt scolded him, tried to reason with him, but Andrew was certain his mum would come back.
—She will! he’d sobbed, tears streaking his face. —She’s my mum! She loves me!
—Andy, love yourself. Your mother doesn’t love anyone but herself. One day, you’ll see.
Back then, he’d hated Aunt Rita, blamed her for driving his mother away. It took years to realize the truth—and to be grateful for the woman who’d actually raised him.
Margaret had always been striking, self-assured. She knew her worth, played men like a fiddle, but kept them at arm’s length—except for the *chosen* few. One of those few was Andrew’s father.
Edward Fitzroy had a wife, two children, a high-flying career—none of which deterred twenty-five-year-old Margaret. The fact that he had money and influence only made him more desirable.
The thirty-year age gap didn’t faze her either. Edward was smitten, playing the young lover, showering her with gifts. He rented her a flat, finally freeing her from her older sister’s cramped home.
—You can’t build happiness on someone else’s misery, Rita warned, but Margaret just scoffed.
—Like you’d know! You lost your own husband!
To secure Edward, Margaret took a gamble. She got pregnant, then threatened to leave him—and end the pregnancy—unless he left his wife.
Edward agonized, stressed, rehearsed the dreaded conversation… then dropped dead of a heart attack. Just like that, Margaret’s plans collapsed.
It was too late to terminate. At twenty weeks, she had no choice but to go through with it.
—I hate him! she’d screamed through gritted teeth. Rita never knew whom she meant—Edward, or the child she never wanted.
Andrew grew up unloved, unwanted. A nuisance underfoot, always in the way of his mother’s love life. She berated him, ignored him for days. Those silent days were the worst—when he felt like he didn’t exist.
Then came Victor. Divorced, comfortable, promising to marry Margaret as soon as he got his city flat. He called Andrew ‘son,’ beat him ‘for discipline,’ and imposed a rigid routine.
—Up at six, cold shower, exercises. Breakfast at six-forty. School bag ready by seven, out the door by seven-ten. School, then karate after.
—I don’t *want* to do karate!
The slap that followed made his ear ring.
God, how he’d hated *Uncle Vic*. How he’d cheered when his mother found out about the man’s affairs. She’d sobbed, cursed him, sworn off men for good.
A year of peace followed—until *Oliver Scout* arrived. A young linguist studying Old English, he met Margaret at a museum visit.
A week later, they were inseparable. A month later, he offered to take her to America. She agreed—on one condition: Andrew stayed behind.
—You’ll give me *my own* child, Oliver said.
And just like that, she packed her bags, dropped Andrew at Rita’s, mumbled something about fetching him *soon*, and left.
He was nine. He still believed she’d return. No matter how cruel she’d been, she was still *his mum*.
But no one ever came back. Years later, he learned Margaret *had* returned after five years—only to marry some wealthy bloke in London. She’d never asked about her son, so Andrew erased her from his life.
—If I didn’t exist for her, she won’t exist for me.
He helped Aunt Rita, visited often. The subject of Margaret never came up.
He married, had two daughters. His wife knew the truth; his girls were simply told, *Not everyone has a grandma*. They never questioned it.
And now, after thirty years, that voice was back. He’d agreed to meet, spent two days reliving a childhood with no warmth, no love.
—What do you want from me? he asked coldly, facing the frail woman before him.
—I need help, son, she croaked, ignoring his earlier request. —I’m ill.
Andrew 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.
She shook her head.
—You’ve grown cold. I remember a sweet boy who loved me.
—That boy died thirty years ago. I’ve got people to love now.
—I’m alone, Andrew. My husband died two months ago. His children threw me out. I’ve got nothing.
—Shame, he said dryly. —Another married man, was it? Another happy home wrecked? Maybe it’s just karma. But it’s not my problem.
—You’re cruel, she muttered.
—To the woman who abandoned me? Easy. Sorry, I’ve got to go.
—What about me? Her eyes welled up. But Andrew felt nothing—just a hollow void where anger or pity should’ve been.
—You? He shrugged. —You’ve managed thirty years without me. Keep at it.
He turned and walked away. For the first time in decades, his heart was light. No guilt. No rage. Just peace.
The past could stay where it belonged—behind him.
