Twelve Years Later
Please, the woman nearly wept, someone, help me find my son! I need nothing else in this world!
Elizabeth perched delicately on the faded settee beside the host, wringing her hands in a manner just theatrical enough for the cameras. She’d chosen her plainest skirt and drabbest cardigan for the occasion, and gone without sleep the night before, cultivating a pallor and a deliberate exhaustion. She wanted the world to see a mother undone by griefa figure that would provoke sympathy, perhaps even assistance.
Right now, my greatest wish is to restore my relationship with my son, she murmured, letting every syllable hang like a droplet of sorrow. I have tried absolutely everything! I went to the police, desperate for help but they barely let me finish. Said Thomas was of age and had left home long ago. ‘If you never cared before, why now?’that was the gist.
The host listened with head cocked, eyes intent, though within he remained unconvinced. To him, Elizabeths story seemed all too ordinary; shed quarrelled with her son, ignored him for years, then darted back the moment it suited her. He sympathised with the police. Still, these stories brought viewersBritons adored a good family tragedy.
So, your falling out cost you the connection? he prompted, glancing now and then at the studio audience: some sceptical, others wiping at genuine tears for the unfortunate mother.
Elizabeth nodded, tears glinting in the blue-white studio light. She drew a measured breath, summoning another bout of visible trembling.
Yes, it started twelve years ago. My son fell in lovehead over heelsand announced he was to wed. I understood love, but that girloh, I disliked her on sight! She was all cigarettes, sherry, slinking out to dodgy pubs at night the worst part, she began dragging Thomas down with her.
She paused, as though reliving it all anew. The host waited, letting the moment stretch for sympathy.
I tried to warn him. I pleaded, explained that he was on the wrong track, but he wouldnt listen. To him, I was just a mother who wouldnt accept her little boy growing up. Then one evening He struck the dining table and shouted, Im leaving!
She dabbed carefully at nonexistent tears, accepting a tissue from the host with practiced gratitude, making certain her mascara stayed unsmudged.
He left. Gathered everything while I was at work. Disappeared without a word, changed his numbercut off every single tie, friends and all. And all because of some girl
Her voice wavered, and for a heartbeat she closed her eyes, desperately holding the mask of sorrow in place.
Forgive meits so hard to contain myself, she whispered into the tissue, lowering her head so a spill of hair obscured her eyes; a move chosen in advance, to deepen the impression of despair. She knew how this segment should playa good, loud sobbing fit, a mother in the grip of agony. But inside, she felt little of what she performed; only a taut, silent hope: would the audience respond as she wished?
The host saw through her pretence, but didnt let it show. He played along.
We understand your pain, he intoned, gesturing for an assistant to fetch a glass of water. Theres no rush. Just tell us your story when you feel ready.
Dramatic pause. Precisely calibrated for effect: just long enough to seem compassionate, but not so long as to break the studio rhythm.
What do you know of Thomas, as things stand? he finally asked, knees bent forwards, performing concern.
Elizabeths eyes sparkled with a blend of despair and hope, painted expertly for the screen.
Recently, a friend saw him in London, she quavered, her voice almost trembling with the effort of the act. A short chat she mentioned hes even changed his last name. How am I to find him? Im powerless, please, help mesomeone might have seen him
She pivoted towards the camera, practising her look of devastation. Behind her gaze, she pushed her pain right to the lens, as though her sorrow could pierce through glass.
I was in hospital not long ago, she continued, and this time a fleeting genuine anxiety crept into her tone. It struck me, Im not getting any younger. Who knows what time is left to me? I just want to find my son, hug him, tell him I forgave everythingand ask his forgiveness
Now a photo faded onto the screena young man of around twenty. Fair hair, grey eyes, neither tall nor short; attractive, yet unremarkable. The sort youd pass in the street and forget by the next turning. For a second, Elizabeth stared at the image. He must have changed, grown older, perhaps with a beard now or new glasses. Maybe broader in the shoulders. The idea that she might never spot him made the whole thing feel faint and hopeless, yet she forced herself not to dwell.
If youve seen anyone like this young man, please contact the studio, said the host in his steady, reassuring way. The number is at the bottom of the screen.
Filming wrapped. Elizabeth lingered for goodbyes, then walked outside, determined to keep her pained mask a little longer.
At the curb her friend awaited, the very one whod insisted on the programme. Elizabeths lips stretched into a tightly-guarded but unmistakably pleased smile.
Well, did it work? she asked softly, a little smugness colouring her words. Did they feel sorry for poor old me?
Mary had scanned the audience throughoutshe knew theyd nailed it. Women looked genuinely moved, some dabbing their red eyes, others whispering in scandalised awe. Marys mouth twitched at the corner.
The ladies in the front row were on the verge of sobbing, she murmured. Im sure word will get round soon enough, and youll know where your precious Thomas is. Then you can ask for what you put inhes not sent his mother a penny, you know, and hes rolling in it, or so they say!
Elizabeth winced at her friends bluntnesstoo direct, too coldbut couldnt deny the grain of truth.
For years, shed barely thought of Thomas; thoughts of her son surfaced only rarely, without much ache or longing. All that changed when Mary met a friend whod glimpsed Thomas out and about in the City. That friend said everything had altered.
A glittering carrare as a fossil on English streets. A suit carefully tailored, worth thousands of pounds. A watch, custom-made, engraved and intricatea marvel you couldn’t buy in any shop window. When Thomas stepped out of a chic restaurant, it was obvious: he wasnt just successfulhe was extravagant. A single dinner there would run to more than what most saw in a month.
Elizabeths concern wasnt truly his wellbeing. No, what gripped her now was moneymoney he was obliged to give her. Shed borne himnow he could pay his dues!
Never mind, theyll find him, she repeated, more to herself than to Mary. Just a bit longer to wait, and Ill want for nothing
Why not? She was sure Thomas wouldnt dare turn her away, now that he was moving in high circles. Such men hated a public scene; hed have to play the doting son for the pressadding another feather to his cap. After such publicity, what choice did he have?
Naiveshe didnt see the trap her own boy had set.
******
Twelve years ago.
Thomas came home at nine, shoulders aching and mind racing with equations. He’d just survived his hardest finals yet. Only sleep could save him nowbut he knew hed get no such luxury tonight.
As he reached the flat, voices carried down the hallwaya sharp, male one, taut with annoyance; a quieter, female one, soothing, apologetic. Him again. Thomas gritted his teeth. It always seemed this manHaroldtimed his visits to coincide with Thomass return, like it was some sport.
Thomas slid his key into the lock, nudging the door open with hope he could sneak through unseenjust reach his room and collapse. But there, by the door, were hulking bags, lined up like sentries.
He froze, staring. His suitcases. What were they doing here?
Whats all this? he demanded, all patience gone. Who put my things out here? What is this?
His voice rang louder than intended. Dropping his uni books, he braced himself for an explanation. The arguing stopped. After a few seconds, his mother entered the hall.
Elizabeths face soured into a look of distaste. She sniffed, turned crisply away. Thomas stared, dumbfounded.
He slipped off his shoes and marched to the kitchen, following the low, conspiratorial voices. Through the half-open door, he saw Harold sprawled at the table, a mug of tea in one hand, mobile in the otherutterly at ease. His glance flicked across Thomas, cold and dismissive, then settled back on Elizabeth.
And whats he doing here? Thomas glared at his mother.
Havent told him yet? Harold smirked, fiddling with his phone. Go on, dont be shy.
Dont act like Im not here! Thomas snapped. I have every right to be in this flatunlike you. And why is your brat here?
He was about to go further, but his mother cut in. She faced him, expression steeled, voice ice-cold and businesslike.
From today, youre not living here, she declared. Your old room now belongs to Harolds son.
Thomas just stared, dazed, scouring her face for any trace of warmth. There was noneher back was straight, jaw set. Harold gave a little confirming nod and sipped his tea, indifferent as granite.
Hold on! What right do you have to decide where I live? Thomass words shook, but he made them firm.
He couldnt believe itevicted without warning or conversation, just gone, like a scrap of old paperwork.
Dad meant to leave me the flat he started, desperate for some anchor.
Elizabeth folded her arms and, for a flicker, wore a showy mask of sadnessthough Thomas saw only emptiness behind it.
He was going to, until his accident, she said, voice level. He never rewrote the will, so the old one stands. That means I own this flat, only me. And I say youre out. Men your age shouldnt still cling to their mothers skirts. Arent you ashamed?
Every word was a slap. Thomass eye twitcheda nervous tic reserved for his worst moments. His thoughts swung wildly. Had his fathers accident, perhaps, been more than an accident? Had someone hurried it along so Elizabeth could claim the flat?
He glared at Harold, sitting there without a flicker of concern. It made the injustice sharper still.
Are you being serious? Thomas asked, staring hard at his mother. Youd really throw your own son onto the street?
Elizabeth shrugged as though it were a matter of moving the tea caddy.
Ive packed your things already. From today, the rooms spoken for. Dont come back unless I say.
Youre kidding. Where am I supposed to stay? His voice was quiet but laced with pain, eyes pleading for evidence she was just having him on, just one more wind-up, but noto her, it was all cool finality.
He wanted desperately to leap across the kitchen, to shake Harold by his suit lapels, to yell, Who are you to decide my life? But Thomas just clenched his fists, sucked in a breath, and stayed still.
Youll manage, she said, unconcerned. Youve friends. Someone will take you in. After that, youre on your own.
To her, these were throwaway words about moving an old book on a shelf. Thomass gut twisted with injustice, but he held it all back.
And Ive taken your university money, Elizabeth added, lifting her chin. Earn your own feesthe moneys better spent on my wedding.
These words stung most of all. He saw, all at once, she truly meant to sever every tieto cut him off financially, emotionally, from home, from future.
But hed never beg her to change her mind, not now, not ever. Already a resolve formed: a year off, work, hed earn his own way. He had hands, a brain, the will to learn. It would be enough.
He nodded, slowly, as if answering a challenge. As he met her eyes, he understood: the bond that once connected them was shattered, utterly and beyond repair.
He would never forgive her.
******
Seen it yet? asked Nick, looming over Thomass desk. In Nicks hand was a phone, screen angled his way. A mate back home sent ityour mums just been on telly.
Thomas looked up from the folder of contracts hed been reviewing. His fingers loosened, the papers slopped softly onto the table. Nohe wouldnt be getting any work done now. What he felt was an odd mixperhaps satisfaction, perhaps bitter amusement.
I saw it, he said, a lazy curl of a smile forming. Marys husband didnt keep our meeting quiet. But thats how I planned it. Let Mum see what she lost.
He leant back, idly brushing a hand over his cropped hair. Moments from the broadcast flickered behind his eyesElizabeth, so carefully distraught, spinning her tale of woe. But twelve years ago, shed ousted him with an arctic calm, stripped him of home and funds. Now, she was working the camera for any vestige of lost maternal affection.
Yes, hed had his revengeno lurid public scenes, but a slow, deliberate revealing of consequences. His own life had come to ordercitizenship abroad, steady income, a successful career. Not a penny of it was owed to her.
Shed know now: she could have counted on help, if she hadnt cast him out for a new man and his son, if she hadnt pocketed his tuition or locked him out.
Soon shed seeno help would be forthcoming. Not a farthing! Not a word of comfort, no hope of a truce. Thomas had drawn the linethe past was ash, the future belonged to him alone.
The woman who gave him life could never reach him again. Not physically, not through guilt. Perhaps, in the end, thats all that matteredHe pushed aside the phone and rose from his desk, gazing through his office window at the city pulsing with light below. It had cost himyears of scraping by, forging a life from scraps and ambition, every step taken with the memory of her cold eyes marking his back. But the world was wide, and as he stood in the hush of his sanctuary, he felt the gravity of her old neglect peel away.
Tonight, somewhere, she would wait and hopea shadow haunting her own silence, the illusion of sorrow curdling into something sour and thin. She had played at grief, summoned the sympathy of strangers, but it would never bridge what she had broken for good. Thomas felt no guilt, only clarity. He was not the forgiving son of her invention, nor a pawn to be summoned by need. He was a man who had madeand remadehimself.
With a calm hand, he powered off his phone. The city stretched onward, endless. A quiet came, deep and unmoving. In that space Thomas understood: families, like fortunes, were built and lost by those who valued them. Some lessons could come only from absence, and sometimes, loving yourself meant never looking back.
Beyond the glass, summer rain began fallingsoft, persistent, washing Londons streets clean. Thomas watched the droplets gather and run, feeling, for the first time in years, perfectly free.
