James gripped the steering wheel, about to leave work, when his phone rang. An unknown number flashed on the screen. Reluctantly, he tapped the green button.
“Hello. Who is this?”
“It’s me… Hi,” replied an unfamiliar woman’s voice.
“Who’s ‘me’?” James tensed. “Identify yourself!”
A pause. Then, barely above a whisper:
“It’s me… your mother.”
James froze. His fingers tightened around the wheel, his heartbeat quickening.
“What nonsense? My mother died twenty-nine years ago!”
“No… I’m Diane… I gave birth to you. James, it really is me…”
He slammed the phone down. His pulse raced, his palms damp. It felt as though someone had wrenched open a door to a grim, buried past he’d tried to forget forever.
Minutes later, the phone rang again. The same number.
“I don’t want to hear you,” he snapped. “I have no mother. The woman who bore me left when I was nine. Since then, I’ve been an orphan.”
“I just need five minutes. Please…”
“Why? To hear more lies?”
“Just meet me. Once. I’ll explain everything.”
James didn’t want to. But he knew—she wouldn’t give up. She’d find his address, turn up at his house, disturb his wife, scare his daughters.
Two days later, they met in a small park on the outskirts of Manchester.
Diane Smith sat hunched on a bench, aged but still clinging to faded elegance. Her hands trembled.
“Hello, Jamie…”
“James,” he corrected coldly.
She looked up, her eyes desperate.
“I know I failed you… But I had no choice…”
He said nothing. Memories flashed—her shouting, smashing plates, leaving him alone while she chased men.
“You dumped me with Aunt Lucy. Said you’d be back in a month. Instead, you ran off to Spain with some businessman.”
“I thought he’d help us both… But he didn’t want you. And I—”
“You chose him. Not me.”
She sobbed.
“I’ve got no one left. My husband’s dead, his kids threw me out. No home, no money. I’m completely alone.”
“Feeling sorry for yourself?” He tilted his head slightly. “Who did I have to pity me at nine?”
“Forgive me… I didn’t know how to ask. I kept waiting for you to reach out…”
“You never even sent a postcard. Not once.”
Silence. Then Diane whispered:
“You still turned out well… A good man.”
“I turned out well because of people you despised. Aunt Lucy. My wife. My friends. Not because of you.”
She reached for his hand, but he pulled away.
“I don’t judge you. But you’re nothing to me. Not even an enemy. Just air.”
“I’m dying…” she breathed.
“Then go confess. But not to me.”
He stood and walked away without looking back.
For the first time in years, his chest felt light. The past had finally released him. Life—went on.
