William gripped the steering wheel, about to pull out of the car park after work, when his phone rang. An unknown number. He hesitated, then tapped the green button.
“Hello. Who is this?”
“It’s me… Hi,” came an unfamiliar woman’s voice.
“Me who?” William tensed. “Identify yourself.”
Silence. Then, barely audible:
“It’s me… your mum.”
William froze. His fingers clenched the wheel, his pulse loud in his ears.
“What kind of joke is this? My mother died twenty-nine years ago!”
“No… I’m Margaret. I gave birth to you. William, it’s really me—”
He ended the call. His heart hammered, palms slick. It felt like someone had ripped open a door to the past—a dark, buried thing he’d spent decades forgetting.
Minutes later, the phone rang again. Same number.
“I don’t want to hear from you,” he snapped. “I have no mother. The woman who bore me left when I was nine. I’ve been an orphan since.”
“Just five minutes—that’s all I’m asking. Please…”
“Why? So you can spin another lie?”
“Just meet me. Once. I’ll explain everything.”
William didn’t want to. But he knew she wouldn’t stop. She’d find his address, turn up at his door, unsettle his wife, frighten his daughters.
Two days later, they met in a quiet park on the outskirts of Manchester.
Margaret sat hunched on a bench, frail, faded, but clinging to traces of the woman she’d once been. Her hands trembled.
“Hello, Will…”
“William,” he corrected coldly.
She lifted her eyes—desperate, pleading.
“I know I failed you… But I had no choice—”
He said nothing. Memories flashed—her screaming, smashing plates, leaving him alone while she went out with men.
“You dumped me with Auntie Claire. Said you’d be back in a month. Then you ran off to Spain with some businessman.”
“I thought he’d take care of us both… But he didn’t want you. And I—”
“You chose him. Not me.”
A choked sob escaped her.
“I’ve got no one else. My husband’s dead, his kids threw me out. Nowhere to go. No money. Just me.”
“Feeling sorry for yourself?” He tilted his head slightly. “Who did I have to feel sorry for me at nine?”
“Forgive me… I didn’t know how to ask. I kept waiting for you to come to me—”
“You never even sent a letter. Not once.”
Silence. Then, a whisper:
“You turned out good, though… A decent man.”
“I turned out decent because of the people you hated. Auntie Claire. My wife. My mates. Not because of you.”
She reached for his hand. He pulled away.
“I don’t hate you. But you’re nothing to me. Not even a stranger. Just air.”
“I’m dying…” she breathed.
“Then you’d better pray. 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 let go.
And life—it went on.
