James gripped the steering wheel as he prepared to leave work when his phone rang. The number was unfamiliar. Reluctantly, he tapped the green button.
“Hello. Who’s this?”
“It’s me… Hi,” came a woman’s voice, soft and uncertain.
“Who’s *me*?” James tensed. “Identify yourself.”
A pause. Then, barely audible:
“It’s me… your mum.”
James froze. His fingers tightened around the wheel, his pulse quickening.
“Don’t be ridiculous. My mother died twenty-nine years ago.”
“No… I’m Margaret. I *am* your mother. James, it’s really me—”
He hung up. His heart hammered, his palms slick with sweat. It felt like someone had cracked open a door to a dark, buried past—one he’d fought to forget.
Minutes later, the phone rang again. Same number.
“I don’t want to hear from you,” he said sharply. “I have no mother. The woman who gave birth to me walked out when I was nine. I’ve been an orphan ever since.”
“Just five minutes. I’m begging you—”
“Why? To listen to 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 track down his address, show up at his door, unsettle his wife, frighten his daughters.
Two days later, they met in a park on the outskirts of Norwich.
Margaret sat hunched on a bench, aged and frail but still clinging to traces of faded beauty. Her hands trembled.
“Hello, Jamie—”
“*James*,” he corrected coldly.
Her eyes flickered up—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 after men.
“You dumped me with Aunt Louise. Said you’d be back in a month. Then you ran off to Spain with some businessman.”
“I thought he’d help us both… but he refused to take you. And I—”
“You chose him. Not me.”
She choked back a sob.
“I’ve got no one left. My husband’s dead, his children 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 years old?”
“Forgive me… I didn’t know how to ask. I kept waiting for you to reach out—”
“You never even sent a letter. Not once.”
Silence. Then, a whisper:
“You turned out good… despite everything.”
“I turned out this way because of people you despised. Aunt Louise. My wife. My friends. *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 an enemy. Just… empty space.”
“I’m dying…” she murmured.
“Then find a priest. Not me.”
He stood and walked off without looking back.
For the first time in years, his chest felt light. The past had finally loosened its grip. Life—real life—went on.
