**You’re No Longer My Mother**
I was just getting into my car after work when the phone rang. An unknown number. Reluctantly, I tapped the green button.
“Hello. Who’s this?”
“It’s me… Hi,” replied an unfamiliar woman’s voice.
“Who’s *me*?” I tensed. “Identify yourself!”
A pause. Then, barely audible:
“It’s me… your mum.”
I froze. My fingers clenched the steering wheel, my heartbeat quickening.
“What kind of nonsense is this? My mother died twenty-nine years ago!”
“No… I’m Margaret. I gave birth to you. James, it’s really me…”
I hung up. My chest tightened, palms slick with sweat. It felt like someone had wrenched open a door to a dark, buried past I’d spent decades trying to forget.
Minutes later, the phone rang again. Same number.
“I don’t want to hear you,” I said sharply. “I *have* no mother. The woman who birthed me left when I was nine. I’ve been an orphan ever since.”
“Just—just five minutes. I’m begging you…”
“Why? To hear more lies?”
“Just meet me. Once. I’ll explain everything.”
I didn’t want to. But I knew she wouldn’t stop. She’d find my address, turn up at my door, unsettle my wife, frighten my daughters.
Two days later, we met in a quiet park on the outskirts of Manchester.
Margaret sat hunched on the bench, aged but clinging to the remnants of what might have once been beauty. Her hands trembled.
“Hello, Jamie…”
“James,” I corrected coldly.
She looked up—her eyes desperate.
“I know I failed you… But I had no choice—”
I said nothing. Memories flashed—her screaming, hurling dishes, leaving me alone while she went on dates.
“You dumped me with Aunt Lucy. Said, *‘I’ll be back in a month.’* Then you ran off to France with some businessman.”
“I thought he’d help us both… But he didn’t want *you*. And I—”
“You *chose* him. Not me.”
A sob escaped her.
“I’ve got no one left. My husband’s dead, his children threw me out. Nowhere to live, nothing to eat. I’m *alone*.”
“Feeling sorry for yourself, are you?” I tilted my 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, a whisper:
“You turned out good… A proper man.”
“I turned out *despite* you. Because of the people you hated—Aunt Lucy, my wife, my mates. Not *you*.”
She reached for my hand. I pulled away.
“I don’t judge you. But you’re nothing to me. Not even a stranger. Just empty space.”
“I’m *dying*…” she rasped.
“Then find a priest. Not me.”
I stood and walked off without glancing back.
For the first time in years, my chest felt light. The past had finally let go. And life—*life* went on.
