**The Son Who Stopped Speaking**
“No! I said no! Are you even listening to me? Were not changing a thing. Dad built that porch with his own handsevery nail, every plank.”
“Christopher, please understandits rotting away!” Emily Wilson sighed, pressing the phone to her ear until the cartilage ached. “The floorboards are caving in, the roof leaks. Its dangerous! Victor says we could carefully dismantle it and”
“Victor! That Victor again!” Her sons voice turned rough as sandpaper. “Whats it to him? Hed tear everything down and start freshsomeone elses memories dont matter. Mum, its not just a porch. Its Dad!”
“Chris, love, how is it honouring him if the whole thing collapses?” Her voice trembled. “Were doing this for youso you and Lucy can visit, so future grandchildren”
“There wont be any grandchildren on your new porch!” he snapped. “If you touch so much as a splinter, Im never setting foot in that house again. Ive got to go.”
The dial tone hit like a judges gavel. Emily lowered the phone to the kitchen table. The hollow ache in her chest, now familiar after six months of silence, tightened around her ribs. Outside, yellowed leaves clung to the oak tree, and the world seemed as grey as her heart.
Victor appeared in the doorwaytall, silver-haired, reading glasses perched on his nose, a book in hand. One look at her face told him everything.
“Again?” he asked softly, setting the book aside.
She nodded, words failing her. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and the warmth of him, the faint scent of aftershave and something uniquely his, finally loosened the tears. Quiet, soundless, soaking into his checked shirt.
“Em, darling, dont” He stroked her hair. “You knew how hed react.”
“But the house” she hiccuped. “Hell never forgive us if we change it. But we have toits falling apart.”
“Bugger the house. Well manage. You matter more. Look what this is doing to you.”
Theyd met two years ago at a school reunionan event Emily had attended reluctantly, prodded by her friend Margaret. Ten years had passed since Robert, her first husband, died, and all that time, shed lived only for Christopher. School, university, his first job She hadnt noticed the years slipping by, the new lines by her eyes, her gangly boy becoming a man.
Then he moved out. Found a flat with Lucy, and the house turned silent. Evenings pressed on her ears like weights. She filled the hoursyoga, embroidery, rereading every book on the shelfbut the loneliness lingered.
That night, Victor had approached her. Her quiet, forgotten classmate, now a maths professor. A widower, too. They talked for hours, discovering shared lovesold films, autumn walks, the simple craving for warmth.
Their romance unfolded slowly. Walks, theatre trips, long talks in a café by the park. She felt herself thawing, learning to live again.
When she told Christopher, hed surprised her. “Mum, youre an adult,” hed said, stirring sugar into tea. “If he makes you happy, Im glad.”
Shed been overjoyed. A year later, she and Victor married quietlyjust Margaret, Victors sister, and Christopher with Lucy.
That day, everything shattered. Christopher spent the reception scowling, ignoring Victor. When toasts came, he raised his glass and muttered at the wall, “To Dad. A real man. The best father. No one replaces him. Ever.”
The room fell awkwardly silent. Lucy tugged his sleeve, whispering, but he shook her off. Emilys face burned with shame. Victor squeezed her hand under the table, the only thing keeping her from crumbling.
After the wedding, Christopher stopped calling. At first, she told herself he was busy. She reached outshort, stiff conversations. “How are you?” “Fine.” “Anything new?” “No.” “Come for Sunday roast?” “Maybe. Probably not. Got to run.”
Then he stopped answering altogether. Messages went unread. Her birthday was the final blow. She cooked his favourite meal, waited like she had when he was small. He never came. No calljust a florists bouquet with a generic “Happy Birthday” card. No note.
That night, she confessed her pain to Victor.
“I dont understand what I did wrong,” she whispered on the sofa. “He said he was happy for me. What changed?”
“Hes jealous,” Victor said quietly, watching the electric fireplace. “Of your new life. Of me. He thinks Im trying to replace his dad.”
“Thats ridiculous! No one replaces Robert! I loved himhes Christophers father! But its been ten years. Dont I deserve happiness?”
“You do,” Victor said firmly. “He just cant see it yet. Hes still a boy in a mans body. Give him time.”
But time only built higher walls. Emily lost weight, slept poorly. Every ring of the phone sent her heart leapingalways someone else.
The porch argument was another wound. That house was their familys heart. Robert built it himself. After he died, she and Christopher spent summers thereevery apple tree, every corner steeped in memory. To him, Victors repairs felt like desecration.
“Should I go to him?” she asked Victor, pulling away. “Talk face-to-face.”
“Not now,” he said. “Hes too raw. Give him space.”
She obeyed, but the ache remained. Days later, Margaret called.
“Em! Whyve you gone quiet? Everything alright?”
“Not really,” Emily sighed. “Christopher.”
She relayed the latest. Margaret clicked her tongue.
“Selfish boy, thats what. Grown man acting like a child. Youre happy, and he sulks. Victors a saint putting up with this.”
“Meg, dont. He loved his dad.”
“So did we all! But life goes on! You raised him alone, sacrificed everything. Now youve found love, and he throws tantrums? Victor shouldve told you to sort your own son out by now.”
“Victor would never. He understands.”
“Understanding wont fix this. Have you talked to Lucy? Maybe she can reason with him.”
It was worth a try. Lucy had always been kind. Emily found her number, hands shaking as she dialled.
“Hello? Emily? Is everything okay?” Lucys voice was bright but wary.
“Lucy, love, sorry to bother you. I just how is Christopher?”
A pause. “Were fine. Busy with work.”
“Ive calledhe wont answer. Is he upset with me?”
Another silence. Then a sigh. “Emily hes struggling.”
“With what?”
“He thinks youve betrayed his dads memory. That youve moved on too fast.”
“Too fast?” The words stabbed. “Ten years, Lucy! I didnt bury myself with him! Im alive!”
“I know! I tell him the same! We argue constantly. I say you deserve happiness, that Victors good to youbut he wont listen. You dont understand, your dads alive. Hes stuck. Keeps Dads photo on his desk. Stares at it for hours. Hes torturing himself.”
Emilys breath caught. “What do I do?”
“I dont know,” Lucy admitted. “Ive tried everything. Hes bricked himself in. Maybe time will help.”
The call left Emily heavier. Now she knew her son wasnt just angryhe was grieving. And she, his mother, had caused it. That night, she sat staring at a framed photoRobert grinning, arm around her, little Christopher holding a fishing rod. A lifetime ago.
“Robert,” she whispered, “talk to him. Youre his father. Make him see.”
Christophers birthday approachedtwenty-eight. She saw a chance. Baked his favourite honey cake, bought the expensive jumper hed once admired.
“Are you sure about this?” Victor asked, watching her pack the cake.
“I have to try,” she said.
She went alone. His flat was on the third floor. Her heart pounded as she rang the bell. Silence. Again. The door stayed shut.
She stood there ten minutes, lost. Then dialled his number. Long rings. Suddenly, she heard his phone vibrate inside. He was home. A few feet away, ignoring her.
Tears spilled. She pressed her forehead to the cold wood. “Chris please. I brought cake. Your favourite”
No answer.
She walked back like a ghost, the cake box leaden. On a bench, she wept, uncaring of passersby. Humiliated. Broken.
Victor met her at the door. He took the box, held her, led her inside.
“Enough,” he said firmly, tucking a blanket around her. “No more begging. If he wont, thats his choice. Youve done all you can. Live for us now.”
She tried. Stopped calling. Stopped waiting. They took trips, saw friends, filled the silence. She laughed, but every phone chime froze her heart.
Autumn faded into winter. Before New Years, she cracked. Called Lucy.
“Lucy, love. Sorry to bother you. Any plans for the holidays? Fancy coming over?”
“Hi, Emily. Thanks, but were visiting my parents.”
“Oh. How is Chris?”
“Fine. Working.”
“Tell him Inever mind. Happy New Year.”
She hung up. Victor, overhearing, hugged her. “Lets go to the house. Light the fire, decorate the tree. Just us.”
“The porch?”
“Itll hold till spring. Well figure it out then.”
The house welcomed them with snow and silence. Victor lit the fire, warmth creeping through the rooms. They dressed the tree, made roast dinner, popped champagne. At midnight, Emily wished for one thing: her sons forgiveness.
Weeks passed. She learned to live with the pain, like a chronic ache.
Then, one evening during a film, her phone rang. Unknown number.
“Hello?”
“Emily? Its Lucy.” Her voice was strained.
“Lucy? Whats wrong?”
“Christopher and I weve split up.”
“What? Why?”
“I cant do it anymore. Hes unbearable. Angry, shut down. Ive triedGod, how Ive tried. But he pushes me away. Last month, we barely spoke. He comes home, eats in silence, stares at the TV or his games. Like living with a ghost. Today, I packed my things. He didnt even stop me.”
“Oh, love Where will you go?”
“A friends. Emily, I called because its not you. Its him. Hes eating himself alive. Until he faces his ghosts, hell never make anyone happy. Im sorry.”
The line went dead. Emily sat stunned. Heartbroken for Lucy. Terrified for Christopheralone in his shell of grief.
“What happened?” Victor muted the TV.
She told him. He studied her a long moment.
“You need to go to him.”
“He wont open the door.”
“He will now. Hes hit rock bottom. He needs his mum. Not as a judgejust his mum. Go. Dont leave until you talk.”
The next day, she stood at his door again. A thermos of chicken soup in hand. Rang the bell. Silence. Again. Then footsteps. The lock clicked.
The door opened a crack, the chain still on. One bloodshot eye peered out. He looked gaunt, shadows under his eyes.
“Mum?” His voice was hoarse.
“Its me, love. Let me in?”
A pause. Then the chain slid off.
The flat smelled of stale air and unwashed dishes. She set the soup on the table.
“I brought you some. You need to eat.”
He stood in the doorway, glowering. “Why are you here?”
“Lucy called.”
He flinched. “So she tattled.”
“Shes worried. So am I.”
She moved to hug him. He stepped back.
“Dont.”
“Chris, please. Talk to me. What did I do? Why do you hate my happiness?”
“I dont hate it,” he muttered, turning to the window. “I dont get it. How you moved on so fast.”
“Fast?” The word cut. “Ten years, Christopher! Ten years of talking to his photo, raising you alone. I owed himand youeverything. And then I dared to live. Is that a crime?”
“And Dad?” He whirled, tears in his eyes. “You just erased him. Replaced him.”
“No one replaces him!” she shouted, startling herself. “Hell always be in my heart! But I love Victor! He saved me from loneliness, from drowning in grief! He gave me back my life! Cant you be glad for me?”
“I cant!” he yelled. “When I see you two laughing, holding handsit feels like betrayal! Dad built that house for us! And now some stranger”
“Hes not a stranger! Hes my husband!”
They stood chests heaving, tears streaming. Two hearts, one fracture.
“I thought after Dad itd always be us,” Christopher said hoarsely. “But you found someone else. And Im alone.”
Then she understood. He wasnt jealous. He was scared. Terrified her new love would erase him too.
She pulled him into her arms, ignoring his stiffness, holding her grown, hurting boy.
“My darling fool,” she whispered, stroking his stubbled cheek. “Did you really think Id forget you? Youre my son. My blood. No oneno onecould ever take your place.”
He stood rigid, then shuddered. Buried his face in her shoulder and sobbedgreat, gulping, unmanly cries. And she cried with him, for all the pain, the love, the wasted time.
They talked until midnight. She poured soup; he ate; she told him of her loneliness, her fear, Victors patience. He listened.
At the door, as she left, he said softly, “Mum Im sorry.”
“Me too, love.”
She knew it was only the beginning. Acceptance would take time. But tonight, the wall had crumbled. Her son was speaking to her again.
