My son is no longer our grandson, Eleanor announced before the line clicked shut.
Victor, Im asking you one last time, will you send money for Jamies boots? Winter is on its way and his old shoes have fallen apart, the voice of my exhusband crackled through the receiver.
I clutched the handset as though I could squeeze the last drops of his conscience from it. On the other end a hesitant, perpetually apologetic sigh lingered.
Margaret, you know its difficult now. Work is swamped, the bonus has been delayed he began.
I hear that every month, I cut in sharply. Victor, this is our son. He needs winter boots, not a new toy. Im not asking for anything else; Im doing everything for him.
I understand, he murmured, but Mum Mum thinks youre asking for too much. She says the maintenance should cover it.
What maintenance? Those three pennies you send once a quarter when your mother remembers? You cant even buy laces with that!
Tears I could not control rolled down my cheeks. I stood in my tiny kitchen, still scented with yesterdays soup and damp laundry drying on the line above the stove. In the only other room, Jamie, my sixyearold, sleptmy sole joy and perpetual worry.
Ill speak to her again, Victor promised without conviction. Maybe something will change.
Dont bother, I snapped, ending the call.
Talking to his mother, Eleanor Whitcombe, was like banging ones head against a granite wall. She was cold, imperious, accustomed to the world revolving around her wishes and her sons whims. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and went to check on Jamie. He lay sprawled, his light hair fanned across the pillow, a worn plush rabbit at his side. I straightened his blanket and kissed his warm cheek. For him I would do anything.
The next ring made me start. An unfamiliar city number flashed on the screen, but my heart leaptI knew who it was. I shuffled back to the kitchen and lifted the receiver.
Hello.
Margaret? Its Eleanor.
The former motherinlaws voice was as cold as ice, no greetings, straight to the point.
Yes, MrsWhitcombe, hello.
I asked Victor to tell you to stop calling with endless demands. Apparently you havent got the hint. Listen carefully and well not revisit this. Victor is starting a new life, a normal family. We will no longer support you or your troubles.
Silence settled over me, the chill spreading inward.
Regarding the boy Eleanor paused, choosing the most cutting words. Your son is no longer our grandson. Forget this address and this number. All the best.
A short, harsh buzz sounded like a gunshot in the quiet kitchen. I lowered the phone, staring at a single point on the wall. Grandson. The word was simple and terrifying, as if one could erase a child who bore my exhusbands name, his eyes, his stubborn chin. I sank onto a stool, cradling my head. It was the endnot merely a divorce, but a total exile from a life that had once promised grand holidays in a sprawling country house and the comfort of a complete family.
The next morning I woke with a heavy head but clear resolve: I could count on no one but myself and Jamie. Together we would face the world. I stitched in a modest tailoring shop, earning just enough for a modest existence, though now I would have to tighten the belt even further.
Mum, are we going to Grandma Eleanors this weekend? Jamie asked over breakfast, his legs swinging beneath the table. She promised to show me the big car Dad bought.
My heart clenched. How could I tell him that Grandma Eleanor no longer wished to see him? That his father now had another child to show off a new vehicle?
Jamie, Grandmas very busy right now, I said gently, keeping my voice steady. And Dad too. How about we go to the park this weekend, ride the carousel, have some cotton candy?
For a moment Jamie seemed hesitant, but the thought of the carousel quickly won him over.
I want it! And cotton candy!
Ill get us cotton candy, I replied, hiding my pain behind a smile.
That marked the start of our new life. I took any extra work I could find: hemming neighbours trousers, inserting zippers, sewing curtains at night. I slept four or five hours, yet each time I saw Jamies delighted facewhether he was devouring a favourite bun or flipping through a new book we could finally affordfatigue slipped away. I learned to make do. Those winter boots were bought on sale; they werent fashionable, but they were warm.
Some evenings, when Jamie was already asleep, despair would wash over me. I would sit at the sewing machine, its rhythmic clatter echoing my thoughts on lifes unfairness. I recalled Victorindecisive, childish, once loving. I remembered his proposal, our dreams of children, and how his parents, especially his mother, wrested him from me, insisting I was of a lower class, without standing or money. Then came a petty incident, blown up by Eleanor into a betrayal of cosmic proportions, and Victor, unable to bear the pressure, simply left.
A year passed. Jamie started firstgrade. I proudly led him to the assembly line, his new uniforma jacket I had sewn himselfpaired with a bouquet of gladioli. Watching him, I knew I was doing right; we would survive.
The tailoring shop changed hands. Its new owner, Angela Thompson, was strict but fair. She immediately noticed my neatness and skill.
You have golden hands, Margaret, she remarked, admiring a flawless silk stitch. Ever thought of doing more than just alterations?
Like what? I asked, surprised.
Like creating something of your own. You have an eye for style.
I brushed it off. What own could I think about when I needed to pay rent and keep Jamie in school? Yet Angelas words lingered. One evening, rummaging through discarded fabrics, I found a scrap of bright chintz with tiny flowers. An idea sparked. I fashioned a tiny jumpsuit and a bonnet for Jamies plush rabbit. It turned out so cute that I took it to the shop to show Angela.
She examined it at length, then said decisively, Tomorrow bring everything else youve madetoy clothes, doll outfits, whatever.
I was bewildered, but the next day I presented a small box filled with my crafts: a few doll dresses, a bear costume, an embroidered shirt with a pattern of forest berries. Angela displayed them on a shelf by the entrance.
Experiment, she said briefly.
By evening the shelf was empty. Women collecting their orders lingered, admiring the miniature creations, buying them for their children and grandchildren. One lady even ordered an entire wardrobe for a prized German doll her granddaughter owned.
I could not believe my eyes. What I had dismissed as a pastime became a demand. I began sewing, after work, not only curtains but also these delicate pieces. First for the shops window, then for an increasing stream of orders. I set up a modest page on the social network, posting photos of my work. Mums Warmth became the name of my little venture.
Money stopped being an endless problem. I could enroll Jamie in the drawing club hed longed for. We moved to a larger flatstill a rental, but with a separate room for him. I blossomed. The perpetual fatigue faded; a spark returned to my eyes. I still worked hard, but now my labour brought both income and deep satisfaction.
Jamie grew into a calm, affectionate boy. He never asked about his father again or about the other grandmother. His world was his mother. He boasted to friends that his mum was the best magician in the world, capable of sewing anything.
When Jamie turned twelve, the phone rang again. An unknown number, yet something made me answer.
Margaret? This is Eleanor Whitcombe.
I froze. I hadnt heard that voice in six years. It was unchangedstill that cold, metallic tone.
Yes, Im listening.
Im calling about business, Eleanor said, her voice lacking any hint of embarrassment, as if there had never been that dreadful conversation. A friend recommended you as an excellent childrens tailor. My grandsons birthday is approachinghell be five. Id like to order an exclusive costume. I know youre busy, but Im willing to pay double. Its very important to me.
I closed my eyes. Grandson. Five years old. So Victor hadnt liedhe truly had a new family. And now the woman who had once thrown my child out of her life wanted my services. The irony was bitter.
MrsWhitcombe, I said slowly, my voice steadied, I must decline.
Silence hung, surprised, on the other end. Apparently, refusal was a new sound to her.
What do you mean, decline? Ill pay any price!
Its not about the price, I replied evenly. A few years ago you called me and said my son was no longer your grandson. You erased him from your life without a thought for the little boy.
That was long ago Eleanor began, but I cut her off.
For you it may be long ago. For me, I remember every second of that call. I built my life and my business from scratch, pouring skill and love into each piece. My brand is Mums Warmth. I cannot, in good conscience, create a garment for a family that discarded a child with such cold cruelty.
I paused, letting the weight of my words settle.
My son, the one you said was no longer your grandson, is right now in the next room, drawing. Hes talented, kind, and smartthats all I have. Keep your money. Perhaps it will buy you a conscience, though I doubt it. All the best.
I hung up without waiting for a reply. My hands trembled slightly, but my spirit felt light and at peace. It was not revenge; it was justice. I slipped into the doorway of Jamies room and peered through the crack. He sat at his desk, absorbed in a sketch, oblivious to me. His drawings covered the wallbright, full of light and life.
A smile crossed my face. Yes, we were alright. And we would be even better. I closed the door and went to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Another ordinary evening awaited, filled with the quiet happiness I had fashioned with my own hands. In that happiness, there was no room for the ghosts of the past.
