Your son is no longer our grandson, the former motherinlaw declared before hanging up.
George, Im asking you one last time, will you send money for Tommys boots? Winter is coming and hes outgrown his old shoes, he has nothing to wear.
Eleanor clenched the receiver as if trying to squeeze out not only her exhusbands voice but the last remnants of his conscience. On the other end there was a pause, then a hesitant, perpetually apologising sigh.
Eleanor, you know its difficult now. Work is swamped, the bonus has been delayed
I hear that every month, she snapped. George, this is about our son. He needs winter boots, not a new toy. Im not asking for anything for myself, Im doing everything for him.
I understand, he muttered. But Mum Mum thinks youre asking too much. She says the maintenance should be enough.
What maintenance? The three pence you send once a quarter when your own mother feels like reminding you? You cant even buy laces for those boots with that!
Tears of helpless rage rolled down her cheeks. She stood in her tiny kitchen, still scented with yesterdays broth and the damp laundry hanging over the stove. In the single adjoining room, Tommy, her sixyearold son, slept, the only joy and perpetual worry of her life.
Ill speak to her again, George promised without conviction. Maybe something will work out.
Dont trouble yourself, Eleanor cut him off and hung up.
Talking to his mother, Agnes Whitby, was like striking a granite wall. The cold, domineering woman, accustomed to the world revolving around her wishes and her soninlaws whims, left Eleanor with no choice but to wipe her eyes with the back of her hand and check on her child. Tommy lay sprawled, his blond hair a mess on the pillow, a battered stuffed rabbit at his side. She adjusted the blanket, kissed his warm cheek, and vowed she would do anything for him.
A ringtone snapped her out of the reverie. An unfamiliar city number flashed on the screen, but her heart lurched she knew who it was. She shuffled back to the kitchen and lifted the handset.
Hello.
Eleanor? Its Agnes.
The former motherinlaws voice was as cold as ice, no pleasantries, straight to the point.
Yes, Agnes, good day.
I asked George to tell you to stop ringing him with endless requests. Apparently that didnt reach you. Listen carefully, and we shall not revisit this. George is starting a new life, a proper family. We intend no longer to support you or your troubles.
Eleanor fell silent, feeling the chill sink deeper.
As for the boy Agnes paused, choosing the most cutting words. Your son is no longer our grandson. Forget this address and this number. All the best.
A short, sharp buzz sounded like a gunshot in the quiet kitchen. Eleanor let the phone fall, staring at a spot on the wall. No longer a grandson. Simple, terrifying. As if one could erase a child who bore the family name, who had his fathers eyes and his grandfathers stubborn chin. She sank onto a stool, cradling her head in her hands. It was the endnot merely a divorce, but a total, final severance from a life that once held hopes, holidays in a grand country house, and the belief that her son might belong to a complete, loving family.
In the morning she awoke with a heavy head but a clear realization: she could count on no one but herself and Tommy. Together they would face the world. She earned a meagre wage as a seamstress in a small dressmakers shop, just enough for a modest existence, though now she would have to tighten the belt even more.
Mum, will we go to Grandma Agness for the weekend? Tommy asked over breakfast, his feet tapping under the table. She promised to show me the big car Daddy bought.
Eleanors heart clenched. How could she explain that Agnes no longer wanted to see him? That his father now had another child to show new cars to?
Tommy, Grandma is quite busy now, she said softly, keeping her voice steady. And Daddy is busy too. How about we go to the park this weekend, ride the carousel, have some cotton candy?
Tommy hesitated a moment, then the thought of the carousel won him over.
I want that! And the sweet candy!
And the sweet candy, Eleanor replied, masking her pain with a smile.
Thus their new life began. Eleanor took any odd job she could find: shortening neighbours trousers, fitting zippers, sewing curtains by night. She slept four or five hours, yet when she saw her sons delighted face as he devoured a favourite bun or marveled at a new book they could afford, the fatigue faded. She learned to make do. The winter boots she finally bought at a sale were not the fanciest, but they were warm enough.
Sometimes, after Tommy was asleep, despair washed over her. She would sit at the sewing machine, its rhythmic clack echoing the injustice she felt. She thought of Georgeindecisive, childish, once beloved. She remembered his proposal, their dreams of children, and how his mother, especially, had wrested him away, insisting Eleanor was plain and lacked status and money. Then a petty dispute, blown up by Agnes into a betrayal of cosmic proportions, and George, unable to bear the pressure, simply left.
A year passed. Tommy started school. Eleanor proudly led him to the assembly line, his new uniform sewn by her own hands, a bouquet of gladioli in his arms. She knew she was doing the right thing.
The dressmakers shop changed ownership. The new proprietor, Angela Whitaker, was stern but fair and immediately noticed Eleanors precision and talent.
You have golden hands, Eleanor, she said, admiring a flawless seam on a silk dress. Have you ever thought of doing more than just alterations?
Like what? Eleanor asked, surprised.
Creating your own line. You have an eye for design.
Eleanor waved the suggestion off. What own line when I must worry about rent and school fees? Yet Angelas words lingered. One evening, while sorting through old fabric, Eleanor found a scrap of bright chintz with tiny flowers. An idea sparked. She fashioned a tiny overalls and a bonnet for Tommys stuffed rabbit. It was so charming she took it to the shop to show Angela.
Angela examined it closely, then declared,
Tomorrow bring everything youve madedolls dresses, teddy suits, anything.
Eleanor was flustered but complied, presenting a modest box of her handicrafts: a few doll dresses, a bear costume, an embroidered shirt for Tommy with a pattern of forest berries. Angela displayed them on the shops front counter.
A trial, she said.
By evening the box was empty. Women who came to collect their orders cooed over the miniature creations and bought them for their children and grandchildren. One lady even placed an order for an entire wardrobe for a prized German doll her granddaughter owned.
Eleanor could hardly believe her eyes. What she had considered a pastime turned into demand. She began stitching not only curtains but also these delicate pieces, first for the shops window, then for a growing list of customers. She set up a modest page on the new social network, posting photographs of her work. Mums Warmth became the name of her little venture.
Money ceased to be an endless worry. She enrolled Tommy in an art club he had long dreamed of joining. They moved into a slightly larger rented flat, with a separate room for him. Eleanor blossomed. The perpetual exhaustion left her face, replaced by a bright gleam in her eyes. She still worked hard, but now the labour brought both income and deep satisfaction.
Tommy grew into a calm, affectionate boy. He never asked about his father or the other grandmother again. His world was his mother, and he boasted to friends that his mum was the best wizard in the world, capable of sewing anything.
When Tommy turned twelve, the phone rang again. An unfamiliar number flashed, yet something made Eleanor answer.
Eleanor? Good day. Its Agnes.
Eleanor froze. She hadnt heard that voice in six years. It was unchangedstill that cold metal.
Im listening, she said.
Im calling on business, Agnes said, her tone devoid of any embarrassment. A friend recommended you as a wonderful 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.
Eleanor closed her eyes. Grandson. Five years. So George had not liedhe truly had a new family, and now the woman who had cast her child out wanted her services. The irony was sharp and bitter.
Agnes Whitby, Eleanor said slowly, her voice calm and steady, I must decline.
Silence lingered on the other end, as if the surprise had taken its breath.
What do you mean decline? Ill pay any price!
Its not about the price, Eleanor replied evenly. A few years ago you called and told me my son was no longer your grandson. You erased him from your life without a thought for the little boy. I remember every second of that conversation. I have built my life and my business from scratch, pouring skill and the love I wished to give my child into every stitch. My brand is called Mums Warmth. I simply cannot fashion a piece for a family that discarded a child with such cold cruelty.
She paused, letting the former motherinlaw absorb the words.
My son, the one you said was no longer your grandson, sits in the next room drawing. He is talented, kind, and everything I have. Keep your money. Perhaps it will buy you a conscience, though I doubt it. Farewell.
Eleanor hung up without waiting for a reply. Her hands trembled slightly, but her heart felt light. It was not vengeance; it was justice. She slipped through the doorway to her sons room, peeking inside. Tommy was bent over a sheet of paper, so engrossed he didnt notice her. His drawingsbright, full of light hung on the wall.
She smiled. Yes, they were alright. And they would be even better. She closed the door and went to the kitchen to set the kettle. Another ordinary evening lay ahead, filled with the quiet happiness she had crafted with her own hands, a happiness untouched by the ghosts of the past.
