Martha Whitcombe had been waiting for the phone to ring all evening.
Andrew, youve forgotten to call me again! Ive been here since dusk!
Martha stood in the kitchen, phone pressed to her ear, feeling the tremor of hurt in her voice. Her son had promised to ring the night before, yet the line stayed silent.
Mum, Im sorry, the office was in a frenzy. I barely had a moment for a call. he replied.
Andrew, you could at least have sent a text! I worry! she snapped.
Im thirtytwo, Mum. Im not a child who has to report every minute of his day! he retorted.
Martha fell silent. Andrew had never spoken like this before. Hed always been caring, calling daily, visiting on weekends, helping around the house.
All right, she whispered. Forgive me for disturbing you.
Its fine, Mum. Listen, I wanted to tell you something. Ill be coming Saturday, but not alone.
With whom? Marthas nerves tightened.
With a girl. Ill introduce you. Her name is Poppy.
A girl? Andrew, is this serious?
Very serious, Mum. Weve been together for six months.
Martha sank onto a chair. Six months, and hed never mentioned her. Hed once shared everything, now he kept secrets.
Why didnt you tell me earlier? she asked.
I wanted to be sure it was real. Now Im convinced, so expect us around lunch on Saturday.
Ill be waiting. she said, her throat tightening.
When the call ended, Martha clutched the handset, feeling the weight of the moment. Finally, her son had found someone. She had waited for this for years.
Martha lived alone in a modest twobedroom flat on the outskirts of Manchester. Her husband had died fifteen years ago of a heart attack. Shed raised Andrew by herself, working two jobs, skimping on everything so that he could have a good life.
Hed grown up bright and diligent, graduated with top honours, and landed a programmer job at a major firm in the city centre. He earned well enough to rent a sleek flat there, and Martha swelled with pride.
On Saturday she rose early, scrubbed the flat until it gleamed, polished every pot, washed the curtains, then headed to the market. She bought meat, vegetables, fruitAndrew loved her meatballs with mashed potatoes. She also baked an apple crumble, his favourite.
By one oclock everything was ready. The table was set with a crisp white cloth, the finest china in place. Martha slipped into her best dress, tidied her hair, even applied a touch of lipstick.
At precisely two oclock the doorbell rang. She wiped her hands on her apron, smoothed her hair, and opened the door.
Andrew stood there in an expensive suit, a tall, slender woman beside him. She wore a fashionable dress, high heels, her hair in an elaborate updo, makeup flawlessstunningly beautiful.
Mum, hello! Andrew embraced her. Meet Poppy.
Hello, the girl said, extending a gloved hand. Rings glittered on her fingers.
Welcome, dear, come in.
They stepped inside. Martha fluttered about, offering seats and asking them to remove their shoes. Poppy glanced around, her eyes sweeping over the faded wallpaper, the threadbare carpet, the battered furniture.
Such a cosy little flat, she murmured with a strained smile.
Thank you, dear. Its modest but tidy.
They all sat down. Martha began serving the food, describing each dish. Andrew ate heartily, praising everything. Poppy dabbed at her meatball with a fork, taking tiny bites.
Is it to your liking? Martha asked.
Its fine, Poppy replied. I normally avoid fried foods; I watch my figure.
Oh, love, youre already so slim! Martha giggled.
Its the result of training with a personal coach five times a week, Poppy said.
Martha nodded, thinking of her own precarious finances.
What do you do for a living? she asked.
I dont work, Poppy put down her fork. I run a chain of beauty salons. Three branches around town.
Impressive! Martha exclaimed.
Not entirely on my own, Poppy corrected, smoothing a strand of hair. My father helped open the first salon; Ive built the rest.
And your parents?
My father owns a construction firm; my mother is involved in charity work.
Martha sensed Poppy came from a world of money, success, opportunitya world far from her modest pension and aging flat.
How are you, Mum? Andrew asked. Is your health okay?
Its all right. My blood pressure spikes sometimes, but I take the tablets. she replied.
By the way, Poppy and I have decided to get married. Andrew announced.
Martha froze, tea cup trembling in her hand.
Married? When?
In three months. Well have a reception for one hundred and fifty guests at a top restaurant. Andrew said.
One hundred and fifty? Martha gasped. Thats an awful lot!
Dont worry, Mum. Poppys parents will pay for everything. They have connections; theyll arrange it all. Poppy added.
My father booked the finest restaurant in the city, with a host, performers, even fireworks. she said.
Martha stared at her son, barely recognizing the confident man in the expensive suit, talking about a lavish wedding that seemed a world away from her humble kitchen.
Can I help at all? she asked.
No, Mum, weve got everything covered. Andrew said, placing his hand over hers. Just be happy. Thats enough.
Martha nodded, her throat tightening with hurt, yet she forced a smile.
After lunch Poppy excused herself to the loo. When she returned, her expression was sour.
Andrew, we must be going, she announced. I have a meeting with my designer in an hour.
Already? Weve just arrived! Andrew protested.
I told you we wouldnt linger. Poppy replied.
Andrew looked apologetically at his mother.
Sorry, Mum. We really have to leave. he said.
Of course, Andrew. Thank you for coming. Martha watched them out, the untouched dishes staring back at her. Theyd taken only a few bites and vanished.
The phone rang later. It was her friend Vera Hargreaves.
Tom, how are you? Did your son come? Vera asked.
He did, introduced his fiancée. Martha replied.
How is she?
Beautiful, wealthy, from another world.
How did she treat you?
She seemed fine, but I sensed my flat didnt impress her. She kept frowning.
Ah, the rich never understand us simple folk. Vera sighed.
She likes Andrew, though. He says hell marry. Martha said.
Let him be happy. Vera said.
Weeks passed without a call from Andrew. When he finally rang, it was brief.
Mum, hello. How are you? he said.
Great, Andrew. And you?
Excellent. We visited Poppys parents at their country estate. Its huge.
I can imagine.
They welcomed us warmly. Poppys mother is wonderful. Were on the same wavelength. Andrew said, his voice warm.
Martha squeezed the phone.
Im happy for you, son. she said.
I have to run. Talk later. he ended.
Martha stared out at the grey courtyard, feeling her son drift further into a life where there was no place for an old mother in a faded dress.
That evening Vera dropped by with scones.
You look thin, Tom, Vera remarked. Youve lost weight.
Thanks, Vera. Martha smiled weakly.
You seem sad. Is it because of Andrew? Vera asked.
Hes forgotten me, Vera. He used to call every day; now weeks pass without a word. He even declined my invitation to pick out his wedding rings.
Hes in love, thats all. Itll pass. Vera tried to reassure.
Or maybe hes being pushed away by his fiancée? Martha wondered.
Hes clever, that boy. Vera said.
Martha brushed away a tear.
Hes not a boy anymore. Not my boy. she whispered.
Vera hugged her.
A son is still a son. Blood runs deeper than water. she said.
Id like to believe that. Martha sighed.
Months slipped by. The wedding drew nearer, then was set for two months later. Andrew brought home an invitation, embossed with gold lettering, the venue address, and a note that the ceremony would start at three oclock, followed by a banquet.
What dress should I wear, Mum? Andrew asked.
Whatever you like. she replied.
I thought maybe I should buy something new, look proper.
Do what you want. Andrew shrugged.
She wondered where she would sit.
Poppy will arrange seating, she said, shell call. Andrew said.
Poppy never called. Martha tried again and again, but Andrew was always busy with work or meetings.
A week before the wedding, Poppy finally phoned.
Mrs. Whitcombe? This is Poppy. she said.
Hello, dear. How are you? Martha replied.
Im calling about seating. Youll be at table twelve. Poppy announced.
Twelve? Where is that?
In the far corner, with distant relatives and Andrews friends.
Why not at the head table? Im the brides fathers mother! Martha protested.
The head table is reserved for Andrew, me, our parents, and close relatives. Poppy answered.
Im a close relative! I gave birth to him! Martha insisted.
Please, Mrs. Whitcombe, the seating is final. Poppy said firmly.
Marthas heart pounded. She dialed Andrew.
Mum, Im in a meeting, cant talk. he replied.
You said Id be at table twelve! In the corner! Like a stranger! she shouted.
Does it matter? he said.
It matters! Im your mother! I should be beside you! she cried.
Your mother will be sitting with Poppys parents; theyre paying for everything. Andrew said.
So Im nothing? she whispered.
No drama, Mum. Weve got it under control. he said.
He hung up. Martha sank into a chair, the number twelve echoing in her mind, a cold spot far from her son.
Vera visited later that night, finding Martha in tears.
What happened? she asked.
The seating. Its an insult. Martha explained.
How dare they! Vera exclaimed. And Andrew backs them!
What can I do? Martha asked.
You could quit attending the wedding? Vera suggested.
I cant. Hes my son. Martha said.
The wedding day was bright and clear. Martha rose early, put on her best dressa faded one bought five years ago, the only one she owned. Vera escorted her to a cab.
Hold on, Tom. Remember, youre a worthy woman. You raised him alone. Vera said.
The restaurant was opulent: crystal chandeliers, white linens, flowers everywhere. Martha felt like a mouse in a palace.
She found table twelve, tucked away in the corner. A few strangers sat thereAndrews university friends and a distant aunt of Poppys.
Who are you? the aunt asked.
Im the brides fathers mother. Martha replied.
Really? the woman stared. Usually the parents sit at the head table.
Thats how it was decided, Martha said briefly.
The bride and groom entered to music, radiant. Andrew wore a crisp white suit, Poppy a dazzling gown. Guests applauded, photographers flashed.
Andrew never glanced at his mother. He was busy with guests, Poppy, her parents.
Martha tried to approach, waited for a pause, then walked toward the head table.
Congratulations, Andrew! she offered, handing him a small, neatly wrapped box.
Thanks, Mum, Andrew took it without opening, placed it on the side.
Poppy, can we take a photo? she asked.
Later, Mum, Im busy. Poppy replied, patting his shoulder.
When the feast began, Martha stayed at her corner table, feeling like an outsider at her own sons celebration. Guests glanced at her with pity.
Dont worry, dear, weddings are stressful, a distant aunt whispered. Hes just occupied.
Martha nodded, but inside she knew her son was ashamed of the woman who had fed him, soothed his childhood cries, and now was being hidden away.
When the night ended, she slipped out unnoticed. The staff were too busy to see her leave. At home, Vera waited with tea.
How was it? she asked.
Beautiful, rich but I was a spare part. Martha said, slipping off her shoes onto the sofa.
Weeks passed without a call from Andrew. When he finally rang, it was brief.
Mum, hello. he said.
Andrew! Finally! Ive been so anxious! she exclaimed.
Sorry, were on our honeymoon in the Maldives. he replied.
The Maldives! How wonderful! How was it? she asked.
Perfect. By the way, we moved. My parents gave us a threebedroom flat in a new development. he said.
Thats fantastic! Whats the address? Ill come see. Martha asked.
Not now, Mum. Were still sorting the renovation. he answered.
I can help! Clean the windows, mop the floors! she offered.
No need, we have a cleaning service. he replied.
At least give me the address.
Ill when its ready. I have to go. Talk later. he hung up.
Martha stared at the dead handset, heart tightening. He never gave her the address.
Months later, Andrews calls were sparse, always short, always about work. He never asked about her.
One day, Martha decided to walk to his office. She found the address through a friend, a glass tower in the city centre, and took the lift to the seventh floor. The reception desk was sleek.
Good afternoon, Im here to see Andrew Whitcombe. she announced.
Do you have an appointment? the secretary asked.
Im his mother. Martha replied.
The woman raised an eyebrow, made a quick call, then turned back.
Mr. Whitcombe is currently in a meeting and cant see anyone. she said.
But Im his mother! Martha protested.
Im sorry, hes occupied. the secretary said.
Martha stood there, a bag of pastries in her hands, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. The secretary offered to pass a note.
No, thank you. Martha said, turning away.
In the elevator she broke down, tears slipping down her cheeks. Her son refused to see her, even now.
Back home she tossed the pastries into the bin, lay on the bed, and stared at the ceiling. What had she done wrong? Where had she erred?
Vera visited that night, carrying a pot of strong tea.
You look like youve seen a ghost, Tom. she said.
He didnt want to see me, Vera. My own son. Martha confessed.
What a scoundrel! Vera exclaimed. How could he treat his mother like that?
I dont know. Maybe Im no longer needed. Martha whispered.
Perhaps you should stop calling, stop showing up. Let him remember you on his own. Vera advised.
And if he never remembers? Martha asked.
Then thats his choice. Vera said.
Martha thought about it. Maybe it was time to let go. She stopped calling, stopped begging for attention, and simply lived. She took a parttime job looking after a neighbours grandchild, earned a modest sum, joined a senior yoga class, and made new friends.
The first week was hard; she wanted to pick up the phone. The second week eased; she felt a strange relief. The third week brought peace. She realized she could be happy without waiting for her sons call.
Two months later she celebrated her birthday with Vera and a few other friends, sipping tea and laughing.
Tom, are you happy today? one friend asked.
Yes, Martha replied, smiling. For the first time in ages I feel content.
Did your son wish you? another asked.
No, and thats fine. Ive let go of that expectation. she said.
That evening, as the last guest left, the doorbell rang. Martha opened it to find Andrew, looking tired, dark circles under his eyes.
Happy birthday, Mum. he said.
Martha looked at him, speechless.
Come in. she said.
He sat at the table, glancing around.
Were there guests? he asked.
Yes, friends. she replied.She smiled, realizing that the love she had yearned for all these years finally blossomed in this simple, quiet moment.
