James, youve forgotten to call me back again! Ive been waiting all evening!
Margaret Carter was standing in the kitchen, phone in hand, feeling her throat tighten with disappointment. Hed promised to ring yesterday and never did.
Mum, Im sorry, work was a nightmare. I barely had a minute for a call.
James, you could at least drop a text! Im waiting here!
Mum, Im thirtytwo now. Im not a child you have to check up on every day.
Margaret fell silent. Shed never heard him speak like that before. Hed always been thoughtful, calling daily, visiting on weekends, helping around the house.
Alright, she whispered, a hint of a smile returning. Sorry for bothering you.
No problem. Actually, I wanted to tell you something. Im coming home on Saturday, but Im not coming alone.
With whom? Margarets voice tightened.
With a girl. Id like you to meet her. Her name is Emily.
A girl? James, is this serious?
Very serious, Mum. Weve been together for six months.
Margaret sank onto a chair. Six months and hed never mentioned her before. He used to share everything, now he kept it hidden.
Why didnt you tell me sooner?
I wanted to be sure it was right. Now Im certain. So expect us on Saturday around lunch.
Fine, Ill be waiting.
After he hung up, Margaret sat with the phone for a long while, a mixture of relief and hurt swirling inside her. Finally, her son had found someone. Shed been waiting for this moment for years.
Margaret lived alone in a modest twobedroom flat on the edge of Manchester. Her husband had died fifteen years ago from a heart attack. Shed raised James on her own, juggling two parttime jobs, cutting corners wherever she could, just to give him a decent life.
James had grown up bright and diligent. He graduated with top marks, landed a wellpaid programming job at a big firm in London, and moved into a sleek flat in the city centre. Margaret swore shed burst with pride.
On Saturday she got up early, brightened the flat until it gleamed, polished every pot, washed the curtains, then headed to the local market. She bought meat, veg, fruit everything he loved: meatloaf with mash and his favourite apple crumble.
By one oclock everything was ready. The table was set with a crisp white cloth and the best china. Margaret slipped into her nicest dress, did her hair, even dabbed a little lipstick.
The doorbell rang right at two. She brushed her hands on the apron, smoothed her hair, and went to answer.
James stood there in an expensive suit, with Emily beside him. She was tall, slim, wearing a stylish dress and high heels, hair in an elaborate updo, makeup flawless. She was stunning.
Mum, hi! James gave his mother a quick hug. This is Emily.
Hello, she said, extending a gloved hand. Her fingers were adorned with sparkling rings.
Nice to meet you, Margaret said, ushering them inside.
They stepped into the sitting room. Margaret fussed, offering seats and a chance to shed shoes. Emily glanced around, her eyes sweeping over the old furniture, faded wallpaper, worn carpet.
Such a cosy flat, Emily said with a strained smile.
Thank you, love. Its modest but tidy.
They all sat down. Margaret began to serve the food, talking about what shed cooked. James ate heartily, praising everything. Emily took delicate bites of the meatloaf.
Is it good? Margaret asked.
Its fine, Emily replied. I usually avoid fried stuff, trying to keep a figure.
Oh, youre already so slim! Margaret laughed.
Its the result of working with a trainer five times a week, Emily said.
Margaret nodded. Five sessions a week? She barely managed rent and bills.
What do you do for a living? she asked.
Im not employed at the moment, Emily set down her fork. I run a chain of hairsalons, three branches across the city.
Impressive! Margaret beamed.
Not entirely on my own, Emily corrected, tucking a strand behind her ear. My father helped me open the first shop, then I built it up.
And your parents?
My dad owns a construction firm, my mum does charity work.
Margaret sensed Emily came from a world of money and opportunity, far removed from her own modest pension and ageing flat.
Mum, how are you? James asked. Are you feeling alright?
Im okay, just my blood pressure spikes now and then, and I take my pills, Margaret replied.
Right, theres something we wanted to tell you. Weve decided to get married.
Margarets cup froze in her hand.
Get married? When?
In three months. Well have the ceremony at a restaurant that can seat onehundred and fifty guests.
Onehundred and fifty? she gasped. James, thats absurdly expensive!
Dont worry, Mum. Emilys parents are covering everything. They have connections, theyll arrange it all.
Yes, Emily added. My dad has booked the best venue in town, with a live band, fireworks, the whole lot.
Margaret looked at her son, hardly recognizing the confident man in the pricey suit, talking about a lavish wedding for a crowd she could never imagine.
Can I help at all? she asked.
No need, Mum. Weve got it under control.
Maybe I could bake some extra pies for the guests?
Emily gave a small sigh.
Thank you, but well have professional caterers. Chefs from the restaurant.
Could I help with decorations or the invitations?
No, thank you, James placed his hand gently on her palm. Just be happy and enjoy the day. Thats enough.
Margaret nodded, her throat tight with hurt, but she forced a smile.
After lunch, Emily excused herself to the restroom. When she returned, she looked irritated.
James, we should be going. I have a meeting with the designer in an hour.
Already? We just got here!
I told you we wouldnt stay long.
James gave his mother an apologetic glance.
Sorry, Mum. We really have to leave.
Of course, James. Thanks for coming.
When they left, Margaret sat at the table, staring at the untouched dishes. Shed put so much effort into the meal, and theyd barely touched it before bolting.
The phone rang. It was her friend Helen Harper.
Margaret, love, how are you? Did your son come?
He did, and I met his fiancée.
Hows she?
Beautiful, well off, from a different world.
How does she treat you?
Shes polite, but she seems to think our flat is unsuitable.
Ah, the rich never understand us simple folks.
Still, James likes her. He says theyre getting married.
Good for him. I hope hes happy.
I just hope he doesnt forget his mum.
A week passed with no calls from James. Margaret tried, but he was always busy meetings, trips, Emily.
Two weeks later he finally rang.
Hi, Mum. How are you?
Good, James. And you?
Great. Listen, we visited Emilys parents at their countryside estate. Its massive, like a proper manor.
Sounds lovely.
Theyre wonderful, especially Emilys mum. We get on famously.
Margaret squeezed the receiver tighter.
Im happy for you, love.
Yeah, Ive got to run. Talk soon.
Wait, could you come over this weekend? Ill make your favourite beef stew.
Cant, Mum. Emily and I have ringshopping plans.
Can I join?
There was a pause.
Mum, this is our private thing. Well manage.
Alright, good luck then.
The call ended and Margaret stared out at the grey courtyard, feeling her son slipping into a life where there was no room for the old mother in a faded dress.
That evening Helen dropped by with a tray of scones.
Here, have a bite. Youve lost a lot of weight.
Thanks, Helen.
They sat down with tea.
You look sad, love. Is it James again?
He used to call every day, now weeks go by without a word. He even turned down an invitation to pick out his rings.
Hes just head over heels, thats all. Itll pass.
Or maybe not? Maybe shes turning him against me?
Calm down, James is a smart lad.
Smart, but not my boy anymore.
Helen put an arm around her.
Dont say that. Blood is blood.
I wish I could believe that.
A month later, just two months before the wedding, James finally delivered an invitation.
Here, Mum, the wedding invite. Ceremony at three, reception after.
Margaret held the embossed card, the names in gold, the address of the venue.
Beautiful. What should I wear?
Whatever you like.
I thought maybe Id get something new, look presentable.
James shrugged.
Do what you want. It isnt that important.
Not important? Im the mother of the groom!
Mum, therell be so many guests, no one will notice you.
She lowered her eyes. No one would notice the mother of the groom.
And where will I sit? Which table?
I think Emilys handling the seating. Shell let you know.
Emily never called. Margaret phoned James several more times, but he was always too busy with wedding prep.
A week before the big day, Emily finally rang.
Mrs. Carter? This is Emily.
Hello, dear. How are you?
Im calling about the seating. Youll be at table twelve.
Twelve? Wheres that?
In the back corner, with distant relatives and friends of James.
Why not the head table? Im his mother!
Emily was silent.
The head table is for us, our parents, and close family on our side.
Im close family! I raised him!
Please, Mrs. Carter, dont cause a scene. Table twelve is final.
The line clicked. Margaret sat, phone trembling, feeling everything boil inside.
She dialed James.
Mum, Im at a meeting, cant talk.
James, your fiancée said Im at table twelve, in the corner, like a stranger!
Mum, does it matter which table?
It matters! Im your mother! I should be right beside you!
The parents of Emily are paying for everything, they decide.
And Im what? Nobody?
Please, stop being hysterical. Ive got enough stress.
James
Ive got to go. Well talk later.
He hung up. Margaret slumped into a chair, the twelfth table looming in her mind, far from her son.
Helen stopped by later, finding Margaret in tears.
What happened?
Margaret recounted the seating fiasco.
How dare they! Helen exclaimed. How can they treat you like that?
They can, and James backs them up.
Are you going to keep enduring this?
What else can I do? Argue? Then hed cut off contact completely.
Maybe you shouldnt go at all?
How could I? Hes my son.
A son who doesnt respect you, who lets his wife humiliate you.
Margaret wiped her eyes.
Ill still go. Its his wedding after all.
The wedding day was bright and sunny. Margaret rose early, did her hair, put on her best dressan old one shed bought five years ago, the only decent thing she owned.
Helen saw her off with a taxi.
Stay strong, Tom. Youre a worthy woman. You raised him on your own.
Thanks, Helen.
The venue was a grand hall with crystal chandeliers, white tablecloths, flowers everywhere. Margaret felt tiny in her faded dress, like a grey mouse among swans.
She found table twelve in the far corner, already occupied by a few guestsJamess university mates and a distant aunt of Emily.
Who are you? the aunt asked.
Im the mother of the groom.
Really? Why are you here? Usually mums sit at the head.
Thats how it was arranged, Margaret replied shortly.
The newlyweds entered to applause, James in a crisp white suit, Emily in a stunning gown, both beaming. Photographers snapped away.
Margaret watched her son, proud of how grown he looked, yet she felt like a stranger at her own celebration.
James never approached her. He was busy greeting guests, laughing with Emily, chatting with her parents.
She tried to get his attention, waited for a lull, then walked toward the main table.
James, congratulations! she handed him a small wrapped box.
Thanks, Mum, he took it without opening, set it aside.
Hes gorgeous, isnt she? Margaret said.
Yes, thank you.
Can we get a photo together?
Later, Im busy.
Emily placed a hand on Jamess shoulder.
Weve got guests to greet.
Right, sorry, Mum, I must go.
Margaret stood there, watching them leave. The people at table twelve gave her sympathetic looks.
Dont worry, love, weddings are stressful, the distant aunt said. The grooms busy.
I understand, Margaret replied, forcing a smile.
She realized James was ashamed of her, embarrassed by the old, modest mother in a cheap dress. He didnt want anyone seeing where he came from.
When the reception ended, Margaret slipped out quietly, unnoticed. James was still busy seeing off guests, never noticing his mother leave.
At home, Helen waited with tea.
Howd it go?
Margaret slipped off her shoes, collapsed onto the sofa.
Beautiful, lavish, but I felt like a nuisance.
Completely unnecessary?
Yes. He never even spoke to me. Hes ashamed.
Helen hugged her.
Oh, Tom. Dont cry. Its not worth your tears.
It is. Hes my son. I love him.
Does he love you?
Margaret fell silent.
A week after the wedding, James didnt call. She tried, but he didnt answer. Texts went unanswered.
Two weeks later he finally rang.
Hi, Mum.
James! Finally! Ive been so worried!
Sorry, were on a honeymoon in the Maldives.
The Maldives! How wonderful! How was it?
Amazing. Listen, Mum, I need to tell you something. Weve moved into a new flat. My parentsinlaw gave us a threebedroom unit in a new development.
Thats brilliant! Whats the address? Ill come see.
He hesitated.
Maybe later. Were still fitting it out, doing renovations.
I can help! Clean the windows, mop the floors!
No need, weve hired a cleaning service.
At least give me the address.
Ill send it when its ready. I have to go now, well speak later.
He hung up, leaving Margaret staring at the phone, heart tightening. He still wouldnt even tell her where he lived.
Months passed, and James called only every fortnight, short, perfunctory chats about work. Margaret tried to share her life, but he seemed uninterested.
One weekend she packed a tin of pastries and went to his office in a London business centre, having gotten the address from a friend. On the seventh floor, a receptionist looked up.
Good morning, Im here to see James Whitaker.
Do you have an appointment?
No, Im his mother.
The receptionist raised an eyebrow.
One moment, please.
She called someone, then turned back.
Mr. Whitaker is in a meeting and cant be disturbed.
But Im his mother!
Im sorry, hes occupied. He cant step out.
Margaret stood there with her pastries, cheeks flushing with embarrassment. The receptionist offered to pass a note.
No, thank you, Margaret said, turning away.
In the lift she broke down, tears slipping down. Her son had dismissed her outright.
Back home she threw the pastries away and lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. What had she done wrong? Where had she erred?
Helen stopped by that night.
Margaret, open up! I know youre home.
She opened the door to find Helens shocked face.
He refused to see me, Helen. My own son.
Helen dragged her into the kitchen, brewed strong tea.
Tell me everything.
Margaret recounted the office rejection, the humiliation.
What a scoundrel! Helen slammed her fist on the table. How could he treat his mother like that?
I dont know. Maybe Im no longer needed.
Margaret, maybe stop the selfhumiliation. Stop calling, stop visiting. Let him remember you on his own.
And if he never does?
Then thats his loss. You have to accept it.
She thought about it. Maybe Helen was right. Maybe it was time to let go.
She stopped calling James. She stopped writing. She simply lived her own life, joining a senior yoga class, looking after a neighbours grandson for a few hours a week. The money was modest but steady. She made new friends, tended the plants on her balcony.
The first week was hard. She wanted to pick up the phone, hear his voice. She held back.
The second week eased a bit. A small relief settled in. No longer waiting for a call that never came.
By the third week she felt peace. She realized she could be happy withoutAnd as the summer sun set over her balcony garden, Margaret smiled, knowing she had finally reclaimed her own peace.
