Andrew had chosen a wealthy bride and almost forgotten his mother.
Andrew, youve forgotten to call me back again! I waited all evening!
Martha Seddon stood in the kitchen, phone clenched, feeling the tremor of hurt in her throat. Her son had promised to ring yesterday and never did.
Mum, Im sorry, Ive been swamped at work. No time for calls.
Andrew, you could at least have texted! Im worrying!
Mum, Im thirtytwo. Im not a child who has to report every minute!
Martha fell silent. Andrew had never spoken like this before. He had always been attentive, caring, calling each day, visiting on weekends, helping around the house.
All right, she whispered. Im sorry to have bothered you.
Its fine. Listen, Ill be coming Saturday, but not alone.
With whom? Marthas ears pricked.
With a lady. Ill introduce her. Her name is Eleanor.
A lady? Andrew, is this serious?
Very serious, Mum. Weve been together for six months.
Martha sank into a chair. Six months, and hed never mentioned her. He had always shared everything, now he kept it hidden.
Why didnt you tell me earlier?
I wanted to be sure it was real. Now Im sure. Expect us Saturday at noon.
Okay, Andrew. Ill be waiting.
When he hung up, Martha lingered with the phone pressed to her ear. A lady at last. She had imagined this moment for years.
Martha lived alone in a twobed flat on the edge of Manchester. Her husband had died fifteen years ago of a heart attack. She raised Andrew singlehanded, working two jobs, skimping on everything so her son could have a good life.
He grew smart and diligent, graduated with top honors, landed a programmer job at a major firm, earned well, and moved into a flat in the city centre. Martha swelled with pride.
On Saturday she rose early, scrubbed the flat until it gleamed, polished every pot, washed the curtains. Then she went to the market, bought meat, veg, fruit. Andrew loved her minced beef and mash. She also baked his favourite apple crumble.
By one oclock everything was ready. The table was set with a white cloth, fine china arranged. Martha slipped into her best dress, brushed her hair, even applied a touch of lipstick.
The doorbell rang precisely at two. She wiped her hands on the apron, smoothed her hair, and opened.
There stood Andrew in an expensive suit, handinhand with Eleanor, tall and slender, wearing a fashionable dress and high heels, hair in a complex updo, flawless makeup.
Mum, hello! Andrew embraced his mother. Meet Eleanor.
Hello, Eleanor said, extending a gloved hand, rings sparkling on her fingers.
Welcome, dear. Come in, come in.
They entered. Martha fussed, offering seats and taking shoes. Eleanor glanced around, her eyes lingering on the faded wallpaper, the worn carpet, the old furniture.
Such a cosy flat, she said with a strained smile.
Thank you, dear. Its modest but tidy.
They sat down. Martha began serving the food, describing each dish. Andrew ate heartily, praising everything. Eleanor picked at her steak, cutting small bites.
Is it good? Martha asked.
Its fine, Eleanor replied. I usually avoid fried foods; I watch my figure.
Oh, love, youre already so slim!
Its the result of training with a personal coach five times a week, Eleanor said.
Martha nodded. A personal coach, five times a week. She could barely afford food and utilities.
What do you do for work? Martha asked.
I dont work, Eleanor set down her fork. I run a chain of beauty salons, three branches across the city.
Impressive!
Not entirely on my own, Eleanor adjusted 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.
Martha sensed Eleanor came from a world of money and opportunity, a world far removed from her modest pension and ageing flat.
Mum, how are you? Andrew asked. Is your health okay?
Im fine, just occasional bloodpressure spikes, but the tablets keep me steady.
By the way, we wanted to tell you something. Weve decided to marry.
Martha froze, teacup trembling.
Marry? When?
In three months. Well have the ceremony in a restaurant for a hundred and fifty guests.
Onefifty? Martha could not believe it. Andrew, thats extravagant!
Dont worry, Mum. Eleanors parents will cover everything. They have connections; theyll handle all the details.
Yes, Eleanor added. My father booked the citys best restaurant. There will be a host, performers, fireworks.
Martha stared at her son, hardly recognizing the man in the sleek suit speaking of a wedding for a hundred and fifty strangers.
Can I help at all? she asked.
No, Mum. Everythings under control.
Could I bake some cakes for the guests?
Eleanor chuckled.
We have professional catering. Chefs from the restaurant will handle that.
Or the invitations? The décor?
No, just be happy and enjoy the day. Thats enough.
Martha nodded, throat tightening with hurt, yet a smile forced itself.
After lunch Eleanor excused herself to the restroom. When she returned her expression was sour.
Andrew, we must leave, she said. I have a meeting with a designer in an hour.
Already? We just arrived!
I told you we wouldnt stay long.
Andrew gave his mother a guilty look.
Sorry, Mum. We really have to go.
Of course, Andrew. Thank you for coming.
When they left, Martha sat at the table, looking at the untouched dishes. They had eaten just a little and fled.
The phone rang. It was Veronica Hughes.
Martha, how are you? Did your son come?
He did. He introduced his fiancée.
How is she?
Beautiful, wealthy, from another world.
How did she treat you?
She seemed fine, but I sensed she didnt like our flat. She frowned a lot.
Ah, the rich never understand us simple folk.
Thats what I think. Andrew seems happy with her.
Good for him. May he be happy.
Happy, Martha echoed. As long as he is.
A week passed. Andrew didnt call. Martha tried, but he was always busy in meetings, traveling, with Eleanor.
Two weeks later he finally called.
Mum, hi. How are you?
Good, Andrew. And you?
Great. Listen, we went to Eleanors parents country house. Its a whole estate. Can you imagine?
I can.
They welcomed us wonderfully. Eleanors mother is fantastic. Were on the same wavelength.
Martha squeezed the phone tighter.
Im glad for you, son.
Yeah. I have to run. Talk later.
Andrew, wait! Maybe youll come for a Sunday dinner? Ill make your favourite borscht.
I cant, Mum. We have plans to pick out wedding rings.
Can I come with you?
A pause.
Mum, thats our private matter. Well manage ourselves.
Understood. Good luck.
When the call ended, Martha stared out at the grey courtyard. Her son was drifting into another life, a life where there was no place for an old mother in a worn dress.
That evening Veronica dropped by with scones.
Here, have some. You look thinner.
Thanks, Ver.
They sat for tea.
You seem down, Veronica noted. Because of your son?
He forgets me now. He used to call every day; now weeks pass without a word. He turned down my invitation to pick out his rings.
Hes in love, thats all. Itll pass.
Or maybe it wont? Maybe his new lady is turning him against me?
Stop it. Andrew is a smart lad.
Smart, Martha wiped a tear. But not a boy any more. Not my boy.
Veronica put a hand on her shoulder.
Dont say that. Blood is blood.
Id like to believe it.
A month slipped by. Two months remained until the wedding. Andrew finally delivered an invitation.
Here, Mum. The ceremony at three oclock, then the banquet.
Martha held the embossed card, names in gilt, the restaurants address.
Lovely, she said. Andrew, what dress should I wear?
Whatever you like.
I thought I might buy something new, to look presentable.
Andrew shrugged.
Buy it if you want. It wont matter.
How could it not matter? Im the grooms mother!
Mum, there will be so many guests. No one will notice you.
Martha lowered her eyes. No one would notice the mother of the groom.
Where will I sit? Which table?
I dont know. Eleanor is arranging seating. Shell tell you.
Eleanor never called. Martha phoned again and again, but Andrew was always busy. The wedding preparations consumed him.
A week before the wedding Eleanor finally called.
Martha Seddon? Good afternoon, this is Eleanor.
Hello, dear. How are you?
Im calling about seating. Youll be at table twelve.
Twelve? Where is that?
In the far corner. Thats where the distant relatives and Andrews old friends sit.
Why not the head table? Im the grooms mother!
Eleanor was silent.
The head table will be for me, Andrew, my parents, our closest family. Youre at twelve.
Im immediate family! I gave you life!
Martha, please dont create a scene. The seating is set. Table twelve is final.
She hung up. Martha felt a storm inside.
She dialed Andrew.
Mum, Im in a meeting, cant talk.
Andrew, your fiancée said Ill be at table twelve, in the corner, like an outsider!
Does it matter which table?
It matters! Im your mother! I should sit beside you!
The wedding is being paid for by Eleanors parents. They decide.
Then Im nothing?
No melodrama, please. I have enough stress.
Andrew
I have to go. Well speak later.
He dropped the line. Martha sank into a chair. Table twelve, in the corner, far from her son.
Veronica visited that night, finding Martha in tears.
Whats happened?
Martha explained the seating.
How bold! Veronica exclaimed. How could they treat you like that?
They can. And Andrew supports them.
Will you keep going?
What else can I do? Argue? Then hell stop coming altogether.
Maybe you shouldnt go to the wedding at all?
How could I not? Hes my son.
A son who disrespects his mother, who lets his bride humiliate you.
Martha wiped her tears.
Ill still go. Maybe something will change.
The wedding day was bright. Martha rose early, brushed her hair, put on her best dress an old piece bought five years ago, the best she owned.
Veronica saw her off to a cab.
Hold tight, Tom. Remember youre a worthy woman. You raised your son alone.
Thank you, Ver.
The restaurant was lavish: a grand hall with crystal chandeliers, white linens, flowers everywhere. Martha felt like a grey mouse in a room of peacocks.
She found table twelve indeed, tucked in the corner. A few strangers sat there: Andrews university friends, a distant aunt of Eleanor.
Who are you? the aunt asked.
Im the grooms mother.
Really? the woman stared. Why are you here? Usually parents sit at the head.
Thats how it was arranged, Martha answered briefly.
The young couple entered to music, radiant. Andrew in a white suit, Eleanor in a glittering gown. Guests clapped, photographers flashed.
Martha watched her son, proud of the man he had become.
Andrew and Eleanor took their seats at the head table, alongside Eleanors welldressed parents, a solid couple dripping in diamonds, plus siblings and grandparents.
There was no place for Martha.
The feast began. The MC entertained, performers sang, music swelled. Martha sat at her corner table feeling like a stranger at her own sons celebration.
Andrew never approached her. He was occupied with guests, with his bride, with her family.
When a pause came, Martha stood, carrying a small wrapped gift.
Andrew, congratulations! she said, extending it.
Thanks, Mum, he took it without opening, placing it among the others.
Youre beautiful, Eleanor!
Thank you.
Can we take a photo?
Later, Mum. No time now.
Eleanor rested a hand on Andrews shoulder.
We have to greet the guests, move around.
Yes, sorry, Mum, I must go.
Martha stayed at her seat, watching the couple drift away. Neighbors at her table offered sympathy.
Dont worry, an aunt said. Weddings are stressful. The groom is busy.
I understand, Martha replied, forcing a smile.
Inside she knew he was ashamed of her, ashamed of the old flat, ashamed to let wealthy relatives see where he came from.
When the celebration ended, Martha slipped out unnoticed. Andrew was busy ushering guests and never saw his mother leave.
At home Veronica waited with tea.
How did it go?
Martha slipped off her shoes, sank onto the sofa.
Lovely, rich, beautiful. I felt like an extra.
Completely extra?
Yes. He barely looked at me.
Veronica hugged her.
Oh, Martha. Dont weep. Its not your tears that matter.
It matters. Hes my son.
Does he love you?
Martha fell silent.
Weeks passed without a call from Andrew. She tried, but his replies were brief, about work. He never asked about her life.
A month later he called.
Mum, hi.
Andrew! Finally! Ive been so worried!
Sorry, were on our honeymoon in the Maldives.
The Maldives! How wonderful! How was it?
Perfect. Listen, Mum, I need to tell you something. Weve moved. His parents gave us a threebed flat in a new development.
Thats amazing! Whats the address? Ill visit.
Andrew hesitated.
Maybe later. Were still fitting it out. Renovations.
I can help! Clean the windows, mop the floors!
No, we have a cleaning service.
At least tell me the address.
Ill when its ready. I have to go.
He hung up. Martha stared at the phone, her heart tightening. He still wouldnt give her an address.
Months slipped by. Calls became fortnightly, short and formal. He spoke of projects, never of her.
One day Martha gathered a tin of cakes and went to Andrews office, having learned the address from a friend. The building was a sleek business centre in the city centre. She rose to the seventh floor, found the reception.
Hello, Im here to see Andrew Wainwright.
Do you have an appointment?
Im his mother.
The receptionist raised an eyebrow.
One moment.
She made a call, then turned back.
Mr. Wainwright asks that I tell you hes extremely busy and cannot meet.
Im his mother!
Hes in a meeting, Im sorry.
Martha stood there, cheeks burning with embarrassment, a bag of cakes in her hands. The receptionist looked pitying.
Would you like me to pass something on?
No, thank you.
She left the building, the lift trembling as tears slipped down. She felt rejected, invisible.
Back home she dumped the cakes, lay on the bed, stared at the ceiling. What had she done wrong? Where had she erred?
Veronica arrived that evening.
Martha, I heard you were at his office! What happened?
He wouldnt see me, Ver. My own son turned his back.
Veronica brewed strong tea, sat opposite.
Tell me everything.
Martha recounted the office, the rejection, the shame.
Hes a scoundrel! How could he treat his mother like that!
I dont know. Maybe Im no longer needed.
Martha, perhaps stop humiliating yourself? Stop calling, showing up. Let him remember you on his own.
And if he doesnt?
Then thats who he is. You must accept it.
Martha thought. Maybe Veronica was right. Perhaps it was time to let go.
She stopped calling Andrew. She didnt write. She lived her own life, retired, visited friends, tended the balcony flowers.
The first week was hard. She wanted to pick up the phone, hear his voice. She held back.
The second week eased. A strange relief settled in. No longer waiting for a call that never came.
The third week brought peace. She realized she could be happy without his attention.
Two months passed without any call from Andrew. Martha celebrated her birthday with Veronica and a few neighbours, sipping tea, laughing. It felt good, warm.
Martha, are you happy today? one friend asked.
Yes, she smiled. For the first time in ages I feel content.
Did your son call?
No. And its fine. Ive let him go.
How did you let go?
I stopped expecting his attention, his love. I remembered hes an adult now,She watched the sunrise from her balcony, feeling finally at peace.
