Andrew, youve forgotten to call me again! Ive been waiting all evening!
Margaret Hargreaves stood in the kitchen, phone clenched in her trembling hand. Her son had promised to ring yesterday, yet the line stayed silent.
Sorry, Mum, works been a nightmare. I havent had a minute for a call.
Andrew, a text would have been easy! Im worrying myself sick!
Im thirtytwo, Mum. Im not a child who has to report his every move.
Margaret fell silent. Andrew had never spoken so sharply before; hed always been diligent, caring, calling daily, visiting on weekends, helping around the house.
Alright, she whispered, Im sorry for bothering you.
Its fine, Mum. Listen, Ill be home on Saturday, but not alone.
Who with? Margarets voice tightened.
With a girl. I want you to meet her. Her name is Charlotte.
A girl? Andrew, is this serious?
Yes, Mum. Very serious. Weve been together six months.
Margaret sank onto a chair. Six months and hed said nothing. Hed once shared everything; now he kept secrets.
Why didnt you tell me before?
I wanted to be sure it was real. Now Im certain. So expect us Saturday at lunch.
Okay, Andrew. Ill be waiting.
When he hung up, Margaret lingered with the phone, feeling a strange mixture of pride and dread. Finally, her son had found someone, and after all these years she could almost breathe.
Margaret lived alone in a modest twobedroom flat on the outskirts of London. Her husband had died fifteen years ago from a heart attack. She raised Andrew singlehanded, juggling two jobs, cutting corners, and sleeping on scant rest just to give him a decent start.
He had grown up clever and ambitious, graduated with top honours, landed a wellpaid programming job at a major firm, and moved into a sleek flat in the city centre. Margaret swelled with pride.
On Saturday she rose early, scrubbed the flat to a shine, washed the curtains, and then headed to the market. She bought meat, veg, and fruitAndrew adored her meatloaf with mash. She also baked an apple crumble, his favourite. By one oclock everything was ready: the table set with a crisp white cloth, the best china laid out. She slipped into her nicest dress, did her hair, even applied a modest shade of lipstick.
The doorbell rang precisely at two. She wiped her hands on the apron, smoothed her hair, and opened.
Andrew stood in an expensive suit, a tall, slender woman by his side. Charlotte wore a fashionable dress, high heels, her hair in an elaborate updo, makeup flawlessshe was strikingly beautiful.
Hey, Mum! Andrew embraced her. Mum, this is Charlotte.
Hello, Charlotte said, extending a gloved hand, rings sparkling on her fingers.
Welcome, love, Margaret replied, ushering them in.
Inside, Margaret fussed, offering seats and asking them to remove their shoes. Charlotte glanced around, her eyes sweeping over the faded furniture, the peeling wallpaper, the threadbare carpet.
What a cosy little flat, she said with a strained smile.
Thanks, dear. Its modest but tidy, Margaret answered.
They sat down. Margaret began serving the food, describing each dish. Andrew ate heartily, praising everything. Charlotte tasted the meatloaf, picking at it delicately.
Is it tasty? Margaret asked.
Not bad, Charlotte replied, though I usually avoid fried food; I watch my figure.
Youre already slim! Margaret exclaimed.
Its a result of training, Charlotte said. I have a personal trainer five times a week.
Margaret nodded, thinking of how hard it was for her to make ends meet.
What do you do for work? she asked.
I dont work at the moment, Charlotte said, setting down her fork. I run a chain of hair salonsthree branches across the city.
Impressive! Margaret exclaimed.
Its not all me, Charlotte corrected, flipping a strand of hair. My father helped open the first salon; I built the rest.
And your parents? Margaret pressed.
My father owns a construction firm, my mother does charity work.
Margaret sensed Charlotte came from a world of wealth and opportunity, a world far removed from her own pensionscraping existence.
Mate, how are you, Mum? Any health issues? Andrew asked.
Just the usual blood pressure spikes, a few pills, Margaret replied.
Right. By the way, Charlotte and I wanted to tell youweve decided to get married.
Margarets cup froze midair.
Marry? When?
In three months. Well have the ceremony in a restaurant for about onehundred and fifty guests.
Onehundred and fifty? Thats a fortune! Margaret gasped.
Dont worry, Mum. Charlottes parents are footing the bill. They have the connections to sort everything out.
Will I be able to help at all? Margaret asked, hopeful.
No need, Mum. Weve got professional caterers, a full production team.
Can I bake a few pies for the guests?
Thanks, but the restaurants chefs will handle that.
Maybe I could help with decorations?
Just be there and be happy, thats all we need.
Margaret swallowed her lingering resentment and forced a smile.
After lunch, Charlotte excused herself to the loo; when she returned, her expression was sour.
We should be going, Andrew. I have a meeting with a designer in an hour.
Already? We just arrived!
Andrew gave Margaret a guilty look.
Sorry, Mum. We really must be off.
Thank you both for coming.
When they left, Margaret stared at the untouched plates, feeling the emptiness of their brief visit.
Her phone buzzed. It was Helen Carter, a longtime friend.
Tommy, hows it going? Did the son turn up?
He did. Introduced me to his fiancée.
Hows she?
Beautiful, very welloff, from a different world.
How did she treat you?
Polite enough, but I could tell she thought our flat was a bit shabby.
Ah, the rich never understand us simple folk.
True, but Andrew seems happy with her. He keeps saying theyll be married.
Good for him.
Just… I hope hes really happy.
A week passed without a call from Andrew. Margaret tried repeatedly; each time he was in a meeting, on a trip, or with Charlotte.
Two weeks later, Andrew finally phoned.
Hey, Mum, how are you?
Fine, love. And you?
Great. We just spent the weekend at Charlottes parents country housea real estate estate. They welcomed us warmly.
Glad to hear it.
Anyway, I have to run. Talk later.
Andrew, wait! Could you come over this weekend? Ill make your favourite borscht.
Cant, weve got ringshopping to do.
Can I come with you?
Silence.
Its personal, Mum. 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 a pensioner in a threadbare dress.
That evening Helen dropped by with scones.
You look thin, Tom.
Thanks, Helen.
Feeling down?
My son ignores me now. He used to call daily, now weeks go by without a word.
Hes in love, thats all.
Maybe hes being swayed against me?
Hes clever, Tom.
Clever, yes, but not a boy any more. Not my boy.
Helen hugged her. A son is still a son. Blood runs deep.
I wish I could believe that.
Weeks turned into months. The wedding approached. Andrew brought home an invitation, the cardstock embossed with gold, the venue address in Mayfair.
Which dress should I wear, Mum?
Whatever you like.
I thought Id buy something new, look presentable.
Do what you want. It wont matter.
Where will I sit?
Im not sure; Charlotte is handling the seating.
She never called back. Margaret phoned again and again, but Andrew was forever busy with work.
A week before the ceremony, Charlotte finally called.
Mrs Hargreaves, good afternoon. This is Charlotte.
Hello, dear. How are you?
Im calling about the seating. Youll be at table twelve, in the far corner.
Twelve? Wheres that?
In the back of the room, where the distant relatives sit.
Why not at the head table? Im the grooms mother!
The head table will be for us, our parents, and the closest family on our side.
Then Im just a distant relative?
Please, lets not make a fuss. The arrangement is final.
Margarets throat tightened. She dialed Andrew.
Mum, Im in a meeting, cant talk.
Mum, your fiancée said Ill be at table twelve, like a stranger!
It doesnt matter where you sit, love.
It matters! Im your mother. I should be beside you!
Your parents are paying for the wedding, they decide.
Then what am I? Nothing?
Dont be dramatic, Mum.
Fine.
She slumped into a chair, the words table twelve echoing in her mind.
Later, Helen visited and found Margaret in tears.
Whats wrong?
Charlotte put me in the corner, like a nuisance.
Thats outrageous!
Yes, and Andrew supports her.
Will you still go?
I have to. Its my sons wedding.
The wedding day dawned bright. Margaret rose early, brushed her hair, and slipped into her best dressa faded teadress bought five years ago, the only one she owned that felt decent. Helen drove her to a black cab.
At the opulent Mayfair venue, crystal chandeliers glittered, white linens covered every table, flowers filled the air. Margaret felt like a grey mouse among glittering swans. She found table twelve, tucked away in the corner, already occupied by a few strangersAndrews university friends and a distant aunt of Charlotte.
Who are you? the aunt asked.
Im the grooms mother.
Really? Why are you here? the aunt stared.
Its what was decided.
The ceremony began. Andrew, in a crisp white suit, and Charlotte, in a stunning gown, entered to applause. The brides parents, affluent and bejeweled, sat at the head table with their own children. Margaret lingered at her table, feeling invisible.
She tried to approach the head table during a lull, offering Andrew a small wrapped gift.
Thanks, Mum, he said briskly, placing it on the side without opening it.
Can we take a photo together?
Later, Mum.
Charlotte brushed past, whispering to Andrew, We need to greet the guests.
Margaret watched them leave, the room buzzing with laughter, music, and performers. No one glanced her way.
After the feast, she slipped out unnoticed, the crowds chatter fading behind her. At home, Helen waited with tea.
How did it go?
It was beautiful, but I was an afterthought.
Hush, Tom. Youve done enough.
Two weeks later, Andrew called.
Hey, Mum.
Andrew! Finally! I was so nervous.
Sorry, we were on our honeymoon in the Maldives.
The Maldives! How lovely!
I wanted to tell youweve moved into a new threebedroom flat in a new development.
Congratulations! Whats the address? Ill come visit.
Maybe later. Were still renovating.
I can help! Clean the windows, mop the floors!
No, weve hired a cleaning service.
Just tell me the address.
He hesitated.
Ill give it when its ready. Ive got to go.
He hung up, leaving Margaret staring at the silent screen, heart tightening.
Months passed with only brief, businesslike calls. Margaret tried to discuss her life, but Andrew was distracted.
One day she gathered courage, packed a tin of her apple crumble, and went to his office in the Citys financial district. She reached the seventh floor, met the receptionist.
Hello, Im here to see Andrew Hargreaves.
Do you have an appointment?
Im his mother.
The receptionist glanced at her, then called out.
Mr Hargreaves is in a meeting, he cant be disturbed.
Im his mother! I need to speak.
Sorry, hes busy.
Margaret stood there, the crumble box heavy in her hands, tears pricking her eyes. She left the building, the lift doors closing behind her, and sobbed in the stairwell.
Back home she discarded the crumble, lay on the sofa, and wondered where she had gone wrong.
Helen dropped by that night, eyes wide at Margarets dishevelled state.
He wont see me, Helen.
Helen brewed strong tea.
Tell me everything.
Margaret recounted the office rejection, the sting of being ignored.
What a scoundrel! Helen exclaimed, slamming her fist on the table. How could he treat his own mother like that?
Hes not needed anymore.
Maybe you should stop calling, stop showing up. Let him remember you on his own.
What if he never remembers?
Then thats his loss. Accept it.
Margaret considered the advice, feeling the weight lift a fraction. She stopped ringing, stopped texting, and let her days drift back to small pleasures: knitting, gardening on the balcony, meeting other retirees for tea.
The first week was hard; the urge to hear his voice lingered. By the second week she felt a strange relief. The third week brought calm; she no longer chased a man who no longer chased her.
Six months later, Andrew still hadnt called. Margaret took a parttime job looking after a neighbours grandson, earned modest wages, and joined a senior yoga class.
One afternoon, a woman in a sleek coat called out to her.
Mrs Hargreaves? Charlotte Whitmore.
Hello, Charlotte.
Charlotte looked pale, her stomach protruding slightly.
Youre expecting? Margaret asked.
Yes, five months.
Congratulations.
Mrs Hargreaves, could we talk?
What about?
About Andrew about us.
They sat in a quiet café, sipping tea.
Whats happened? Margaret asked.
Were having problems. Hes become distant, comes home late, barely speaks.
Why tell me? Charlotte said, eyes downcast.
Because youre his mother, I thought you might know.
Margaret smiled bitterly. I havent seen him in half a year.
Im to blame, Charlotte confessed, wiping a tear. I thought your world was unsuitable. I pushed him away, thinking wealth mattered more.
Its not about money, Margaret said gently. Im just a simple woman.
Now Im a fool, Charlotte sobbed. Ive broken his bond with his mother, and now hes shutting us both out.
Margaret listened, feeling pity for the young woman who had tried to reshape a life she didnt understand.
I cant fix this, Margaret said. Its between you and your husband.
Could you call him? Talk?
No. I told him once that Id wait for him to reach out. He hasnt. So I wont intrude.
Dont you miss him? Charlotte asked.
Of course, but I wont force a relationship thats been abandoned.
Charlotte sniffed. Hell have a child soon. A grandson. Will you ever see him?
Margaret thought of a future grandchild shed never meet.
It will be up to him, she replied. If he wants me, hell let me in.
Charlotte left, and Margaret returned home, standing by the window, contemplating the possibility of a grandson shed never hold.
Months later, Helen told Margaret that Charlotte had given birth to a baby boy named Daniel.
Congratulations, Grandma! Helen beamed, hugging her.
Thank you, Margaret said, a tear slipping down. I never even saw him.
Andrew hasnt called? Helen asked.
No.
Should you call him?
No, Helen. I promised myself not to make the first move.
She kept that promise, living quietly, watching the world move on without her sons voice.
Andrew never called again.
