Margaret Whitfield stared at the handset, her thumb trembling. Andrew, youve forgotten to call again! Ive been waiting all evening!
She stood in the cramped kitchen of her twobedroom flat on the edge of Birmingham, the phone pressed to her ear as the knot in her throat tightened. Her son had promised to ring yesterday, yet the line stayed silent.
Sorry, Mum, works been a nightmare. No time for calls, Andrew said, his voice rushed.
Andrew, you could at least drop a text! Im worrying my head off!
Im thirtytwo now, Mum. Im not a child you have to check on every hour.
Margarets eyes widened. Shed never heard him speak like that before. Hed always been punctual, caring, calling daily, coming over weekends, helping with the house.
Fine, she whispered, trying to keep her voice steady. Sorry for bothering you.
Its fine. Listen, Im coming Saturday, but I wont be alone.
Who with? Margarets heart lurched.
My girlfriend. I want you to meet her. Her names Gwendolyn.
Gwendolyn? Andrew, is this serious?
Yes, Mum. Very serious. Weve been together six months.
Margaret sank into a chair, the weight of six months of silence crushing her. Hed always shared everything; now he kept secrets.
Why didnt you tell me before? she asked, voice barely a whisper.
Needed to be sure it was right. Now Im sure. Expect us Saturday at noon.
Alright, Ill be waiting.
When Andrew hung up, Margaret clutched the phone, a mix of relief and dread swirling inside her. Her son had finally found someone. She had waited years for this moment.
Margaret had raised Andrew alone after her husband died of a heart attack fifteen years ago. She juggled two jobs, skimped on everything, just to give him a chance at a good life. Hed earned a firstclass degree, landed a programmers job at a London tech firm, and moved into a sleek flat in the city. She swelled with pride every time she spoke of him.
On Saturday, she rose before dawn, scrubbing the flat until it gleamed, polishing every pot, washing the curtains. She visited the local market, buying fresh meat, vegetables, and applesAndrews favourite pie filling. By one oclock the table was set with a crisp white cloth, the best china gleaming under the light. She slipped into her neatest dress, brushed her hair, and even applied a dash of lipstick.
The doorbell rang at two sharp. Margaret wiped her hands on her apron, smoothed her hair, and opened the door.
Andrew stood tall in an expensive suit, a striking woman at his side. She was tall, slender, dressed in a fashionable dress and stilettos, hair coiffed, makeup flawless.
Hi, Mum, Andrew said, pulling her into a hug. This is Gwendolyn.
Hello, Gwendolyn replied, her fingers flashing a glittering ring.
Come in, come in.
They stepped into the living room. Margaret bustled about, offering seats, taking shoes. Gwendolyns gaze flicked over the faded wallpaper, the threadbare carpet, the modest furnishings.
Its cosy, she said, her smile strained.
Thank you, dear. We keep it simple but tidy.
They all sat down. Margaret began serving the food, narrating each dish. Andrew ate heartily, praising everything. Gwendolyn nibbled daintily, a fork digging at the mince patty.
Delicious? Margaret asked.
Its good, Gwendolyn replied. I usually avoid fried foods; I watch my figure.
Oh, love, youre already so slim! Margaret laughed.
Its thanks to my trainer, five sessions a week.
Margarets mind whirredher son could afford a personal trainer? She barely managed bills and groceries.
What do you do? she asked Gwendolyn.
I run my own beauty salons, Gwendolyn said, setting her fork down. Three branches across the city.
Impressive! Margaret exclaimed.
It wasnt all me, Gwendolyn added. My father helped open the first one, then I expanded.
And your parents?
My father owns a construction firm. My mother is involved in charity work.
Margaret sensed a world of wealth and opportunity she could never touchher simple, pensionlimited existence.
Mom, how are you? Andrew asked. Is your health alright?
Its okay, Mum. My blood pressure spikes sometimes, but I take my meds.
Andrews eyes softened. Theres something else. Gwendolyn and I have decided to get married.
Margarets hand froze around the teacup.
Marry? When?
In three months. Well have the ceremony at a hotel that can seat onehundred and fifty guests.
Onehundred and fifty? Thats a fortune! Margaret gasped.
Dont worry, the Whitfield family will cover everything. My parents have the connections; theyll handle all the arrangements.
Gwendolyn nodded. Theyve booked the best venue in town, with a live band, fireworks, the whole lot.
Margaret stared at her son, the man in the costly suit talking about an extravagant wedding. She wondered if this was really her Andrew.
Can I help somehow? she asked, desperation creeping in.
No need, Mum. Everythings taken care of.
Maybe I could bake a few pies for the guests?
Gwendolyn smiled politely. Well have professional catering, chefs from the hotel.
Or I could help with the invitations?
Andrew placed a gentle hand on his mothers palm. Just be there, Mum, and enjoy the day. Thats all we need.
Margaret nodded, swallowing a lump of hurt, forcing a smile.
After lunch, Gwendolyn excused herself to the restroom. When she returned, her face was tight.
Andrew, we should be going. I have a meeting with my designer in an hour.
Already? Weve just arrived!
I told you we wouldnt stay long.
Andrew gave Margaret an apologetic look. Sorry, Mum. We really have to leave.
Of course, thank you for coming.
When they left, Margaret lingered at the table, eyes on the untouched dishes. She had poured her love into the food, and they barely touched it before fleeing.
The phone rang. It was Helen Parker, her longtime friend.
Margaret, love, hows everything? Did Andrew come?
He did. He introduced his fiancée.
Whats she like?
Beautiful, wealthy, from another world.
How did she treat you?
She seemed uncomfortable with my flat. She kept frowning at the wallpaper.
Ah, the rich never understand us simple folk.
Andrew seems happy, but I feel out of place.
Give it time, darling. Hell be fine.
Weeks passed without a call from Andrew. Margaret tried, but he was always busymeetings, trips, Gwendolyn.
Finally, after another week, he called.
Hey, Mum, how are you?
Im fine, Andrew. And you?
Great. Gwendolyn and I went to her parents country house. Its massive.
Sounds lovely.
Yeah, they were very welcoming.
Margaret clenched the phone, a flicker of hope sparking.
Can you visit this weekend? Ill make your favourite borscht.
I cant, Mum. Were picking out wedding rings.
May I come with you?
A pause.
Thats personal, Mum. Well handle it ourselves.
Alright, good luck then.
When the call ended, Margaret stared out the grimy window at the grey courtyard, feeling her son drift farther into a world where there was no room for his mother in a threadbare dress.
Later that evening, Helen dropped by with scones.
You look down, love.
Its Andrew. Hes forgotten me.
He used to call every day.
Now weeks go by without a word. He even declined my invitation to choose his rings.
Helen sighed. Hes in love, Margaret. That can blind him.
Maybe hell come around.
Helen placed a hand on her shoulder. If not, youll still have us.
Months slipped by. Andrew finally sent an invitation: a glossy card embossed in gold, the ceremony at threeoclock, followed by a banquet at the Grand Regency Hotel.
Margaret held it, admiring the elegant script. What should I wear? she asked Helen.
Whatever makes you feel comfortable.
Should I buy something new?
Do what you like.
She wondered if a new dress would make her visible among the guests.
She called again; Gwendolyn answered.
This is Margaret. About seating.
Youll be at table twelve, in the far corner.
Where is that?
In the back, with distant relatives and friends of Andrew.
Why not the head table? Im his mother.
Silence.
The head table is for us, the bride, her parents, and close family.
Margaret felt a sting. I raised him! Im his closest family!
Please, Margaret, the arrangement is final.
She hung up, anger bubbling. She dialed Andrew.
Mum, Im in a meeting, cant talk.
Andrew, youve put me at table twelve, in a corner, like an outsider!
What does it matter where I sit?
It matters! Im your mother! I should be beside you!
Andrews voice tightened. The Whitfield family will pay for everything. They decide the seating.
And I? Am I nobody?
Dont make a scene, Mum. Im stressed enough.
Fine. He ended the call.
Margaret sank into a chair, the number twelve echoing in her mind, a cold reminder of her marginal place.
A few days later, Helen found her crying in the kitchen.
Whats wrong?
The seating, the wedding I feel invisible.
Helen hugged her. Youre not invisible to me.
The wedding day dawned bright. Margaret rose early, dressed in the only dress she owneda modest navy dress bought five years ago. Helen drove her to a taxi.
Hold your head high, Tom, Helen said, using Margarets nickname. You raised a fine man.
At the Grand Regency, chandeliers glittered, tables gleamed, flowers swayed. Margaret felt dwarfed by the opulence. She found table twelve, tucked in the corner. A few distant relatives and a couple of Gwendolyns cousins sat there.
When Andrew and Gwendolyn entered, the room erupted in applause. Andrew wore a crisp white tux, Gwendolyn a dazzling gown, her parents flanking them like royalty. Margaret lingered at her table, invisible.
She waited for a moment to hand Andrew his gifta small, neatly wrapped box. He took it without looking, placed it on the buffet.
Mom, thank you, he said absentmindedly.
Its a beautiful day, isnt it? she forced.
Can we get a photo together?
Later, love.
Gwendolyn brushed past her, hand on Andrews shoulder, whispering, We have to greet the guests.
Margaret watched her son disappear with his new family, the room buzzing, her own presence barely a footnote.
After the feast, she returned to her seat, strangers offering sympathetic glances. She understood now: Andrew had hidden her away to protect his new life.
Weeks later, Helen visited with tea.
How was it?
Grand, but I was a ghost.
Helen sighed. Hes grown up, Margaret. Hell come around.
Months turned into a year. Andrew called only every few weeks, brief and businesslike. He mentioned a honeymoon in the Maldives, then a new threebedroom flat in a new development, but gave no address. Margaret offered to help, but he declined, citing a cleaning service.
One afternoon, Margaret decided to visit his office. She rode the bus to the Citys financial district, found the corporate tower, took the lift to the seventh floor, and approached the reception.
Hello, Im here to see Andrew Whitby.
The receptionist raised an eyebrow. Do you have an appointment?
Im his mother.
She sighed, made a call. Mr. Whitby is in a meeting, cant step out.
Margaret left the building, tears hot on her cheeks, the weight of rejection crushing her.
That night, Helen knocked, bearing a plate of shortbread.
Youve been through a lot, Tom.
Im tired of being ignored.
Helen poured tea. Maybe its time to stop waiting.
Yes, Margaret whispered. Ill live for myself now.
She began attending a local seniors yoga class, babysitting the neighbours grandchild for a modest fee, and catching up with old friends over tea. The ache lingered, but it dulled with each new routine.
Six months later, as she sipped tea with Helen, a knock sounded at the door.
Andrew stood there, a tired smile on his face, a small gift box in his hand.
Happy birthday, Mum.
He stepped inside, eyes flickering over the familiar, modest surroundings.
Did the guests come? she asked, trying to sound casual.
They were just a few close friends.
Its nice, she said, accepting the box.
He sighed. Im sorry Ive been distant.
Why? she pressed.
Gwendolyns family they have expectations. I thought youd be embarrassed by my roots.
Margarets heart ached. You made me sit in a corner, hidden from everyone.
He lowered his head. I was ashamed. I wanted to protect you, but I only hurt you.
She stood, the room quiet. I worked my whole life for you, Andrew. I never asked for a grand wedding, just a chance to be seen.
He reached for her hand, but she stepped back.
Ill call you when Im ready, she said, voice steady.
He left, the door closing softly behind him.
Helen entered later, eyes soft. How are you feeling?
Free, in a way, Margaret replied. Ive finally spoken my truth.
The months turned, and Gwendolyn returned, cradling a newborn son named Daniel.
Congratulations, Margaret, Helen said, smiling.
Thank you, Margaret answered, tears glistening. I may never meet my grandson, but Im at peace.
She watched the news of the babys arrival, feeling a quiet connection to a life shed never touch, yet knowing shed lived her own story, no longer waiting for a son who had chosen a different world.
