The son stopped speaking to me after I married for the second time.
“No! I said no! Are you even listening? Were not changing a thing. Dad built that porch with his own handsevery single nail.”
“Christopher, please, its practically rotting!” Emma sighed, pressing the phone so hard against her ear it ached. “The floorboards are sinking, the roof leaks. Its dangerous! Victor says we could carefully take it apart and”
“Victor! That Victor of yours again!” His voice grated like sandpaper. “Whats it to him? Hed tear it all down and start freshsomeone elses memories mean nothing. Mum, that porch isnt just woodits Dad!”
“Chris, how is it memory if its about to collapse?” Her voice trembled. “Were doing this for you, for when you and Lucy visit, when there are grandchildren”
“There wont be any grandchildren on your new porch!” he snapped. “If you touch a single plank, Im never setting foot in that house again. Thats itIm busy.”
The dial tone stung like a verdict. Emma lowered the phone slowly onto the kitchen table. The hollow ache in her chest, familiar now after six months, tightened around her ribs. Outside, yellowed birch leaves drifted down, and the world seemed as grey as her mood.
Victor appeared in the doorwaytall, silver-haired, reading glasses perched on his nose, an open book in hand. One look at her face told him everything.
“Again?” he murmured, setting the book on the windowsill.
Emma nodded, unable to speak. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and the warmth of him, the scent of aftershave and something uniquely his, finally loosened the tears. Quiet, soundless, they fell onto his checked flannel shirt.
“Emma, love, dont” He stroked her hair. “You shouldnt have called. You know how it ends.”
“But the cottage” she choked. “Hell never forgive us if we change it. But we have toits falling apart.”
“To hell with the cottage. Well manage. You matter more. Look what this is doing to you.”
Theyd met two years ago at a school reunion. Emma had gone reluctantly, coaxed by her friend Olivia. Ten years had passed since Richard, her first husband, died, and all that time, shed lived only for Christopher. School, university, his first jobshe hadnt noticed the years slipping by, the new lines around her eyes, her gangly boy becoming a man.
Then he moved out. Found a flat with Lucy, and the house fell silent. Evenings pressed on her ears. She tried yoga, took up embroidery, reread every book on the shelfbut the loneliness stayed.
Then, at the reunion, Victor had approached her. Her quiet classmate, the boy whod sat at the back. Now a confident man, a maths professor. A widower too. They talked all night. Same favourite films, shared love for autumn walks, both starved for warmth.
Their romance unfolded slowlywalks, theatre dates, long talks in a café by the park. Emma felt herself thawing, relearning how to live.
She told Christopher when things grew serious. To her surprise, hed seemed fine.
“Mum, youre an adult,” hed said, stirring sugar into tea. “If he makes you happy, Im glad.”
Shed been overjoyed. A year later, she and Victor married quietlyjust Olivia and her husband, Victors sister, and of course, Christopher and Lucy.
Thats when it began. Christopher was sullen all evening, barely speaking, pointedly ignoring Victor. When toasts came, he raised his glass, eyes fixed on the wall.
“To Dad. A real man. The best father. No one replaces him. Ever.”
The room froze. Lucy tugged his sleeve, whispering, but he shook her off. Emma flushed with shame. Victor squeezed her hand under the tablethe only thing keeping her from weeping.
After the wedding, Christopher stopped calling. Entirely. At first, she thought he was busy. She called instead. Stilted conversations: “Hi, how are you?” “Fine.” “Whats new?” “Nothing.” “Fancy Sunday lunch? Ill make your favourite apple pie.” “Dunno. Maybe not. Gotta go.”
Then he stopped answering. Messages went unread. The final blow was her birthday. She cooked, waited like she had when he was small. He never came. Didnt even calljust sent a courier with chrysanthemums and a generic card. Not a word in his own hand.
That night, she finally told Victor how much it hurt.
“I dont know what I did wrong,” she whispered on the sofa. “He said he was happy for me. What changed?”
“Emma, hes jealous,” Victor said quietly, watching the electric fireplace. “Of your new life. Of me. He thinks Im trying to take his fathers place.”
“Thats ridiculous! No one replaces Richard! I loved himhes Christophers father! But hes been gone ten years! Dont I deserve happiness?”
“You do,” Victor said firmly. “But he doesnt see that yet. Hes still a boy in a mans body. He needs time.”
Time passed. Nothing changed. The wall between them grew thicker. Emma lost weight, barely slept. Every ring of the phone sent her heart leapingalways someone else.
The porch argument crushed her again. The cottage was their family sanctuary. Richard had built it himself. After he died, she and Christopher spent every summer there. He knew every corner, every apple tree his father planted. Now Victors suggestion to repair the rotting porch felt like sacrilege.
“Maybe I should visit him?” she asked, pulling away from Victor. “Talk face-to-face.”
“Not now,” Victor said. “Hes too raw. Give him space.”
She tried. But the ache remained. Days later, Olivia called.
“Emma! Whyve you gone quiet? Everything alright?”
“Not really,” Emma sighed.
“Christopher again?”
She recounted the call. Olivia clicked her tongue.
“Selfish boy, thats what he is. Grown but no wiser. Youre happy, and he sulks. Disgraceful!”
“Dont say that. Hes not selfish. He justhe adored his dad.”
“So did we all! But life goes on! You spent ten years raising him alone, and now youve found someone goodVictors a saint, putting up with this! Another man wouldve walked by now.”
“Victor would never.”
“Wait all you like,” Olivia huffed. “Have you spoken to Lucy? Maybe she can talk sense into him.”
It was worth a try. Lucy had always been kind. Emma found her number, hands shaking as she dialled.
“Hello, Emma? Hi!” Lucy sounded cheerful, surprised.
“Lucy, love, sorry to bother you. Have a minute?”
“Of course. Is everything okay?”
“I just wanted to ask. Hows Christopher?”
A pause.
“Were fine. Works busy.”
“Ive calledhe wont answer. Is he upset with me?”
Another silence. Then a sigh.
“Emma hes struggling. He thinks youve betrayed your fathers memory. That you moved on too fast.”
“Too fast?” Her breath caught. “Ten years is fast? Lucy, I slept with his photo for a decade! I raised Christopher alone! I loved Richardbut Im alive! Doesnt that count for anything?”
“I know! I tell him the same! We argue constantly. I say you deserve happiness, that Victors good for youbut he wont listen. You dont understand, your dads alive, he says. Hes stuck. Keeps Dads photo on his desk. Just stares at it. Hes torturing himself.”
“Oh God What do I do?”
“I dont know,” Lucy admitted. “Ive tried everything. Maybe time will help?”
The call brought no relief. Now she knew her son wasnt just sulkinghe was drowning. And she, his mother, had caused it. That evening, she stared at a framed photo on the dresseryoung, smiling Richard with his arm around her, little Christopher beside them, holding a fishing rod. A lifetime ago.
“Richard,” she whispered. “What do I do? Talk to him. Youre his father. Tell him hes wrong.”
Christophers birthday approached. Twenty-eight. Emma saw her chance. She baked his favourite honey cake, bought the expensive jumper hed once mentioned.
“Are you sure about this?” Victor asked, watching her pack the cake.
“I have to,” she said firmly. “Im his mother.”
She went alone. Knew the address. Climbed to the third floor, heart in her throat. Rang the bell. Silence. Rang again. Nothing. The door was locked.
She stood there ten minutes, unsure. Then dialled his number. Endless ringinguntil she heard his phone vibrate inside. He was home. A few feet away, refusing to open.
Tears spilled. She pressed her forehead to the cold door.
“Chris please,” she whispered. “I just want to say happy birthday. I brought cake. Your favourite.”
Still nothing.
She descended the stairs in a daze. The cake box weighed a ton. On a bench outside, she wept, uncaring of passersby. Humiliated. Broken.
At home, Victor met her at the door. He took the cake, the bag, held her, led her inside.
“Enough,” he said firmly, tucking a blanket around her. “No more begging. If he wont, thats his choice. Youve done all you can. Live for us now.”
She tried. Stopped calling. Stopped waiting. They took trips, saw friends, went to concerts. She smiled, laughedbut every phone ring still made her heart lurch.
Autumn faded into winter. Before New Years, she cracked. Called Lucy.
“Lucy, love. Sorry to bother you. Any plans for New Years? Fancy coming over?”
“Hi, Emma. Thanks, but were visiting my parents.”
“Oh. Hows Chris?”
“Fine. Working.”
“Tell himnever mind. Happy New Year.”
She hung up. Victor, listening, hugged her.
“Lets go to the cottage for New Years,” he suggested. “Light the fire, decorate the tree. Just us.”
“What about the porch?”
“Itll last till spring. Well figure it out then.”
The cottage greeted them with snow and silence. Cold, damp. But Victor lit the fire, warmth creeping through the rooms. They decorated a small tree, made turkey sandwiches, opened champagne. At midnight, Emma wished for one thing: her sons forgiveness.
After the holidays, life resumed. She learned to live with the pain, like a chronic illness. There, aching, but bearable.
Then one evening, during an old film, her phone rang. Unknown number. She almost ignored itbut answered.
“Hello?”
“Emma? Its Lucy.”
Her voice was strained.
“Lucy? Whats wrong?”
“Weve split up.”
“What? Why?”
“I cant do it anymore,” Lucy sobbed. “Hes unbearable. Angry, shut down. I triedGod, I triedbut he pushes me away. We barely speak. Tonight, I packed my things. He didnt even stop me.”
“Oh, love Where will you go?”
“A friends. Emma, Im calling because its not you. Its him. Hes destroying himself. Until he faces his ghosts, hell never be happy. Im sorry.”
The line went dead. Emma sat stunned. Heartbroken for Lucyand terrified for Christopher. Alone now, trapped in his grief.
“What happened?” Victor muted the TV.
She told him. He was silent a long time.
“You need to go to him,” he finally said.
“Buthe wont open the door.”
“He will now. Hes hit rock bottom. He needs his mother. Not as a judgejust as Mum. Go. Dont leave until you talk.”
The next day, she stood at his door again. A thermos of hot chicken soup in hand. Rang the bell. Silence. Rang again.
Footsteps. The lock clicked.
The door opened a crack on the chain. One bloodshot eye peered out. He looked haggard, unshaven, dark circles under his eyes.
“Mum?” His voice was rough.
“Its me,” she said softly. “Let me in?”
He stared. Then closed the door, unchained it, opened wide.
The flat smelled of stale air and unwashed dishes. She set the thermos on the table.
“I brought soup. You should eat.”
He leaned in the doorway, glowering.
“Why are you here?”
“Lucy called.”
He flinched.
“Right. Came to moan, did she?”
“Shes worried. So am I.”
She moved to hug himhe stepped back.
“Dont.”
“Chris, please,” she begged. “Talk to me. What did I do wrong? Why do you hate me for being happy?”
“I dont hate you,” he muttered, turning to the window. “I just dont understand. How you could. So fast.”
“Fast?” The word cut. “Ten years, Chris. Ten years of talking to his photo. Raising you alone. I loved your fatherbut Im allowed to live! Is that a crime?”
“And him?” He spun around, tears in his eyes. “Dad? You just replaced him.”
“No one replaced him! Hell always be in my heart! But I love Victor! He saved me from loneliness, from rotting alive! Cant you be happy for me?”
“I cant!” he shouted. “When I see you together, its like youre spitting on Dads grave! Laughing, holding handswhile hes in the ground! He built that cottage for us! Now some strangers taking over!”
“Hes not a stranger! Hes my husband!”
They stood, chests heaving, tears streaming. Two hearts, one broken bond.
“I thought after Dad died, it was just us,” he said hoarsely. “That wed stick together. Then you found someone else. And I was alone.”
Then she understood. He wasnt jealoushe was afraid. Afraid shed forget him too.
She hugged him tight, ignoring his stiffness. Her grown, hurting boy.
“You idiot,” she whispered, stroking his stubbled cheek. “How could you think Id leave you? Youre my son. No one could ever take your place.”
His shoulders shook. He buried his face in her shoulder and weptdeep, guttural sobs. And she cried with him, for the pain, the relief, the love stronger than pride.
They talked late into the night. She poured soup; he ate while she spokeof loneliness, of Victor, of her fears. He listened, silent.
As she left, he walked her to the door.
“Mum Im sorry.”
“Me too, love.”
She knew it was just the start. Acceptance would take time. But the wall had crumbled. Her son was speaking to her again.
