Your son is no longer our grandson, the former motherinlaw said before hanging up.
Richard, Im asking you one last timewill you send money for Tommys boots? Winter is coming, his old pair is worn out and he has nothing to wear.
Ethel clutched the receiver as though she could squeeze a shred of conscience out of her exhusbands voice. On the other end there was a pause, then an uncertain, perpetually apologetic sigh.
Ethel, you know its tight right now. Work is a mess, the bonus has been delayed
I hear that every month, she cut him off. Richard, its your son. He needs winter boots, not a new toy. Im not asking for anything for myself; Im doing this for him.
I understand, he muttered. But mum Mum says youre asking too much. She thinks the maintenance should be enough.
What maintenance? The three pence you send once a quarter when your own mother feels like reminding you? You cant even buy laces for those boots with that!
Ethel felt hot, helpless tears roll down her cheeks. She stood in her tiny kitchen, still scented with yesterdays soup and damp laundry hanging on a line above the stove. Behind the single wall, in the only bedroom, Tommy, her sixyearold, slepther sole joy and constant worry.
Ill talk to her again, Richard promised without conviction. Maybe something will work out.
Dont bother, Ethel snapped, ending the call.
Speaking to his mother, Mrs. Wilkinson, had always been like banging ones head against a granite wall. The cold, domineering woman was used to having the world revolve around her wishes and her clumsy son. Ethel wiped her tears with the back of her hand and went to check on Tommy. He lay sprawled, his blond hair fanned across the pillow, a battered plush rabbit at his side. She straightened the blanket, kissed his warm cheek, and promised him she would do anything for him.
A new call made her flinch. The screen showed an unfamiliar city number, but her heart leaptshe knew who it was. She returned to the kitchen and lifted the handset.
Ethel? the voice said.
Its Mrs. Wilkinson. The former motherinlaws tone was as cold as ice, with no greeting, straight to the point.
Yes, Mrs. Wilkinson, hello.
I told Richard to tell you to stop ringing him with endless demands. Apparently you didnt get the message. Listen carefully and well not revisit this. Richard is starting a new life, a normal family. We wont fund you or your problems any longer.
Ethel fell silent, feeling the chill settle inside her.
About the boy Mrs. Wilkinson paused, choosing her cruelest words. Your son is no longer our grandson. Forget this address, forget this number. All the best.
A short, sharp buzz sounded like a gunshot in the quiet kitchen. Ethel lowered the phone, staring at a single spot. Not a grandsonsimply and terrifyingly erased. As if a child bearing their family name, his fathers eyes, his grandfathers stubborn chin could be crossed out with a word. She sank onto a stool, cradling her head. It was more than a divorce; it was a complete exile from a life that had once held hopes, countryhouse holidays, and the belief that her son could belong to a proper family.
The next morning she awoke with a heavy head but a clear resolveno longer to rely on anyone else. It was just her and Tommy now, against the world. She stitched dresses in a modest boutique, earned a modest wage, enough for a simple life, though she would have to tighten the belt even further.
Mum, are we going to Grandma Wilkinsons this weekend? Tommy asked over breakfast, his legs swinging under the table. She promised to show me the big car Dad bought.
Ethels heart clenched. How could she tell him that Grandma Wilkinson no longer wanted to see him? That his father now had another child to flaunt new cars before?
Tommy, Grandma is very busy right now, she said gently, keeping her voice steady. Dads busy too. How about we go to the park this weekend, ride the carousel, have some candy floss?
Tommy hesitated a beat, then the thought of the carousel won him over.
I want it! And candy floss!
Ethel smiled, masking her pain.
Thus began their new life. Ethel took any odd jobhemming neighbours trousers, installing zippers, sewing curtains by night. She slept four or five hours, but the sight of Tommys delighted grin when he bit into his favourite cake or his excitement over a new book made fatigue disappear. She learned to make do. She bought the winter boots on saleplain but warm.
Sometimes, after Tommy was asleep, desperation washed over her. She sat at her sewing machine, the rhythmic clack echoing her thoughts on lifes unfairness. She recalled Richardindecisive, childish, once beloved. She remembered his proposal, their dreams of children, and how his parents, especially his mother, wrested him away, insisting she was plain and had no standing or money. Then a small transgression was blown up by Mrs. Wilkinson into a monumental betrayal, and Richard, unable to bear the pressure, simply walked out.
A year later Tommy started school. Ethel proudly led him to the assembly, dressed in a uniform she had sewn herself, holding a bouquet of gladioli. She looked at him and knew she was doing right. They would manage.
The boutique got a new owner, Miss Angelica Hughes, a strict but fair woman, who immediately noticed Ethels meticulous skill.
You have golden hands, dear Ethel, she said, admiring a flawless silk stitch. Have you ever thought about doing something beyond simple alterations?
Like what? Ethel asked.
Creating your own line. You have an eye for style.
Ethel brushed the comment asideshe needed to pay the rent and keep Tommy in school. Still, Angelicas words lingered. One evening, while sorting through old fabrics, she found a scrap of bright chintz with tiny flowers. An idea sparked. She made a tiny jacket and cap for Tommys plush rabbit. It was so cute she took it to the shop to show Angelica.
Angelica examined the miniature outfit and declared, Tomorrow bring everything else youve madetoys, doll clothes, anything.
Ethel was startled but complied, bringing a little box of her handmade pieces: doll dresses, a bear costume, an embroidered shirt with berry motifs for Tommy. Angelica displayed them on a stand near the entrance.
Trial, she said briefly.
By evening the stand was empty. Women who came for their orders admired the delicate creations and bought them for their children and grandchildren. One lady even ordered an entire wardrobe for a prized German doll.
Ethel could hardly believe her eyes. What she had dismissed as a pastime became a demand. She began sewing not just curtains but tiny garments each night. She set up a modest page on social media, calling her venture Mums Warmth. Money ceased to be a constant worry. She enrolled Tommy in a drawing club hed longed for. They moved into a slightly larger rented flat with a separate bedroom for him. Ethel blossomed; the perpetual fatigue left her face, replaced by a bright spark in her eyes. She still worked hard, but now her labour brought both income and deep satisfaction.
Tommy grew into a gentle, confident boy who never asked about his father or the other grandmother. His world was his mother. He bragged to friends that his mum was the best wizard, able to stitch anything.
When Tommy was twelve, an unfamiliar number rang. The voice on the other end was unmistakable.
Ethel? Hello, this is Mrs. Wilkinson.
Ethel froze. She hadnt heard that cold tone in six years.
Im listening.
Im calling on business, Mrs. Wilkinson said, devoid of any embarrassment. A friend recommended you as a wonderful childrens tailor. My grandsons birthday is in a week; hes turning five. Id like to order an exclusive costume. Ill pay double. Its very important to me.
Ethel closed her eyes. Grandson, five years oldso Richards new family was indeed thriving. The woman who had once cast her child out now wanted her work. The irony was bitter.
Mrs. Wilkinson, Ethel said slowly, her voice steadier than she felt, I must decline.
Silence hung on the line, surprised.
What do you mean decline? Ill pay any price!
Its not about money, Ethel replied calmly. A few years ago you told me my son was no longer your grandson, erased him from your life without a thought for the child. I built my life and my business from scratch, pouring love into every stitch for my own son. My brand, Mums Warmth, cannot create something for a family that discarded a child with such cold cruelty.
She paused, letting the weight of her words settle.
My sonthe very one you said was no longer your grandsonis sitting in the next room, drawing. Hes talented, kind, and my whole world. Your money can stay with you; perhaps it will buy you a conscience, though I doubt it. All the best.
She hung up without waiting for a reply. Her hands trembled slightly, but her heart felt light. This was not revenge; it was justice. She slipped into the hallway, peered into Tommys room, and saw him absorbed in his sketchbook, unaware of the drama outside. His drawings covered the wallbright, full of light and life.
She smiled. Yes, they were alright, and they would be even better. She turned back to the kitchen, set the kettle on, and prepared for another ordinary evening filled with the quiet happiness she had crafted with her own hands. In that peace there was no room for the ghosts of the past.
The lesson she learned, and now shares with anyone who asks, is simple: when you nurture love and hard work, even the harshest storms can be sewn into something warm and lasting, and no ones cruelty can erase the worth of a soul that refuses to be forgotten.
