Your son is no longer our grandson, the former motherinlaw said, then hung up.
David, Im asking you one last timeare you going to send money for Tommys boots? Winters on the way, hes outgrown his old shoes, and he has nothing to wear.
Emma clutched the receiver as if trying to squeeze both his voice and the last shreds of his conscience out of it. On the other end a hesitant, foreverexcusing sigh drifted through.
Emma, you know its tough right now. Works a nightmare, the bonus got delayed
I hear that every month, she snapped. David, thats your son. He needs winter boots, not a new toy. Im not asking for anything elseIm doing this for him.
I get it, he muttered. But mum Mum thinks youre asking too much. She says child support should be enough.
What child support? Those three pence you send once a quarter when your own mother reminds you? You cant even buy laces for those boots with that!
Tears streamed down her cheeks, hot and helpless. She stood in her tiny kitchen, smelling of yesterdays stew and damp laundry drying over the range. Beyond the wall, in the single bedroom, Tommy, her sixyearold, slepther only joy and perpetual worry.
Ill talk to her again, David promised, uncertain. Maybe something will work.
Dont waste your breath, Emma cut him off, hanging up.
Talking to his mother, Margaret Hargreaves, was like banging your head against a stone wall. A cold, domineering woman used to having the world revolve around her wishes and her clumsy son. Emma wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and checked on her boy. Tommy lay with arms outstretched, his fair hair splayed across the pillow, next to a threadworn plush rabbit. She smoothed the blanket, kissed his warm cheek. For him shed move mountains.
The phone rang, making her startle. An unknown city number flashed on the screen, but her heart leaptshe knew who it was. She stepped back into the kitchen and answered.
Hello.
Emma? Its Margaret Hargreaves.
The former motherinlaws voice was as cold as ice. No greetings, no pleasantries. Straight to the point.
Yes, Margaret, good afternoon.
I asked David to tell you to stop calling with your endless demands. Apparently you didnt get the message. Listen carefully and well never revisit this. Davids starting a new life. Hell have a normal family. Were done supporting you and your problems.
Emma stayed silent, feeling the chill spread inside her.
As for the boy Margaret paused, choosing the cruelest words. Your son is no longer our grandson. Forget this address and this number. Goodbye.
A short, harsh buzz sounded like a gunshot in the quiet kitchen. Emma dropped the receiver but kept staring at a spot on the wall. No longer a grandson. Simple, terrifying. As if you could just erase a child who bears their surname, who has his fathers eyes and his grandfathers stubborn chin. She slumped onto a stool, cradling her head. It wasnt just a divorceit was a total, final expulsion from a life that once held hopes, holidays in a country house, the belief that her son might have a real, complete family.
Morning found her with a heavy head but a clear resolveno more relying on anyone. Now it was just her and Tommy, two against the world. She sewed in a small dressmakers shop, earned little, but it was enough for a modest life. Now the belt had to be tightened even more.
Mum, are we going to Gran Margarets this weekend? Tommy asked over breakfast, tapping his feet under the table. She promised to show me the big car Dad bought.
Emmas heart clenched. How to tell him Gran Margaret didnt want to see him? That Dad now had another child to impress with new cars?
Tommy, Grans very busy right now, she said softly, keeping her voice steady. And Dads busy too. How about we go to the park this weekend, ride the carousel, you like that?
Tommy puffed for a moment, then the idea of the carousel won.
I want it! And cotton candy!
And cotton candy, Emma smiled, hiding pain behind the grin.
Thus began their new life. Emma took any sidejob: hemming neighbours trousers, installing zippers, stitching curtains by night. She slept four to five hours, but a satisfied smile from her sonwhether over a favourite biscuit or a new book they could finally afforddrowned the fatigue. She learned to make do. Those winter boots she finally bought on saleplain, not fashionable, but warm.
Sometimes, after Tommy was asleep, despair washed over her. She sat at the sewing machine, its rhythmic clack echoing her thoughts on lifes unfairness. She recalled Davidindecisive, childish, once beloved. She remembered his proposal, their dreams of children, and how his mother, especially, wrested him away, insisting Emma was too plain, without status or money. Then a minor slip, blown up by Margaret into a betrayal of cosmic proportions, and David, unable to bear the pressure, simply left.
A year passed. Tommy started first grade. Emma proudly walked him to the school assembly, dressed in a fresh uniform she made herself, holding a bouquet of lilies. She looked at him and knew she was doing right. They would survive.
At the dress shop a new owner arrived: Angela Whitfield, stern yet fair. She immediately noticed Emmas precision and talent.
You have golden hands, dear, she said, admiring a flawless seam on a silk dress. Ever thought of creating something of your own, beyond just tailoring?
What do you mean? Emma asked.
Maybe a line of your own. You have an eye.
Emma waved it off. She needed to think about rent and school fees. Still, Angelas words lingered. One evening, while sorting old fabrics, Emma found a scrap of bright chintz with tiny flowers. An idea sparked. She made a tiny jumpsuit and a matching cap for Tommys plush rabbit. It was so cute she couldt keep it to herself and brought it to the shop.
Angela studied the miniature outfit, then declared:
Tomorrow bring everything else youve sewntoy clothes, doll outfits, anything.
Emma was startled, but the next day she carried a small box of crafts: a few doll dresses, a bears costume, an embroidered shirt with berry motifs for Tommy. Angela displayed them on the shop counter.
Experiment, she said briskly.
By evening the shelf was empty. Women picking up orders cooed over the tiny creations, buying them for their children and grandchildren. One lady even ordered an entire wardrobe for a pricey German doll her granddaughter owned.
Emma could not believe her eyes. What she thought a hobby had become a demand. She began to stitch evening after evening, not just curtains but these charming pieces. First for the shop window, then as orders swelled, she launched a socialmedia page, posting photos of her work. She named the venture Mums Warmth.
Money stopped being a perpetual nightmare. She enrolled Tommy in a drawing club hed longed for. They moved into a larger rented flat with a separate bedroom for him. Emma blossomed. The perpetual fatigue faded, replaced by a spark in her eyes. She still worked hard, but now the work brought income and deep satisfaction.
Tommy grew into a gentle, affectionate boy. He never asked about his father again or about the other grandmother. His world was his mother. He boasted to his friends that his mum was the best wizard, able to sew anything.
When Tommy turned twelve, the phone rang againShe answered, her voice steady, knowing that the past could no longer dictate her future.
