Youve accomplished nothing, Brad would sneer. He never realised that his new boss was my fathers son from his former marriage.
Give me a white shirt! Cant you guess what I need?
Rodons voice cut through the quiet of the earlymorning kitchen like a blade.
He stood in the centre of the room, tightening the knot on his most expensive tie, eyeing me as if I were a mindless servant.
Today were introducing the new CEO. I have to look like a million pounds.
Without a word I handed him a hanger with an immaculately ironed white shirt. He snatched it as though Id stolen his precious time. Brad was on edge, turning into a bundle of bile and passive aggression.
He rained his fury on me, the only person in his world who, in his mind, would never push back.
This newcomer is a flash kid. Already a CEO. I hear his surname is Hawthorne.
My fingers froze on the handle of the coffee pot. Hawthorne. My first husbands surname. My sons surname.
Youll never understand, Brad spat, staring at his reflection in the mirrored wardrobe doors. Youre just a housewife, stuck in your cosy little nest. Youve never wanted anything more.
He adjusted his tie, a smug curl of his lips. That grin was aimed not at me but at the successful man hed been molding in the mirror for years.
And I remembered another morning, years ago, swollen with tears, cradling baby James in my arms while my first husband, George, muttered helplessly that he had nothing and could never provide for us.
In that rented onebedroom flat with a leaky tap, I vowed: my son would have everything.
I worked two, sometimes three jobs. When James was at nursery, then at school, I fell asleep over his worksheets and later over university notes. I sold the only thing I owned my grandmothers flat so he could take that internship in Silicon Valley.
He was my flagship project, my most precious startup.
They say hes the son of a poor engineer, Brad continued, savoring the detail like a connoisseur. Imagine that rising from the mud to a prince. Those are usually the toughest.
Brad recalled humiliating my exhusband at a drunken corporate party. George had pitched a project to their firm, and Brad mocked him as a dreamer with empty pockets, laughing loudly.
He loved those moments; they fed his swollen ego.
Hand me the shoe brush and the cream. Quickly. I fetched everything he demanded. My hands didnt shake; inside, there was absolute silence.
Brad didnt know that his new boss wasnt just any Hawthorne. He didnt realise that this flash kid was a cofounder of an IT company their holding had just bought for a fortune, making him the head of an entire division. Nor did he know that this kid remembered the woman who made his mother sob into her pillow.
Brad stormed out, slamming the door as was his habit.
I stayed alone, walked to the window and watched his car pull away.
That day Brad was heading to the most important meeting of his life, unaware it was his own scaffold.
That evening the front door burst open as if kicked down. Brad stormed into the hallway, face flushed, his tie dangling like a noose hed just escaped.
I hate this! he hissed, flinging his briefcase into a corner. Can you believe this pup thinks he can get away with it?!
I emerged from the kitchen, watching him pace like a tiger in a cage.
He talked to me like I was some intern! With the head of a key department! He dissected my quarterly report, every figure! Then asked if Id bought a diploma on the street corner!
In his words I heard not humiliation but ruthless professionalism. It was my son, James. He always drilled down to the minutiae, leaving nothing unseen.
Do you know what he said last? Brad stopped abruptly, panic flickering in his eyes. Mr. Brad Reynolds, Im genuinely surprised you still hold that position with those numbers. I hope this is just an unfortunate misunderstanding and you wont disappoint me further. That was a threat aimed at me!
He expected my sympathy, advice, support. I stayed silent, just watching the broken, angry man, feeling nothing at all.
Why are you quiet? he exploded. Do you not care? Does it matter that the man who feeds, clothes and supports you is tramping in the mud?
Then a brilliant idea, born of pure fear, sparked in his eyes.
I know what to do! Ill fix this. Ill invite Hawthorne to dinner. To our home.
I met his gaze.
Exactly. In an informal setting people reveal themselves. Hell see my house, my status. And you he glared. Youll have to show I have a solid backing, a perfect wife and an ideal household. Thats your only chance to be useful.
He thought the plan clever, a way to use me as a pretty backdrop.
Then something clicked for me. I saw the whole picture: the perfect storm hed created. And I realised it was my chance.
Fine, I said calmly. He didnt sense the trap. Ill arrange the dinner.
The doorbell rang precisely at seven, clear as a signal.
Brad, who had been darting around the flat for half an hour, sprang to the hallway, a forced smile plastered on his face.
I followed, prepared all his favourite dishes, crafting the illusion of the perfect picture he coveteda perfect trap.
The door opened. Standing on the threshold was James.
Tall, in a flawless suit, he looked older than his twentysix years. His gaze was calm and confident as he extended a hand to Brad.
James Hawthorne. Thank you for the invitation.
Brad shook it vigorously, his grip far stronger than his own.
Brad Reynolds! Delighted! Come in, make yourselves at home!
James stepped inside and immediately locked eyes with me. He didnt smile, he simply staredlong, serious. In that look lay our entire shared history.
And this is my wife, Emma, Brad announced. My rock, my hope.
Were acquainted, James replied evenly, never breaking eye contact.
Brad froze. His smile trembled.
Acquainted? From where?
All evening Brad tried to reclaim control, bragging about his successes, peppering the conversation with illplaced jokes.
James listened politely but remained detached. The atmosphere at the table grew thick, sticky like tar. Brad kept sipping wine, feeling his plan crumble.
Then he struck at the most painful pointme.
Mr. Hawthorne, youre so young yet already at the top. Thats because you have the right bearings. As for my Emma shes had no luck.
James set his fork down carefully.
Her first husband was lets say a dreamer, Brad sneered. An engineer with not a penny in his pocket. He lived on ideas and couldnt feed a family. So Emma found happiness with me. After all, she achieved nothing on her own.
The same old line, the final drop, spoken in front of my sonthe son of that very engineerdreamer.
Enough.
I lifted my head.
Youre right, Brad. I really have achieved nothing. No career, no millions.
I paused, watching his expression shift.
I had only one project. One single thing. My son.
I turned to James.
I poured everything into himmy whole life, my strength, my beliefso hed grow up and never let people like you trample over himself or his loved ones.
I looked back at Brad. His face stretched, animal fear flashing in his eyes as realization finally took hold.
So meet him, Brad. This is James Hawthorne, son of that engineerdreamer, and my most successful project.
The room felt as if it could be cut with a knife. Brads smug grin melted away.
James rose.
Mr. Brad Reynolds, his voice was steady, metallic even in its calm, thank you for dinner. It was instructive.
My father really was a dreamer. He dreamed of a world where professionalism outweighed flattery. A pity there was no room for that in your department.
Mr. James Hawthorne I I didnt know This is a misunderstanding! Brad stammered.
The fact youre an incompetent manager, James said, and the fact youve demeaned my mother for yearsboth are facts. I expect my resignation letter on my desk tomorrow at nine. Dont force me to audit your projects. Youll find something there.
Brad sank into a chair, looking at me with a pleading expression.
I stood as well.
Leave, Brad.
My go was quiet, without anger, just a period.
He croaked, trying to justify himself.
Emma you cant this house
The only thing you gave me was this house. Its mine now, I replied evenly. Pack whatever fits in one suitcase.
At last he understood. The game was over.
He turned and left. The slam of the door was a full stop at the end of a fartoolong sentence.
I stood in the middle of the living room. James stepped forward and took my hand.
Mum, how are you? he asked, looking at my greatest achievement.
Now Im alright, I said.
Had I really accomplished nothing? Perhaps. I never became a CEO or amassed a fortune. I simply raised a man. And that turned out to be enough to reclaim my life.
Six months later, the first thing I did after he left was renovate. I stripped heavy wallpaper, removed bulky furniture that screamed status. The house stopped being a showcase of someone elses success and became my own.
I opened a small flower shop with a workshop. Id always loved plants, though Brad dismissed it as a hobby for simple folk. Turns out my hobby could bring both joy and incomemodest, but mine.
Its Saturday. James drops by.
Dad called, he says. He sent his regards. Hes just secured a massive grant for his waterpurification system ands heading to a tech hub. He said you were rightdreaming does help.
I smile. Weve long forgiven each others old wounds.
Mom, you know what I thought? James says seriously. That Brad was right about something.
I raise an eyebrow.
You really didnt achieve anything, in the way he measured it. But you did so much more. You kept yourself, and you raised me. Thats not a project, Mum. Thats life. And youve lived it well.
I look at my grown son, his eyes free of childhood pain, only steady strength.
What will you do now? he asks.
Ive signed up for language classes, I reply, surprised at how easy the sentence sounds.
He nods, warmth and pride radiating from him, and I need nothing else.
I may not have achieved what he called success. I simply began to livefor myself. And that is the greatest achievement of all.
