Hey love, you wont believe whats been happening.
Your son isnt our grandson any more, said my exmotherinlaw before she slammed the line.
David, Im asking you one last time, are you going to send money for Olivers boots? Winters right around the corner and the old ones are falling apart, hes got nothing to wear.
I was gripping the phone like I was trying to squeeze a little conscience out of my former husbands voice. On the other end there was a pause, then a hesitant, forevermakingexcuses sigh.
Emma, you know its tight right now. Works swamped, the bonus got delayed
I hear that every month, I cut him off. David, thats our boy. He needs proper winter boots, not another toy. Im not asking for anything for myself, its all for him.
I get it, he muttered. But Mum Mum thinks Im asking too much. She says the child support should cover it.
What child support? The three pennies you send once a quarter when your own mum remembers to nudge you? You cant even buy laces for those boots with that!
Tears I couldnt stop rolled down my cheeks. I was standing in my tiny kitchen, still smelling of yesterdays soup and the damp laundry hanging over the stove. In the single room behind the kitchen, Oliver, my sixyearold, was asleep my only joy and constant worry.
Ill talk to her again, David promised weakly. Maybe something will work out.
Dont bother, I snapped, hanging up.
Talking to his mother, Margaret, was like banging your head against a stone wall. She was cold, domineering, used to having the world revolve around her whims and her sons incompetence. I sighed, wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and went to check on Oliver. He was sprawled, his light hair a mess on the pillow, a wornout plush rabbit tucked beside him. I smoothed the blanket, kissed his warm cheek, and felt Id do anything for him.
The next call made my heart jump. An unfamiliar city number flashed, but I knew who it was. I shuffled back to the kitchen and answered.
Hello.
Emma? Its Margaret.
Her voice was as cold as ice, no greetings, straight to the point.
Yes, Margaret, how are you?
I asked David to tell you to stop ringing me with your endless requests. Apparently that didnt get through. Listen carefully, and we wont have to bring this up again. Davids starting a new life, a proper family. Were done feeding you and your problems.
I stayed silent, feeling the chill sink deeper.
As for the boy Margaret paused, choosing the most cutting words. Your son is no longer our grandson. Forget this address and this number. All the best.
The short buzz that followed sounded like a gunshot in the quiet kitchen. I dropped the phone but kept staring at the wall. No grandson. Just terrifyingly simple. As if you could erase a little person who carried their fathers name, his stubborn chin, his grandfathers eyes. I slumped onto a stool, head in my hands. It was the end not just a divorce, but a total cutoff from the life that once held hopes of a big country house and the feeling that my son could have a full, proper family.
In the morning I woke with a heavy head but a clear resolve I couldnt rely on anyone else any more. It was just me and Oliver, two against the world. I worked as a seamstress in a small shop, earned modestly, but it was enough for a humble life. Now Id have to tighten the belt even more.
Mum, are we going to Grandma Margarets for the weekend? Oliver asked over breakfast, his legs swinging under the table. She promised to show me the big car Dad bought.
My heart clenched. How do I tell him that Margaret doesnt want to see him anymore? That Dad now has another child to show off the new car?
Oliver, Grandmas got a lot on her plate right now, I said softly, trying not to let my voice shake. And Dads busy too. How about we go to the park this weekend, ride the carousel, have some cotton candy?
He puffed up for a second, then the thought of the rides won him over.
I want it! And the candy!
Cotton candy it is, I smiled, hiding the sting behind the grin.
And thats how our new life began. I took any odd job hemming neighbours trousers, fitting zippers, sewing curtains by night. I slept four or five hours, but when I saw Olivers delighted face over a fresh pastry or his excitement for a new book we could finally afford, the fatigue melted away. I learned to make do. I bought those winter boots on sale not the fanciest, but they kept his feet warm.
Sometimes, after Oliver was asleep, despair would wash over me. Id sit at the sewing machine, the rhythmic clack echoing my thoughts about lifes unfairness. Id think of David indecisive, childish, once the love of my life. I remembered his proposal, our dreams of children, and how his mother, especially, wrested him away, insisting I was just a workingclass girl with no standing or money. Then a tiny mishap was blown up by Margaret into a betrayal of the universe, and David, unable to take the pressure, simply walked out.
A year passed. Oliver started first grade. I proudly walked him to the assembly, his new uniform Id sewn myself, a bright bouquet of lilies in his hand. I looked at him and knew I was doing right. Wed make it.
The shop changed owners. The new lady, Angela Hughes, was stern but fair. She spotted my neatness straightaway.
Youve got golden hands, Emma, she said, admiring a flawless silk seam. Ever thought of doing more than just alterations?
Like what? I asked, surprised.
Creating your own line. Youve got an eye.
I brushed it off. What own line when Im trying to pay the rent and get Oliver to school? Yet Angelas words stuck. One evening, digging through old fabric scraps, I found a bolt of bright chintz with tiny flowers. An idea sparked. I made a tiny overalls and a little cap for Olivers plush rabbit. It turned out so cute I took it to the shop to show.
Angela examined the minioutfit, then said decisively:
Bring me everything youve made like that tomorrow. Toys, doll clothes, anything.
I was stunned, but the next day I brought a small box of my handmade goodies: a few doll dresses, a teddy bear suit, an embroidered shirt for Oliver with berry patterns. Angela displayed them on the shops front counter.
Experiment, she muttered.
By evening the shelf was empty. Women came to collect their orders, cooing over the tiny creations and buying them for their children and grandchildren. One lady even placed an order for a whole wardrobe for a prized German doll.
I could hardly believe it. What Id thought of as a hobby was suddenly in demand. I started stitching not just curtains but these little pieces every night. First for the shop window, then as orders grew, I set up a page on social media, calling the venture Mums Warmth.
Money stopped being a constant nightmare. I enrolled Oliver in a drawing club hed been dreaming about. We moved into a slightly bigger flat, still rented but with a proper bedroom for him. I blossomed. The perpetual fatigue left my eyes, replaced by a spark. I still worked hard, but now the work brought both income and a deep sense of fulfilment.
Oliver grew into a gentle, caring boy. He never asked about his dad or the other granny again. His whole world was Mum. He bragged to his mates that his mum was the best wizard who could sew anything.
When he turned twelve, the phone rang again. Unknown number, but something made me answer.
Emma? Hello, this is Margaret.
My heart froze. I hadnt heard her voice in six years. It was the same cold steel.
Im listening, I said.
Im calling about business, she said, no hint of embarrassment. A friend recommended you as a brilliant childrensclothes maker. My grandsons birthday is coming up hell be five. Id like to order an exclusive costume, something special. I know youre busy, but Im ready to pay double. Its very important to me.
I closed my eyes. Grandson. Five years. So David must really have a new family now. The woman who once kicked my child out of her life wanted my services. The irony was bitter.
Margaret, I said slowly, my voice steady, devoid of anger or hurt, only calm dignity. Im sorry, I have to refuse.
Silence hung on the line, shocked. Apparently she wasnt used to being turned down.
What do you mean refuse? Ill pay any price!
Its not about the price, I replied, still calm. A few years back you called and told me my son was no longer your grandson. You erased him from your life without a second thought for the little boy.
That was a long time ago she began, but I cut her off.
Maybe for you its long ago. I remember every second of that call. I built my life and my business from scratch, pouring skill and the love I wanted to give my child into every stitch. My brand is Mums Warmth, and I simply cannot create something under that name for a family that discarded a child with such cold cruelty.
I paused, letting her absorb that.
My son the one you said no longer your grandson is right here in the next room, drawing. Hes talented, kind and smart, and hes everything I have. Your money? Keep it. Maybe itll buy you a conscience, though I doubt it. All the best.
I hung up without waiting for a reply. My hands trembled a little, but my spirit felt light. It wasnt revenge, just justice. I peeked into Olivers room; he was bent over a sketch, oblivious to everything. His drawings lined the wall bright, full of life. I smiled. Yes, were fine, and well be even better. I closed his door, went to the kitchen to put the kettle on, and settled in for another ordinary evening of quiet happiness that Id made with my own hands. No room for ghosts of the past any more.
