The son stopped speaking to me after I married again.
«No! I said no! Do you hear me? Were not changing a thing. Dad built that veranda with his own hands, hammered every nail himself.»
«Christopher, please understand, its rotting away!»Margaret Wilkins closed her eyes wearily, pressing the phone so hard against her ear that the lobe ached. «The floorboards are giving way, the roof leaks. Its dangerous! Victor says we could carefully dismantle it and»
«Victor! That Victor of yours again!»his voice turned rough as sandpaper. «Whats it to him? He’d tear everything down and start fresh, wouldnt he? Mum, its not just a verandaits memory!»
«Chris, what kind of memory is it if its about to collapse?»her voice trembled with tears. «We just want you and Lily to visit, for the grandchildren someday»
«There wont be any grandchildren on your new veranda!»he cut in sharply. «I wont set foot in that house again if you so much as touch a plank. Ive got to go.»
The dial tone rang like a death knell. Margaret lowered the phone slowly onto the kitchen table. The hollow ache in her chest, now a familiar companion these past six months, tightened around her ribs. Outside, the yellowed leaves of the birch tree swayed, the world as grey and bleak as her own heart.
Victor stepped into the kitchentall, greying, reading glasses perched on his nose, an open book in hand. One look at her face told him everything.
«Again?» he asked quietly, setting the book on the windowsill.
She nodded, words stuck in her throat. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and for the first time, she allowed herself to crysilently, her tears soaking into his checked shirt, his warmth and the faint scent of his cologne the only anchors left.
«Come now, Maggie,» he murmured, stroking her hair. «You shouldnt have called. You know how it ends.»
«But the cottage» she sniffled. «Hell never forgive us if we change a thing. But we have toits falling apart.»
«To hell with the cottage. Well manage. You matter more. Look what this is doing to you.»
They’d met at a school reunion two years earlier. Margaret had gone reluctantly, persuaded by her friend Olivia. Ten years had passed since her first husband, George, had 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 son growing from an awkward boy into a man.
Then he moved out. Rented a flat with his girlfriend Lily, and the house fell silent. Evenings pressed against her eardrums. She tried yoga, took up embroidery, reread every book on the shelf. But the loneliness remained.
Then Victor approached herher quiet, forgotten classmate from the back row, now a mathematics professor at the local university. A widower, too. They talked all evening. Found they loved the same films, autumn walks, and both craved simple human warmth.
Their romance unfolded slowly. Theater visits, long conversations in cafés by the park. She felt herself thawing, rediscovering life.
When she told Christopher, hed been surprisingly calm.
«Mum, youre an adult,» he said, stirring sugar into his tea. «If he makes you happy, Im glad.»
A year later, they married quietlyjust Olivia, Victors sister, and Christopher with Lily. That evening, everything shattered.
Christopher brooded all night. He barely spoke, smiled stiffly, ignored Victor entirely. When toasts began, he raised his glass, staring at the wall.
«To Dad. A real man. The best father. No one could ever replace him.»
Silence choked the room. Lily tugged his sleeve, whispering urgently, but he shook her off. Margaret flushed with shame. Victor squeezed her hand under the table, the only thing keeping her from crumbling.
After the wedding, Christopher stopped calling. At first, she told herself he was busy. She tried reaching out. Their conversations were short, strained.
«Hi, love, how are things?»
«Fine.»
«Anything new?»
«Not really.»
«Fancy coming over Sunday? Ill bake your favourite apple pie.»
«Dunno. Maybe not. Got to run.»
Then he stopped answering altogether. Messages went unread. The final blow came on her birthdayshe waited, dinner ready, just like when he was a child. He never came. Never called. Just sent a bouquet of chrysanthemums with a generic card. No note of his own.
That night, she confided in Victor.
«I dont know what I did wrong,» she whispered on the sofa. «He said he was happy for me. What changed?»
«Hes jealous,» Victor said softly, watching the electric fires glow. «Jealous of your new life. Jealous of your memory of George. He thinks Im trying to take his place.»
«Thats absurd!» she cried. «No one replaces George! I loved himhe was Christophers father! But hes been gone ten years! Dont I deserve happiness?»
«You do. He just doesnt see it yet. Give him time.»
But time only hardened the silence between them. She lost weight, barely slept. Every phone call made her heart leapalways someone else.
The veranda argument was the last straw. George had built it himself. After his death, she and Christopher spent every summer there. To him, it was sacred. Victors suggestion to repair it felt like desecration.
«Should I go to him?» she asked, pulling away from Victor. «Talk face to face.»
«Not now,» he said. «Hes too raw. Let him cool off.»
Days later, Olivia called.
«Maggie! Why havent you rung? Everything alright?»
«Not really,» she sighed.
«Christopher again?»
She relayed the conversation. Olivia clicked her tongue.
«Selfish boy, honestly. Grown man acting like a child. Youre happyhe ought to be glad!»
«Liv, dont. He adored his father.»
«So what? Life goes on! You raised him alone, sacrificed everything. Now youve found a good manVictors patient, kind. Another bloke wouldve told you to sort your son out yourself.»
«Victor would never say that.»
«Wait all you like,» Olivia huffed. «Have you spoken to Lily? Maybe she can talk sense into him.»
Lily answered on the third ring.
«Margaret? Hello!» Her voice bright, surprised.
«Lily, darling, is this a bad time?»
«No, whats wrong?»
She hesitated. «How how is Christopher?»
A pause. «Hes struggling,» Lily admitted. «He thinks youve moved on too fast. That you replaced his dad.»
«Ten years is fast?» Margaret choked. «I talked to Georges photo every night! I raised Christopher alone! Am I not allowed to live?»
«I tell him the same! But he wont listen. He keeps Dads photo on his deskjust stares at it. Its like hes stuck.»
Margarets hands shook. «What do I do?»
«I dont know. Maybe time will help.»
Christophers birthday came. She baked his favourite honey cake, bought the jumper hed once mentioned.
«Youre sure about this?» Victor asked as she packed the cake.
«I have to try.»
His flat door stayed shut. She calledheard his phone buzz inside. He was there. Ignoring her.
She pressed her forehead to the door. «Chris please. I just want to wish you happy birthday.»
Silence.
She wept on a park bench, then returned home. Victor took the cake from her hands, wordless, and led her inside.
«Enough,» he said firmly, tucking a blanket around her. «No more humiliation. If he wont have you, thats his choice. Live for yourself now. For us.»
Winter came. New Years Eve, she rang Lily again.
«Any plans? Fancy joining us?»
«Were visiting my parents,» Lily said.
«I see. How is he?»
«Same.»
She hung up. Victor held her. «Lets go to the cottage. Just us.»
Snow blanketed the cottage. They lit the fire, decorated a small tree, toasted at midnight. Margaret wished for one thingher sons forgiveness.
Weeks later, an unknown number flashed on her phone.
«Margaret?» Lilys voice cracked. «Christopher and I weve split.»
«What? Why?»
«I couldnt take it anymore. Hes so angry, so closed off. Tonight, I left. He didnt even try to stop me.»
Margarets breath caught. «Where will you go?»
«A friends. But Margaretthis isnt about you. Its him. Hes destroying himself. Until he faces his ghosts, hell never be happy.»
Victor listened as she recounted the call.
«You have to go to him,» he said.
«But he wont»
«He will. Hes alone now. He needs his mother.»
The next day, she stood at his door again, a pot of hot chicken soup in hand.
A lock clicked. The door opened a crackone bloodshot eye stared out.
«Mum?»
«Let me in, love.»
The flat reeked of neglect. She set the soup down.
«Lily called,» she said.
He flinched. «So you know.»
«Shes worried. So am I.»
She reached for himhe stepped back.
«Dont.»
«Chris, talk to me. Why do you hate my happiness?»
«I dont hate it,» he muttered, turning away. «I just dont understand. How could you forget him?»
«Forget?» Her voice broke. «I spoke to his photo for ten years! I raised you alone! Was I supposed to stop living?»
«And him?» Christophers eyes burned. «Dad built that cottage for us! Now some stranger»
«Hes my husband!»
They stood, breathless with tears and fury.
«I thought after Dad died it was just us,» he whispered. «Then you chose him. Left me alone.»
And suddenly, she understood. He wasnt angryhe was terrified. Afraid shed forget him too.
She pulled him close, ignoring his stiffness, cradling her grown, grieving boy.
«You fool,» she murmured into his unkempt hair. «No one could ever take your place.»
His shoulders shook. He buried his face in her shoulder and sobbedgreat, heaving gasps. She held him, crying with him, for all the pain and love between them.
They talked for hours. She served the soup; he ate as she spokeof her loneliness, of Victor, of her fear of losing him. He listened, silent.
At the door, he finally spoke.
«Mum Im sorry.»
«Me too, my love.»
She knew it wasnt over. Acceptance would take time. But the wall had crumbled. Her son was speaking to her again.
