«No! I said no! Can you hear me? Were not changing a thing. Dad built that veranda with his own two handsevery single nail he hammered himself.»
«Oliver, love, you have to understandits practically rotten,» sighed Margaret, pressing the phone so hard against her ear it ached. «The floorboards are collapsing, the roof leaks. Its dangerous! William says we could carefully dismantle it and»
«William! That William of yours again!» Olivers voice turned sharp as flint. «Whats it to him? Hed tear everything down and start freshsomeone elses things dont matter to him. Mum, thats not just a veranda. Its memories!»
«Ollie, what good are memories if the whole things about to collapse?» Her voice trembled. «Were doing this for youso you and Emily can visit, so when the grandchildren come»
«There wont be any grandchildren on your fancy new veranda,» he snapped. «I wont set foot in that house again if you touch a single plank. Ive got to go.»
The dial tone hit like a door slamming. Margaret lowered the phone to the kitchen table, the hollow ache in her chestnow a familiar companiontightening around her ribs. Outside, the yellowing leaves of the oak swayed, the world as grey and dull as her mood.
William peeked into the kitchen. Tall, silver-haired, reading glasses perched on his nose, he held an open book. One look at her face told him everything.
«Again?» he asked softly, setting the book on the windowsill.
She nodded, words stuck in her throat. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and the warmth of him, the faint scent of aftershave and something uniquely his, finally loosened her tears. Quiet, soundless, dripping onto his plaid shirt.
«Come now, love,» he murmured, stroking her hair. «You shouldnt have called. You know how it ends.»
«But the cottage» Her breath hitched. «Hell never forgive me if we change a thing. But we have toits falling apart.»
«Bugger the cottage. Well sort it. What matters is you. Look what this is doing to you.»
Theyd met two years ago at a school reunion. Margaret had gone reluctantly, dragged by her friend Claire. Ten years had passed since losing David, her first husband, and all that time, shed lived only for Oliver. School runs, university, his first jobshe hadnt noticed the years slipping by, the new lines around her eyes, her boy becoming a man.
Then he moved out. Found a flat with his girlfriend Emily, and the house fell silent. Evenings pressed on her ears like weights. She filled the gapsyoga, knitting, rereading every book on the shelfbut the loneliness clung.
Then William approached her. Her quiet, bookish classmate, now a maths professor. A widower too. They talked all night. Same films, autumn walks in Hyde Park, the same desperate craving for warmth.
Their romance grew slowly. Walks, theatre dates, long conversations in cafés. She felt herself thawing, relearning joy.
She told Oliver when things grew serious. To her surprise, hed been calm.
«Mum, youre a grown woman,» hed said, stirring sugar into his tea. «If he makes you happy, Im glad.»
Shed been overjoyed. A year later, she and William married quietlyjust Claire, his sister, and Oliver with Emily.
Thats when it started. Oliver spent the reception scowling, ignoring William. During the toast, he raised his glass and stared at the wall.
«To Dad. A real man. The best father. No one replaces him. Ever.»
The room froze. Emily tugged his sleeve, whispering, but he shook her off. Heat flooded Margarets cheeks. William squeezed her hand under the tablethe only thing stopping her tears.
After the wedding, Oliver stopped calling. At first, she thought he was busy. Her attempts were met with clipped replies. «Hi, how are you?» «Fine.» «Whats new?» «Nothing.» «Come for Sunday roast?» «Dunno. Maybe.» Thennothing. Calls ignored. Messages unread.
Her birthday was the final blow. She cooked his favorites, waited. He never came. Just a bouquet of carnations delivered with a generic card. Not a word from him.
That night, she finally told William how much it hurt.
«I dont understand,» she whispered on the sofa. «He said he was happy for me. What changed?»
«Hes jealous,» William said, watching the electric fireplace. «Of your new life. Of me. He thinks Im trying to replace his dad.»
«Thats absurd! No one replaces David! I loved himhe was Olivers father! But its been ten years. Dont I deserve happiness?»
«You do,» William said firmly. «But he doesnt see that yet. Hes still a boy in some ways. He needs time.»
But time didnt help. The wall between them grew thicker. She lost weight, barely slept. Every ring of the phone sent her heart racingalways someone else.
The cottage argument was another blow. David had built it himself. After he died, she and Oliver spent every summer there. To Oliver, it was sacred. Now, Williams suggestion to repair the rotting veranda felt like sacrilege.
«Should I go to him?» she asked, pulling away from William. «Talk face-to-face.»
«Not now,» he said. «Hes too raw. Give him space.»
She obeyed, but the pain didnt ease. Days later, Claire called.
«Margie! Youve gone quiet. Everything alright?»
«Not really,» she sighed.
«Oliver again?»
She recounted the call. Claire clicked her tongue.
«That boys selfish, Im sorry. Grown man acting like a child. Youre happyhe should be glad! Williams a gem. Patient, kind. Another man wouldve told you to sort your son out yourself.»
«William wouldnt. He understands.»
«Understandings one thing, but how long do you wait?» Claire huffed. «Have you talked to Emily? Maybe she can talk sense into him.»
Margaret called Emily. Hands shaking.
«Hello? Margaret?» Emily sounded surprised.
«Emily, love. Sorry to bother you. Is Oliver is he alright?»
Silence. Then a quiet sigh.
«Hes struggling. He thinks youve moved on too fast. That youve replaced Dad.»
«Ten years is too fast?» Her voice broke. «Emily, I talked to his photo every night for a decade. I raised Oliver alone. I just wanted to live again. Is that wrong?»
«I know. I tell him the same. But hes stuck. He keeps Dads photo on his desk. Stares at it. I think hes torturing himself.»
Margarets chest ached. Her son wasnt just angryhe was grieving. And shed caused it.
That night, she studied an old photo on the dresser: David, grinning, arm around her, little Oliver beside him with a fishing rod. So long ago.
«David,» she whispered. «Tell him hes wrong.»
Olivers birthday came28. She baked his favorite honey cake, bought the jumper hed mentioned once.
«Are you sure?» William watched her pack the cake.
«I have to try.»
She went alone. Knocked on his door. Silence. Knocked again. Nothing. The handle was locked.
Ten minutes passed. She called his phone. Rings echoedthen, behind the door, his phone vibrated. He was there. Ignoring her.
She pressed her forehead to the door. «Ollie please. I brought cake. Your favorite.»
Silence.
She left, weeping on a park bench. Humiliated. Crushed.
At home, William took the cake, held her. «Enough,» he said firmly. «Youve tried. Now live for us.»
She tried. They traveled, saw friends, smiled. But every phone call made her heart leapthen sink.
Winter came. Before New Years, she called Emily.
«Any plans for the holidays? Fancy popping round?»
«Hi, Margaret. Were visiting my parents.»
«Oh. Hows Oliver?»
«Fine. Working.»
«Right. Happy New Year, love.»
She hung up. William hugged her. «Lets go to the cottage. Light the fire, decorate the tree. Just us.»
«What about the veranda?»
«Springs soon enough.»
The cottage was icy, silent. William lit the fire. They dressed the tree, made roast dinner, drank champagne. At midnight, she wished for one thing: her sons forgiveness.
Months passed. She learned to live with the pain, like a chronic ache.
Then, one evening, an unknown number called.
«Hello?»
«Margaret? Its Emily.» Her voice was shaky.
«Emily? Whats wrong?»
«Weve split up.»
«What? Why?»
«I cant do it anymore. Hes bitter. Closed off. We barely speak. Tonight, I packed my things. He didnt stop me.»
«Oh, love. Where will you go?»
«A friends. MargaretI called because its not you. Its him. Hes drowning in the past. Until he faces it, hell never be happy. Im sorry.»
Margaret sat stunned. Poor Emily. And Oliveralone, trapped in his grief.
«Who was it?» William muted the TV.
She told him. He studied her, then said, «Go to him.»
«He wont answer.»
«He will now. Hes hit bottom. He needs his mum. Not to judgejust to be there. Go. Dont leave until you talk.»
The next day, she stood at his door again, a pot of hot chicken soup in hand. Rang the bell. Silence. Rang again.
Footsteps. The chain rattled. The door cracked open. One bloodshot eye met hers.
«Mum?» His voice was rough.
«Let me in, love.»
He stared. Then unlatched the chain.
The flat smelled of stale air and unwashed dishes. She set the soup down.
«You need to eat.»
He leaned against the doorframe. «Why are you here?»
«Emily called.»
He flinched. «So she tattled.»
«Shes worried. So am I.»
She moved to hug him. He stepped back.
«Dont.»
«Oliver, talk to me. What did I do wrong? Do you hate me? Hate that Im happy?»
«I dont hate you,» he muttered, turning to the window. «I just dont get it. How you could move on. So fast.»
«Fast?» The word cut deep. «Oliver, I slept with his photo for ten years. I raised you alone. I just wanted to live again. Is that a crime?»
«And Dad?» His voice cracked. «You just replaced him.»
«No one replaces him! Hell always be in my heart. But I love William. He saved me from loneliness. Gave me a reason to wake up. Cant you be happy for me?»
«I cant!» he shouted. «When I see you two, its like youre spitting on Dads grave! Laughing, holding handswhile hes in the ground! He built that cottage for us. Now some strangers taking over!»
«Hes not a stranger! Hes my husband!»
They stood, chests heaving, tears streaming. Two hearts, one broken, the other breaking.
«I thought after Dad died it was just us,» Oliver whispered. «But you found someone else. Left me behind.»
Then she understood. He wasnt jealoushe was afraid. Afraid shed forget him too.
She pulled him close, ignoring his stiff resistance. «Oh, my sweet boy,» she murmured, stroking his stubbled cheek. «How could you think Id leave you? Youre my son. Nothing changes that. No one.»
His shoulders shook. He buried his face in her shoulder and sobbedgreat, heaving gulps. She cried with him, for all the pain, the love, the wasted time.
They talked for hours. She ladled soup; he ate silently as she spokeher loneliness, how William came into her life, her fear of telling him.
When she left, he walked her to the door.
«Mum Im sorry.»
«Me too, love.»
She knew it was just the start. Acceptance would take time. But the wall had crumbled. Her boy was talking to her again.
