At the wedding, my son spat at his mother, calling her a rascal and a beggar, and told her to leave. She grabbed the microphone and spoke
Margaret stood in the doorway, barely nudging it open not to disturb, yet not to miss a crucial moment. She fixed her gaze on her son, a blend of motherly pride, tenderness, and something almost holy. James was in front of the mirror in a crisp suit with a bow tie, his mates helping him adjust it.
It looked like a scene out of a film he was tidy, handsome, and calm. Inside Margaret, however, a knot of pain tightened: she felt invisible in that picture, as if she didnt belong at all.
She smoothed the hem of her old dress, picturing how it would match the new jacket shed bought for tomorrow shed go to the wedding even without an invitation. As she took a step forward, James, as if sensing her stare, turned round, his expression snapping. He came over, shut the door, and stayed inside.
Mrs. Whitford, we need to talk, he said, steady but firm.
Margaret straightened, her heart hammering.
Of course, love. I I bought those shoes, remember the ones I showed you? And also
Mom, he cut in. I dont want you coming tomorrow.
She froze. At first the words didnt register; her mind refused the sting.
Why? her voice trembled. I I
Because its a wedding. People will be there. Because you look well not quite right. And my job understand, I dont want anyone thinking Im from a rough background.
His words fell like cold rain. Margaret tried to interject:
Ive got a stylist booked, hair, nails I have a modest dress, but
Dont, he snapped again. Dont make a scene. Youll stand out anyway. Please. Just dont come.
He left without waiting for an answer. Margaret was left alone in the dim room. Silence wrapped around her like a soft blanket. Even her breathing seemed muffled, the clocks ticking distant.
She sat motionless for ages. Then, as if driven from within, she rose, fetched an old dusty box from the wardrobe, opened it and pulled out a photo album. It smelled of old paper, glue and forgotten days.
The first page held a yellowed picture: a little girl in a threadbare dress beside a woman holding a bottle. Margaret recalled that day her mother shouting at the photographer, then at her, then at passersby. A month later she lost parental rights and was sent to a childrens home.
Page after page hit her like blows. A group photo: kids in identical uniforms, no smiles, a stern caretaker. That was when she first understood what it meant to be unwanted. She was beaten, punished, left without supper. She never cried; the weak cried, and the weak were never spared.
The next chapter youth. After leaving school she worked as a waitress in a roadside café. It was hard, but no longer terrifying. She earned a sliver of freedom, which felt intoxicating. She learned to stitch skirts from cheap cloth, curl her hair in the old-fashioned way, and at night practised walking in heels just to feel pretty.
Then the accident. A commotion broke out in the café; she spilled tomato juice on a customer. The manager roared for explanations. She tried to speak, but anger swirled. Then Victor tall, calm, in a light shirt smiled and said, Its just juice, an accident. Let her finish her shift.
Margaret was stunned; no one had ever spoken to her like that. Her hands trembled as she took the keys.
The next day Victor brought a bunch of flowers, set them on the counter and said, Would you like to have a coffee? No strings attached. He smiled in a way that made her feel, for the first time in years, less like the girl from the childrens home and more like a woman.
They sat on a park bench, drinking from plastic cups. He talked about books and travel; she spoke of the home shed grown up in, of dreams, of nights when she imagined a family. When he took her hand, she could not believe it. That touch carried more tenderness than she had ever known. From then on she waited for him. Each time he appeared in the same shirt, with the same eyes the ache faded. She was ashamed of her poverty, but he seemed blind to it. Youre beautiful. Just be yourself, he told her. And she believed him.
That summer was unusually warm and long. Margaret later recalled it as the brightest spell of her life a chapter written in love and hope. With Victor she walked along the River Thames, wandered the woods, lingered for hours in tiny cafés. He introduced her to his friends smart, cheerful, welleducated. At first she felt like an outsider, but Victor would slip his hand beneath the table, and that small gesture gave her strength.
They watched sunsets from the flats roof, tea in a thermos, wrapped in a blanket. Victor spoke of working for an international firm but said he didnt want to leave England forever. Margaret listened, holding her breath, memorising every word, because it felt fragile.
One day, halfjoking but earnest, he asked how she felt about a wedding. She laughed, hiding embarrassment, and looked away. Inside a fire ignited a thousand times yes. She was just afraid to say it aloud, fearing she would scare the fairytale away.
But the fairytale was shattered by others.
They were sitting in the very café where Margaret had once worked when a boisterous patron at the next table laughed, then a slap rang out and a cocktail splashed across Margarets face. The liquid ran down her cheeks and dress. Victor sprang up, but it was too late.
At the next table sat his cousin, voice dripping with disgust: Is this her? Your chosen one? A cleaner? From the childrens home? Is that what you call love? People stared, some laughed. Margaret didnt weep. She wiped her face with a napkin and left.
From that moment the pressure turned relentless. Phone calls full of threats arrived: Leave before it gets worse. Well tell everyone who you are. You still have a chance to disappear.
Rumours spread: she was a thief, a prostitute, a drug user. An old neighbour, Mr. Harris, came to her and said men had offered him money to sign a statement that hed seen her stealing. He refused. Youre a good person, he said. Those are the scamps. Hang in there.
She endured. She told Victor nothing she didnt want to ruin his plans to take an internship abroad. She simply waited for the storm to pass.
Just before his departure, Victor received a call from his father, Nigel Sutherland, the citys lordmayor. He summoned Margaret to his office.
She arrived, modestly dressed, sat opposite him as if in a courtroom. He looked at her as if she were dust beneath his shoes. You dont know who youre dealing with, he warned. My son is the future of this family. You are a stain on his reputation. Leave, or Ill make sure you disappear forever.
Margaret clenched her hands. I love him, she said quietly. And he loves me.
Love? he sneered. Love is a luxury for equals. You are not equal. She left with her head held high, saying nothing to Victor, believing love would triumph. Yet on the day of his flight, he left without knowing the truth.
A week later the café owner, Stan, called. He claimed stock was missing and that someone had seen her pilfering from the storeroom. Margaret understood nothing. The police arrived, launched an investigation, and Stan pointed at her. Others stayed silent; those who knew the truth were frightened.
The stateappointed solicitor was young, exhausted, indifferent. In court his defence was weak. Evidence was flimsy, sewn together with white thread. Cameras showed nothing; the testimonies of witnesses carried more weight. The mayor applied pressure. The verdict: three years in a standard regime prison.
When the cell door slammed, Margaret realised everything love, hopes, future was left behind bars.
Weeks later she fell ill, went to the infirmary and was tested. Positive. She was pregnant. By Victor.
At first the pain stole her breath. Then silence settled, then resolve. She would survive for the child.
Pregnancy in a prison was hell. She was mocked, humiliated, yet kept her head down. She stroked her belly, whispered to the baby at night, thought of names James, Alexander, after the patron saint. The birth was hard, but the baby was healthy. When she first held her son, she wept quietly, not from despair but from hope.
Two women in the prison one serving a murder sentence, the other for theft helped her. Rough but kind to the infant, they taught her, swaddled the child. Margaret clung to them.
After a year and a half she was released on parole. Mr. Harris waited outside, holding an old baby blanket. They gave this to us, he said. Come, a new life awaits. Little James slept in a pram, clutching a plush bear.
Mornings started at six: James to nursery, Margaret to a cleaning job. Then a car wash, evenings a parttime shift at a warehouse. Nights she sat at a sewing machine, stitching napkins, aprons, pillowcases. Day bled into night, night into day, a fog of endless work. Her body ached, but she kept going, like clockwork.
One afternoon on the high street she met Lucy, the girl who used to sell sweets near the café. She froze on seeing Margaret. Oh my God Is that you? Alive? Lucy asked.
What was supposed to happen? Margaret replied calmly.
Sorry so many years Listen, did you hear? Stan went bust, completely. He was thrown out of the café. The mayors moved to London now. Victor Victor got married. Long ago. Unhappily. Drinks. Lucys words fell like gravel.
Margaret listened as if through glass, something pricking inside, then simply nodded. Thanks. Good luck. She walked on, no tears, no hysteria. That night, after putting James to bed, she allowed herself a silent sob, then rose with the dawn and carried on.
James grew. Margaret tried to give him everything: toys, a bright jacket, good food, a sturdy backpack. When he fell ill she sat by his bedside, whispered fairy tales, applied compresses. When he scraped his knee she rushed from the car wash, foam on her hands, chastising herself for not watching better. When he asked for a tablet, she sold her only gold ring a memory of a past life.
Mom, why dont you have a phone like everyone else? he asked one day.
Because I have you, Jamie, she replied, smiling. Youre my most important call.
He grew confident, charismatic, did well at school, made many friends. Yet he often said, Mom, buy yourself something decent. You cant keep wearing those rags.
Alright, son, Ill try, Margaret said, though her heart ached, wondering if even he could become like everyone else.
When he announced he was to be married, she embraced him, tears spilling, Jamie, Im so happy Ill sew you a crisp white shirt, okay? He nodded, as if not hearing.
Then came the conversation that shattered her. Youre a cleaner. Youre a disgrace. Those words cut like knives. She sat before a photo of young James in blue overalls, hand outstretched to her.
You know, love, she whispered, I have given everything to you. Perhaps its time I live for myself too.
She opened the tin box where she kept savings for a rainy day, counted the money. It wasnt much, but enough for a decent dress, a hairdresser, a manicure. She booked a salon on the outskirts, chose modest makeup, a neat haircut, bought a simple blue dress that fit perfectly.
On the wedding day she stood before the mirror for a long while. Her face was different no longer the exhausted woman from the car wash, but a woman with a story. She even applied lipstick for the first time in years.
Jamie, she whispered, today youll see me as I was once, the woman who was loved.
At the register office, when she entered, eyes turned. Women scrutinised, men cast secret glances. She walked slowly, back straight, a faint smile. No accusation, no fear in her eyes.
James didnt notice her at first. When he finally saw her, his face went pale. He approached, hissed, I told you not to come!
I didnt come for you, Margaret replied, leaning forward. I came for myself. Ive already seen everything. She smiled at Dianne, blushed but nodded. She took her seat, watched, and when James caught her gaze, he finally saw her not a shadow, but a woman. That was the point.
The hall was noisy, bright, glasses clinking, chandeliers glittering. Margaret seemed in another world, wearing that blue dress, hair styled, eyes calm. She wasnt seeking attention, she wasnt proving anything. Her quiet presence spoke louder than any celebration.
Next to her sat Dianne, sincere, warmhearted. You look lovely, she said gently. Thank you for coming. Im really happy for you.
Its your day, love. Happiness to you, and patience, Margaret replied.
Diannes father, a respectable gentleman, approached and said politely, Please join us. Wed be delighted. James watched his mother bow with dignity and follow him without a word of reproach. He could not object; everything unfolded without his control.
Then came the toasts. Guests stood, joked, recalled stories. Silence fell. Margaret rose.
If I may, she said softly, Id like to say a few words. All eyes turned to her. James tensed. She took the microphone as if shed done it a hundred times, and spoke calmly:
I wont speak long. I just wish you love the kind that holds you when you have no strength left, that asks nothing of who you are or where you come from. Just love. Take care of each other, always.
She did not cry, but her voice trembled. The hall fell silent, then genuine applause rose.
She returned to her seat, lowering her eyes. A shadow fell over the tablecloth. She looked up and saw him Victor, hair greyed, eyes the same. His voice, husky, asked, Margaret is that really you?
She stood, breath caught, yet she offered no sigh.
You he began.
I dont know what to say. I thought youd vanished. He mentioned his marriage. I was told you ran off with someone else. I was a fool. My father made me believe it.
They stood in the middle of the hall, as if everyone else had disappeared. Victor extended his hand. Shall we talk?
They slipped into a corridor. Margaret did not tremble. I gave birth, she said. In prison. To you. I raised him alone. Victors eyes closed, something inside tearing.
Where is he? he asked.
There, in the hall. At the wedding. He went pale.
James?
Yes. Thats our son. Silence hung, only the echo of her heels on marble and distant music.
I have to see him, he whispered. Talk. Margaret shook her head. He isnt ready. Hell see. I bear no grudge. Things are simply different now.
Victor invited her to dance. A waltz, light as air, they twirled centrestage, all eyes on them. James froze, watching his mother like a queen, the crowd looking at her, not at him.
For the first time he felt shame for his words, his indifference, his years of ignorance.
When the dance ended, he approached, Mom Who is this?
She met his gaze, smiled calmly, sadly, proudly. Thats Victor. Your father. James stared, the world muffled as if underwater. Youre serious?
Very. Victor stepped forward, Hi, James. Silence settled. No one spoke, only eyes and truth.
We three, Margaret said, have a lot to talk about. And they walked away, not loudly, not solemnly, just the three of them. A new life began, free of the past, with truth, perhaps with forgiveness.
