«No! I said no! Do you hear me? Were not changing a thing. Dad built that porch with his own hands, hammered every nail himself.»
«Christopher, please, its practically rotting away!» Emma Wilson sighed, pressing the phone so tightly to her ear that her lobe ached. «The floorboards are caving in, the roof leaks. Its dangerous! Victor says we could carefully dismantle it and»
«Victor! That Victor of yours again!» Her sons voice turned sharp as sandpaper. «Whats it to him? Hed tear everything down and start freshits not his loss. Mum, its not just a porchits memories!»
«Chris, what sort of memory is it if its about to collapse?» Her voice trembled with unshed tears. «Were doing this for youso you and Lucy can visit, so theres space when grandchildren come along»
«There wont be any grandchildren on your new porch!» he snapped. «I wont set foot in that house if you touch so much as a plank. Ive got to go.»
The dial tone felt like a verdict. Emma lowered the phone slowly to the kitchen table. The hollow ache in her chest, familiar after six months of this, tightened around her ribs. Outside, yellowed leaves clung to the oak in the garden, the world as grey and weary as her own heart.
Victor stepped into the kitchentall, silver-haired, reading glasses perched on his nose, a book in hand. One look at her face told him everything.
«Again?» he asked softly, setting the book on the windowsill.
Emma nodded, words stuck in her throat. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and the warmth of him, the scent of his aftershave and something uniquely his, finally loosened the tears. Silent, steady, dripping onto his checked shirt.
«Oh, Em, love» He stroked her hair. «You shouldnt have called him. You know how it ends.»
«But the cottage» she hiccuped. «Hell never forgive us if we change anything. But we have toits falling apart.»
«Bugger the cottage. Well manage. You matter more. Look what this is doing to you.»
Theyd met two years ago at a school reunion. Emma had gone reluctantly, prodded by her friend Sarah. Ten years had passed since losing James, her first husband, and all that time, shed lived only for Christopher. School runs, university, his first jobshe hadnt noticed the years slipping by, the lines deepening, her boy becoming a man.
Then he moved out. Found a flat with Lucy, and the house echoed with silence. Shed tried yoga, taken up knitting, reread every book on the shelf. But the loneliness stayed.
That night, Victor had approached herher quiet, forgettable classmate from the back row, now a confident maths professor. Also widowed. Theyd talked for hours, discovering shared loves: old films, autumn walks, the ache of missing simple warmth.
Their romance grew slowly. Walks, theatre trips, long conversations in cafés. She felt herself thawing, relearning joy.
When she told Christopher, hed seemed oddly calm.
«Mum, youre a grown woman. If he makes you happy, Im glad.»
Shed been overjoyed. A year later, they married quietlyjust Sarah, Victors sister, and, of course, Christopher and Lucy.
Thats when it began. Christopher spent the reception glowering, ignoring Victor. 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. Lucy tugged his sleeve, whispering urgently, but he shook her off. Emmas face burned with shame. Victor squeezed her hand under the tablethe only thing stopping her from crumbling.
After the wedding, Christopher stopped calling. Completely. At first, she thought he was busy. Her attempts were met with clipped replies. «Hi, how are you?» «Fine.» «Whats new?» «Nothing.» «Fancy Sunday lunch? Ill make your favourite roast.» «Maybe. Probably not. Got to go.»
Then he stopped answering altogether. Messages went unread. Her birthday was the final blowshed cooked, waited, hoped. He never came. Just sent flowers with a generic card. No note.
That night, she confessed her pain to Victor.
«I dont understand. He said he was happy for me. What changed?»
«Emma, hes jealous,» Victor said gently, watching the electric fireplace. «Of your new life. Of me. He thinks Im trying to take his dads place.»
«But thats ridiculous! No one could replace James! I loved himhes Christophers father! But hes been gone ten years. Dont I deserve happiness?»
«You do,» Victor said firmly. «But he doesnt see that yet. Hes still a boy in a mans body. He needs time.»
But time didnt help. The wall between them grew thicker. Emma lost weight, barely slept. Every ring of the phone clenched her heartnever him.
The cottage argument was another wound. James had built it himself. After his death, she and Christopher spent every summer there. To him, it was sacred. And now, Victors suggestion to repair the porch felt like desecration.
«Should I go to him?» she asked Victor, pulling away. «Talk face-to-face.»
«Not now,» he said. «Hes too raw. Give him space.»
She obeyed, but the weight didnt lift. Days later, Sarah called.
«Em! Youve gone quiet. Everything alright?»
«Not really,» Emma sighed.
«Christopher again?»
She relayed the latest. Sarah clicked her tongue.
«Selfish, thats what he is. Youve finally got someone decent, and he sulks like a child. Victors a saint putting up with this.»
«Sarah, dont. He adored his father.»
«So did everyone! Life goes on! You raised him alone, sacrificed everything. Now youve got a good man, and he throws tantrums? Another bloke wouldve walked by now.»
«Victor wont. He understands.»
«Understanding only stretches so far.»
Emma tried Lucy next. Theyd always got on. Her hands shook dialling the number.
«Hello? Emma, hi!» Lucy sounded surprised.
«Lucy, love, is this a good time?»
«Of course. Is everything okay?»
«I just wondered how you are. How Christopher is.»
A pause. «Were fine. Works busy.»
«Ive called him. He wont answer. Is he upset with me?»
Another silence. Then a quiet sigh.
«Hes struggling. He thinks youve moved on too fast from his dad.»
«Fast? Ten years is fast?»
«I know! I tell him the same! But he wont listen. Hes stuck, Emma. His dads photos on his deskhe just stares at it. Its like hes punishing himself.»
Emmas breath caught. «What do I do?»
«I dont know. Ive tried everything. Maybe time will help?»
The call left her raw. Now she knewhe wasnt just angry. He was grieving. And somehow, shed become the cause. That night, she studied an old photo on the dresser: James grinning, arm around her, little Christopher beside them with a fishing rod. A lifetime ago.
«James,» she whispered. «Talk to him. Tell him hes wrong.»
Christophers birthday approachedtwenty-eight. She baked his favourite Victoria sponge, bought the cashmere jumper hed once admired.
«Are you sure about this?» Victor asked, watching her pack the cake.
«I have to,» she said. «Hes my son.»
She went alone. His flat was on the third floor. Her heart pounded as she rang the bell. Silence. She tried again. Nothing. The door was locked.
She stood there ten minutes, lost. Then dialled his number. The phone rang inside. He was home. Ignoring her.
Tears spilled as she pressed her forehead to the door. «Chris please. I brought cake. Your favourite»
Still nothing.
She stumbled downstairs, the cake box leaden in her arms. On a park bench, she wept, uncaring of passersby. Humiliated. Broken.
At home, Victor took the box, pulled her close.
«Enough,» he said firmly, tucking a blanket around her. «No more begging. If he wont, thats his choice. Youve done all you can. Live for us now.»
She tried. Stopped calling. Stopped waiting. They went to the theatre, met friends, even booked a spa weekend. She smiled, laughedbut every phone chime still stabbed her heart.
Autumn faded into winter. Before New Years, she cracked, calling Lucy.
«Lucy, loveany plans for New Years? Fancy joining us?»
«Hi, Emma. Thanks, but were visiting my parents.»
«Oh. Of course. Hows Christopher?»
«Okay. Working.»
«Send him mynever mind. Happy New Year.»
She hung up. Victor, overhearing, hugged her.
«Lets go to the cottage. Light the fire, decorate the tree. Just us.»
«The porch?»
«Itll hold till spring.»
The cottage was icy, smelled of damp. But Victor lit the fire, and warmth crept through the rooms. They decorated a small tree, made turkey sandwiches, popped champagne. At midnight, Emma wished for one thing: her sons forgiveness.
Life settled again. She learned to carry the pain, like a chronic ache.
Then, one evening, her phone rang. Unknown number.
«Hello?»
«Emma? Its Lucy.» Her voice was strained.
«Lucy? Whats wrong?»
«Weve split up.»
«What? Why?»
«I cant do it anymore. Hes unbearableangry, withdrawn. Ive tried, Emma, really tried. But he pushes me away. Today, I packed my things. He didnt stop me.»
«Oh, love Where will you go?»
«A friends. But EmmaI called because its not you. Its him. Hes drowning in the past. Until he faces it, hell never be happy. Im sorry.»
The call left Emma reeling. She pitied Lucysweet, patient Lucy. And feared for her son. Alone now, walled in by grief.
«What happened?» Victor muted the TV.
She told him. He was quiet a long moment.
«You need to go to him.»
«But he wont»
«Hell open now. Hes hit bottom. He needs his mum. Not to judgejust to love him. Go. Dont leave until you talk.»
Next day, she stood at his door again. A pot of hot chicken soup in her hands. She rang. Silence. Rang again. Thenfootsteps. The lock clicked.
The door opened a crack, the chain still on. One bloodshot eye met hers.
«Mum?»
«Let me in, love.»
He stared, then unhooked the chain.
The flat smelled of stale air and unwashed dishes. She set the soup on the table.
«You need to eat.»
He leaned against the doorframe. «Why are you here?»
«Lucy called.»
He flinched. «So she told you.»
«Shes worried. So am I.»
She moved to hug him. He stepped back.
«Dont.»
«Chris, pleasetalk to me. What did I do wrong? Why do you hate my happiness?»
«I dont hate it,» he muttered, turning to the window. «I just dont get it. How you moved on so fast.»
«Fast?» The word cut. «Chris, I slept with his photo for years! Talked to it every night! I raised you alone! I kept my promises to himto you. And then I chose to live. Is that a crime?»
«And Dad?» His voice cracked. «You just replaced him.»
«No one replaced him!» she cried. «Hell always be part of me! But I love Victor! He saved me from lonelinessfrom dying inside! Cant you be glad Im happy?»
«I cant!» he shouted back. «When I see you two laughing, holding handsit feels like betrayal! Dad built that cottage for us! Now some stranger gets to»
«Hes not a stranger! Hes my husband!»
They stood trembling, grief and fury between them. Then Christopher sagged.
«I thought after Dad died, it was just us. That wed stick together. But you found someone else. And Im alone.»
Suddenly, she understood. He wasnt jealous. He was terrified. Terrified shed forget him too.
She hugged him tight, ignoring his stiff resistance. Her grown, bearded, heartbroken boy.
«Foolish boy,» she whispered, stroking his stubbled cheek. «How could I ever leave you? Youre my son. My blood. No one could ever take your place.»
His shoulders shook. He buried his face in her shoulder and sobbedrough, aching, unashamed. She cried with him, for all the pain, the love, the years lost to silence.
They talked for hours. She served the soup; he ate while she spoke of her loneliness, her fear of telling him about Victor. He listened, silent.
At the door, as she left, he whispered, «Mum Im sorry.»
«Me too, love.»
She knew it was only the start. Acceptance would take time. But the wall had fallen. Her son was speaking to her again.
