23October
Im sitting at the kitchen table, the kettle humming, and trying to make sense of the day. The phone rang again, and the voice on the other end was as cold as ice. Emily? Its Margaret. My exmotherinlaw, as icy as ever, didnt bother with pleasantries. She wanted me to stop nagging David, my exhusband, for money. Weve been here before.
Just yesterday David called, pleading for a few pounds to buy winter boots for Oliver. Emily, Im swamped at work, the bonus is delayed he said, as if that were a fresh excuse. I cut him off. You know its not about the boots, David. Oliver needs proper footwear for the cold, not another toy. Im not asking for a handout; Im asking for whats right for my son. He muttered something about his mother thinking I ask too much, about alimony that should be enough. I laughed bitterly. Alimony? The three pence you send once a quarter when your own mother reminds you? You cant even buy laces with that.
Tears welled up, hot and helpless, as I stood in my tiny flat where the lingering scent of yesterdays stew mingled with damp laundry hanging over the cooker. Oliver lay asleep in the single bedroom, his blond hair fanned across the pillow, a battered plush rabbit Thumper tucked beside him. I smoothed his blanket, kissed his cheek, and promised, halfto myself, that Id find a way.
The call from Margaret cut through my thoughts. David is moving on. Hell have a new, normal family. Were not going to fund your problems any longer. I felt a chill settle deeper. As for the boy she paused, choosing her words like knives. Your son is no longer our grandson. Forget this address, forget this number. Good luck.
The beep that followed sounded like a gunshot in the stillness of my kitchen. I hung up and stared at the wall, the words echoing. My son, no longer a grandson, erased from someone elses life with a single sentence. I sank onto the stool, head in my hands. It was more than a divorce; it was a complete severance from a world that once held holiday gatherings in a country house and the illusion of a full family.
Morning came with a pounding headache but also clarity: I could count on no one but Oliver and myself. I work as a seamstress in a modest tailoring shop on the high street, earning just enough for a modest life. Now I must tighten the belt even more.
At breakfast, Oliver asked, Mum, will we go to Grandma Margarets this weekend? She promised to show me the big car Dad bought. My heart clenched. How do I explain that Margaret no longer wants to see him? That Dad now has a different child to show off his new car to?
Oliver, Grandmas quite busy now, and Dads as well, I said gently, keeping my voice steady. How about we go to the park this weekend, ride the carousel, and have some candy floss? His eyes lit up, the prospect of the carousel quickly trumping the disappointment. I want it! And the candy floss! he shouted. I smiled, masking my own pain.
Thats how our new life began. I took every side job I could find: hemming neighbours trousers, installing zippers, stitching curtains by night. I slept four or five hours, but when I saw Olivers delighted face as he bit into a pastry or flipped through a new book we could finally afford, the fatigue faded. I learned to make do. I bought the winter boots on saleplain but warm.
Evenings sometimes hit me with a wave of despair after Oliver is asleep. I sit at the sewing machine, its rhythmic click reminding me of the unfairness of life. I think of David, indecisive and childish once, the man who once proposed and dreamed of children, then was wrested away by his mother who claimed I was beneath him. A petty quarrel, blown up by Margaret into a saga of betrayal, and David fled under the pressure.
A year slipped by. Oliver started primary school. I walked him proudly onto the assembly line, his new uniform, which I had sewn myself, complemented by a bunch of gladioli. I felt I was doing right by him; we would manage.
The shop changed hands. The new owner, Angela Hughes, was strict but fair. She noticed my precision immediately. You have golden hands, Emily, she said, admiring a flawless seam on a silk dress. Ever thought of doing something beyond tailoring? I shrugged; thoughts of something more seemed frivolous when rent and school fees loomed. Yet her words lingered.
One evening, rummaging through leftover fabrics, I found a bright piece of chintz with tiny flowers. Impulse struck: I crafted a tiny jumpsuit and a cap for Thumper. It turned out so cute that I took it to the shop to show Angela. She examined it, then said, Tomorrow bring everything youve made like thatclothing for dolls, toys, whatever. I was startled but complied, bringing a small box of miniature dresses, a bear outfit, and an embroidered shirt with berry motifs. Angela displayed them in the shop window, labeling it an experiment.
By evening, the window was full of tiny creations. Women strolling by paused, cooed, and bought them for their grandchildren. One lady even ordered an entire wardrobe for a German porcelain doll. I could not believe my eyes; what Id dismissed as a hobby suddenly had demand.
I started a little side venture, posting pictures online under the name Mums Warmth. The money stopped being a perpetual worry. I enrolled Oliver in an art club hed always wanted, moved into a slightly larger rented flat with a separate room for him, and my exhaustion faded, replaced by a spark in my eyes. I still worked long hours, but now my work brought both income and pride.
Oliver grew into a gentle, caring boy. He never asked about his father or the absent grandmother again. His world was me, and he boasted to his friends that his mum was the best witch in the world, able to stitch anything.
When Oliver was twelve, the phone rang again. An unfamiliar number, yet I answered. Emily? This is Margaret. My breath caught; I hadnt heard that voice in six years. It was the same cold metal.
Im calling about business, she said, her tone unflinching. A friend recommended you as a wonderful childrens tailor. My grandsons birthday is coming up; hes turning five. Id like to order an exclusive costume. Im willing to pay double. The irony struck me like a slap. Her grandsonapparently a new childnow needed my work.
I closed my eyes, feeling the old wound reopen. Margaret, I must refuse, I said, my voice steady, free of anger, only quiet dignity. There was a stunned silence on the other end. What do you mean refuse? Ill pay any price! she pressed.
Its not about the price, I replied calmly. A few years ago you told me my son was no longer your grandson, that you erased him from your life without a thought for the boy. I remember every second of that call. I have built my life and my business from scratch, pouring skill and love into each piece, especially for my child. My brand is Mums Warmth, and I cannot, in good conscience, create a garment for a family that discarded a human being so callously.
I paused, letting the weight of my words sink in. My son, the one you called no longer your grandson, sits in the next room drawing. Hes talented, kind, and hes everything I have. Keep your money; perhaps itll buy you a conscience, though I doubt it. All the best. I hung up without waiting for a reply. My hands trembled slightly, but my heart felt light. This wasnt revenge; it was justice.
I slipped the door ajar and peeked into Olivers room. He was hunched over a sketch, oblivious to me. His drawings covered the wallbright, full of light and life. I smiled. Yes, we are okay, and well be even better. I turned back to the kitchen, set the kettle on, and prepared for another ordinary evening of quiet happiness, crafted by my own hands. The ghosts of the past have no room here.
