Margaret Clarke stood in the kitchen, phone pressed to her ear, the tremor in her voice betraying a deep hurt. Her son, Anthony, had promised to call yesterday and never did.
Mum, Im sorry, Ive been swamped at work. I havent had a moment to phone.
Anthony, you could at least send a text! Ive been waiting all evening!
Im thirtytwo, Mum. Im not a child who has to report his every move.
Margaret fell silent. Anthony had never spoken to her like that before. Hed always been attentive, caringcalling daily, visiting at weekends, helping around the house.
Fine, she whispered. Im sorry for bothering you.
No problem. Listen, I wanted to tell you something. Ill be back on Saturday, but I wont be alone.
Who with? Margarets heart jumped.
My girlfriend. Id like you to meet her. Her name is Poppy.
A girlfriend? Anthony, are you serious?
Very serious, Mum. Weve been together for six months.
Margaret sank onto a chair. Six months and hed never mentioned her. Hed always shared everything, now he was keeping secrets.
Why didnt you say anything before?
I wanted to be sure it was genuine. Now Im certain. So expect us on Saturday around lunch.
Alright, Ill be waiting.
When he hung up, Margaret clutched the handset for a long while. A girlfriend at lastshe had been waiting for this moment for years.
Margaret lived alone in a modest twobedroom flat on the outskirts of Manchester. Her husband had died fifteen years ago of a heart attack, leaving her to raise Anthony by herself while juggling two jobs and scrimping for every penny. She had saved enough to give her son a decent education.
Anthony had grown up bright and diligent. He earned a firstclass degree in engineering, landed a wellpaid software job at a major firm, and moved into a sleek flat in the city centre. Margaret swelled with pride.
On Saturday she rose early, scrubbing the flat till it shone, polishing every pot, washing the curtains. She then headed to the local market, buying meat, vegetables and fruit. Anthony adored her mince pies with mashed potatoes, and she baked his favourite apple crumble.
By one oclock the house was ready. The table was set with a crisp white cloth, fine china, and her best dress was on. She applied a touch of red lipstick, did her hair, and waited.
A knock sounded precisely at two. She smoothed her apron, brushed a stray hair away, and opened the door.
Standing there was Anthony in an expensive suit, beside him a tall, slender woman in a designer dress and high heels. Her hair was styled in an elaborate updo, makeup flawlessshe was strikingly beautiful.
Mum, hello! Anthony embraced his mother. This is Poppy.
Hello, Poppy said, extending a gloved hand, rings sparkling on her fingers.
Please, come in.
They entered the sitting room. Margaret offered seats and a chance to slip off shoes. Poppys gaze lingered momentarily on the faded wallpaper, the threadbare carpet, the worn armchair.
What a cozy little flat, she said with a strained smile.
Thank you, dear. Its modest but tidy.
They all sat down. Margaret began serving the food, describing each dish. Anthony ate heartily, praising everything. Poppy poked at her cutlet, taking tiny bites.
Is it good? Margaret asked.
Its fine. I normally avoid fried foods; I watch my figure, you know.
Youre already so slim!
Its the result of training with a personal coach five times a week.
Margaret nodded, thinking of her own finances, barely covering utilities and food.
Poppy, what do you do? she asked.
I dont work the traditional way. I run a chain of beauty salonsthree branches across the city.
Impressive!
My father helped open the first one; Ive built the rest myself.
And your parents?
Father owns a construction firm; mother devotes herself to charity work.
Margaret realized she was looking at a world of wealth, opportunity, and influencea stark contrast to her humble pensioner life.
Mum, how are you doing? Anthony asked. Any health issues?
My blood pressure spikes now and then, but the meds keep it in check.
Right. Theres something else. Poppy and I have decided to get married.
Margarets cup froze in her hand.
Married? When?
In three months. Were booking a restaurant for about a hundred and fifty guests.
Onefifty? she gasped. Thats an enormous bill!
Dont worry, Mum. Poppys parents are footing the entire cost. They have the connections to organise everything.
The venue? Poppy chimed. My father secured the citys top restaurant, with a live band, fireworks, the works.
Margaret stared at her son, hardly recognizing the confident man in the costly suit speaking of a lavish wedding.
Can I help at all? she offered.
No, Mum, everythings taken care of.
Perhaps I could bake extra pies for the guests?
Poppy smiled politely. We have a professional catering team.
Maybe I could help with the invitations?
Its all set, Mum. Just be there and enjoy yourself.
Margaret nodded, her throat tight with bitterness, yet managing a smile.
After lunch, Poppy excused herself to the bathroom. Margaret showed her the way; when Poppy returned, her expression was sour.
Anthony, we must be off. I have a meeting with the designer in an hour.
Already? Weve just arrived!
I said I wont linger.
Anthony gave his mother a guilty look. Sorry, Mum, we really have to go.
Of course, thank you both for coming.
When they left, Margaret sat at the table, staring at the untouched dishes. She had poured her heart into the meal, and they ate only a little before racing off.
The phone rang. It was her longtime friend Helen.
Margaret, love, hows everything? Did your son come?
He did, introduced his fiancée.
How is she?
Beautiful, wealthycompletely out of my world.
How did she treat you?
She seemed polite, but I sensed she disliked my little flat. She kept frowning.
Ah, the rich never understand the simple folk.
She likes him, though. He keeps saying theyll marry.
Thats lovely. May he be happy.
Happy as long as he is.
A week passed without a call from Anthony. Margaret tried again and again; each time he was busy with meetings, trips, or Poppy. Finally, after another week, he called.
Mum, hello. How are you?
Good, Anthony. And you?
Great. We just visited Poppys parents country housean entire estate. They welcomed us warmly; her mother is wonderful.
Margarets hand tightened around the receiver.
Im glad for you, son.
I have to run. Talk later.
Wait! Could you come over this weekend? Ill make your favourite beet soup.
Cant, Mum. We have plans to pick out wedding rings.
May I come with you?
Thats personal. Well manage.
Alright, good luck then.
When the call ended, Margaret stared out the window at the grey courtyard, feeling her son slipping into a world where there was no place for his mother in a faded dress.
Helen dropped by that evening with scones.
Here, have a bite. Youve lost weight.
Thanks, Helen.
They sat with tea.
You look down, Margaret. Is it because of Anthony?
Hes forgotten me, Helen. He used to call every day; now weeks pass without a word.
Hes in love, thats all. Itll pass.
Or maybe that girl is turning him against me?
Hes clever, hell come around.
Hes not a boy any more. Hes not even mine.
Helen placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. Blood is blood, love. You cant lose that.
I wish I could believe it.
Months drifted. The wedding loomed, two months away. Anthony finally delivered an invitation.
Here, Mum, the card. Ceremony at three, then the banquet.
Margaret examined the embossed invitation, the couples names in gold, the address of the restaurant.
Its beautiful. What should I wear?
Whatever you like.
I thought of buying something new, to look presentable.
Anthony shrugged. Do what you want. It wont matter.
How will I know where to sit?
Poppys handling the seating. Shell let you know.
Poppy never called. Margaret phoned again, but Anthony was always occupied. The wedding plans consumed him.
A week before the big day, Poppy finally called.
Mrs. Clarke? This is Poppy.
Hello, dear. How are you?
Im calling about seating. Youll be at table twelve.
Twelve? Where is that?
In the far corner, with distant relatives and friends of Anthony.
Why not at the main table? Im the bridegrooms mother!
Poppy paused.
The head table will have Anthony, me, my parents, and our closest relatives.
I gave you life! I raised him!
Mrs. Clarke, please dont cause a scene. The seating is set. Table twelve is final.
Margaret hung up, phone still trembling in her hand. She dialed Anthony.
Mum, Im in a meeting, cant talk.
Anthony, your fiancée just told me Ill be stuck in the corner like a stranger!
Does it matter which table?
It matters! Im your mother; I should be beside you!
The parents are paying for everything, they decide.
Then Im nothing?
Please, dont overreact. Ive got enough stress.
He ended the call. Margaret sank into a chair, the number twelve echoing in her mind, a reminder that she was being pushed to the edge of the room.
Helen arrived later, finding Margaret in tears.
What happened?
Margaret explained the seating fiasco.
Thats outrageous! How can they treat you like that?
They can, and Anthony backs them up.
Are you going to stay silent?
What can I do? Argue? Then hed cut me out completely.
Maybe you shouldnt go to the wedding at all?
How could I not? Hes my son.
A son who disrespects his own mother.
Margaret wiped her tears. Ill still go. Its his wedding after all.
The wedding day dawned bright. Margaret rose early, did her hair, and put on her best dressan old frock bought five years ago, the only one she owned that felt suitable.
Helen escorted her to a black cab.
Stay strong, Tom. Youve raised him alone; you deserve his love.
Thank you, Helen.
The restaurant was opulent: crystal chandeliers, white tablecloths, flowers everywhere. Margaret felt like a moth among butterflies.
She found table twelve at the far end, already occupied by a few distant acquaintances and a relative of Poppys. A woman from Poppys side asked, Who are you?
Im the grooms mother.
Really? Usually mothers sit at the head table.
Thats how its arranged, Margaret replied shortly.
The newlyweds entered to applause, Anthony in a crisp white suit, Poppy in a stunning gown, both surrounded by glittering jewellery. They took the main table, flanked by Poppys affluent parents and siblings. There was no room for Margaret.
The banquet began, entertainers performed, music swelled. Margaret sat alone, feeling like a ghost at her own sons celebration. Anthony never glanced her way, too busy with guests and his new family.
She waited for a pause, approached the head table.
Congratulations, my son! she offered a small wrapped gift.
He accepted it without opening, placing it among the other presents.
Thank you, Mum, he said briefly.
Poppy, may we have a photo?
Later, Im busy.
Poppy placed a hand on his shoulder. We have guests to greet.
Im off, Mum, sorry.
Margaret stood alone, watching the room buzz around her, realizing she had become an afterthought.
Later, a distant aunt whispered, Dont worry, dear. Weddings are stressful. The groom is occupied. Margaret nodded, but inside she felt the sting of being hidden.
When the evening ended, Margaret slipped out unnoticed. The staff were busy with guests; Anthony didnt see his mother leave.
At home, Helen waited with tea.
How did it go?
Beautiful, lavish. I was just unnecessary.
Completely unnecessary?
He never even came near me.
Helen hugged her. Dont cry, Tom. Hell remember you.
He should.
Silence settled.
Weeks after the ceremony, Anthony still didnt call. Margaret tried, but he answered only with curt Im busy or not at all. One day she finally heard from him.
Mum, hello.
Anthony! At last! Ive been waiting.
Sorry, were on our honeymoon in the Maldives.
The Maldives! How wonderful! How was it?
Great. Listen, Mum, I need to tell you something. Weve moved into a threebedroom flat the developers built for us.
Thats fantastic! Where is it?
He hesitated.
Ill tell you when the renovations are finished.
I can help with cleaning, windows, floors!
No, we have a cleaning service.
At least give me the address.
When its ready, Ill let you know. I have to go now.
He hung up, leaving Margaret staring at the silent screen, her heart tightening. He never gave her the address.
Months passed, his calls became biweekly, always brief, always about work. Margaret tried to share her own life, but Anthonys interest waned.
One Saturday, determined, Margaret packed a tin of her apple crumble and went to Anthonys office in a glass tower in the City of London. She found the reception.
Good afternoon, Im here to see Anthony Clarke.
Do you have an appointment?
Im his mother.
The receptionist raised an eyebrow.
One moment, please.
After a brief call, she returned, Mr. Clarke is in a meeting and cant be disturbed.
But Im his mother!
Hes occupied. He cant step out.
Margaret stood there, the crumble box heavy in her hands, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks. The receptionist offered, Would you like to leave a note?
No, thank you.
She left the building, the elevator doors closing behind her. Tears slipped down her cheeks as she realized her son was refusing to see her.
Back home, she tossed the crumble into the bin and lay on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. What had she done wrong? Where had she erred?
Helen arrived that evening, eyes widening at Margarets dishevelled state.
What happened?
He wouldnt see me, Helen. My own son turned his back.
Helen brewed strong tea, and they talked into the night about love, pride, and the painful gaps that grow between generations.
Soon after, a knock sounded at Margarets door. It was Poppy, pale and clutching a small bundle.
Mrs. Clarke? Hello.
Hello, Poppy.
Poppys eyes were red; she was visibly pregnant.
Youre expecting? Margaret asked.
Yes, five months.
Congratulations.
Thank you. May I speak with you?
About what?
About Anthony. About us.
They sat in a nearby café, sipping tea.
Hes become distant, withdrawn. I argue, he shrugs.
Why tell me?
Because youre his mother. I thought you might know something.
I havent seen him in months.
Poppys voice broke. Its my fault. I thought money and status would make us happy. I pushed him away from his roots. Now hes closed off, even from his own mother.
I cant fix this. Its between you two.
Could you call him? Talk?
I told him last time Id wait until he wanted to reach out. Its been half a year; he hasnt.
Hes proud! Hes angry at my honesty!
Hes angry at the truth.
Poppy dabbed her eyes. My child will be born, but will I ever meet him? Will you?
If he wishes, Ill be there. If not I wont force it.
They part, and Margaret returned home, staring out the window, thinking of a grandson shed never meet.
Months later, Helen told her that Poppy had given birth to a boy named Daniel.
Congratulations, Grandma! Helen exclaimed, hugging her.
Thank you, Margaret managed a smile through tears. I never saw him.
Anthony still doesnt call?
No.
Maybe you should call? Send congratulations?
No, Helen. I promised myself I wouldnt make the firstShe finally found peace in the quiet rhythm of her garden, knowing that love could linger even when voices fell silent.
