«No! I said no! Can you hear me? Were not changing a thing. Dad built that porch with his own hands, hammered every nail himself!»
«Christopher, please understandits rotting away!» Emily Wilson pressed the phone so hard against her ear it ached. «The floorboards are giving in, the roof leaks. Its dangerous! Victor says we could carefully take it apart and»
«Victor! That Victor again!» Her sons voice turned as rough as sandpaper. «Whats it to him? He just wants to tear everything down and rebuild. Easy when its not his memory. Mum, its not just a porchits Dad!»
«Chris, love, what kind of memory is it if its about to collapse?» Her voice trembled, tears threatening. «Were doing this for youso you and Lucy can come, so your children one day»
«There wont be any children on your new porch!» he snapped. «I wont set foot in that cottage again if you touch so much as a plank. Ive got to go.»
The dial tone cut like a verdict. Emily lowered the phone onto the kitchen table, the emptiness in her chest tightening like a vice. Outside, the golden leaves of the oak swayed, but the world felt as grey as her heart.
Victor appeared in the doorway, tall and silver-haired, reading glasses perched on his nose, a book in hand. One look at her face, and he understood.
«Again?» he murmured, setting the book aside.
She nodded, words failing her. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, and the warmth of him, the familiar scent of aftershave and something uniquely his, finally broke her. Silent tears soaked his checkered shirt.
«Emily, love, dont» He stroked her hair. «You shouldnt have called. You know how it ends.»
«But the cottage» She hiccuped. «Hell never forgive us if we change it. But we *have* toits falling apart.»
«To hell with the cottage. Well manage. *You* matter. Look what this is doing to you.»
Theyd met two years ago at a school reunion. Shed gone reluctantly, nudged by her friend Margaret. 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 new lines by her eyes, her boy becoming a man.
Then he moved out. Found a flat with Lucy, and the house turned hollow. Silence pressed on her ears at night. She tried yoga, took up knitting, reread every book on the shelfbut the loneliness clung.
That evening, Victor had approached her. A quiet boy from the back row, now a confident maths professor at the local university. Also widowed. They talked all nightshared films, autumn walks, the aching need for warmth.
Their romance grew slowly. Walks, theatre dates, long talks in a café by the park. She felt herself thawing, learning to live again.
When things turned serious, she told Christopher. His reaction had been calm.
«Mum, youre an adult,» hed said, stirring sugar into his tea. «If he makes you happy, Im glad.»
Shed been overjoyed. A year later, she and Victor married quietlyjust close friends, Margaret and her husband, Victors sister, and of course, Christopher and Lucy.
Thats when everything shattered.
Christopher spent the evening stormy-faced, barely speaking, ignoring Victor outright. When toasts were made, he raised his glass, staring at the wall.
«To Dad. A real man. The best father. No one replaces him. *Ever.*»
The room fell awkwardly silent. Lucy tugged his sleeve, whispering urgently, but he brushed her off. Heat flooded Emilys cheeks. Victor squeezed her hand under the tablethe only thing stopping her from crying.
After the wedding, Christopher stopped calling. Entirely. At first, she told herself he was busy. She rang him. Conversations were clipped. *»How are you?» «Fine.» «Anything new?» «No.» «Come for Sunday roast? Your favourite pudding?» «Maybe. Probably not. Got to go.»*
Then he stopped answering. Texts went unread. The final blow was her birthday. She cooked a feast, waited like she had when he was small. He never came. Not even a calljust a courier with chrysanthemums and a generic card. No note.
That night, she finally confessed her pain to Victor.
«I dont know what I did wrong,» she whispered on the sofa. «He *said* he was happy for me. What changed?»
«Hes grieving, Emily,» Victor said softly, watching the electric fireplace. «Grieving your new life. And grieving *me*thinking Im replacing his dad.»
«But thats *madness*! No one replaces 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.»
Time passed. Nothing changed. The wall between them grew thicker. Emily lost weight, barely slept. Every ring of the phone sent her heart racingalways someone else.
The cottage argument was another wound. That place was their sanctuary. James built it himself. After he died, she and Christopher spent every summer there. He knew every corner, every apple tree his father planted. Now, Victors suggestion to repair the crumbling porch felt like sacrilege.
«Maybe I should go to him?» she asked, pulling away from Victor. «Talk face to face.»
«Not now,» he said gently. «Hes too raw. Give him space.»
She obeyed, but the ache didnt fade. Days later, Margaret called.
«Em! Youve gone quiet. Everything alright?»
«Not really.» She sighed. «Christopher.»
She recounted the call. Margaret clicked her tongue.
«Selfish boy, thats what he is. Grown but not grown *up*. Youre happy, and he sulks. Ridiculous!»
«Meg, dont. Hes not selfish. He adored his dad.»
«So what? We all did! Life *goes on*! You raised him alone, gave him everything. Now youve finally got love, and he throws tantrums? Victors a *saint* putting up with this!»
«Victor understands. Says we must wait.»
«Wait till doomsday, then.» Margaret huffed. «Listen, have you spoken to Lucy? Maybe she can talk sense into him.»
It was a good idea. Lucy had always been kind. Hands shaking, Emily dialled.
«Hello? Emily? Ohhi!» Lucy sounded surprised.
«Lucy, love, sorry to bother you. Is this a good time?»
«Of course! Is everything okay?»
«I just wanted to ask. How is Christopher?»
A pause.
«Were fine. Busy with work.»
«Ive calledhe wont answer. Is he upset with me?»
Another silence. Then a sigh.
«Emily hes not upset. Hes struggling.»
«Struggling? Why?»
«He thinks youve betrayed Dads memory,» Lucy blurted, then backtracked. «I meanhe *feels* that way. Like you moved on too fast, replaced him.»
«*Fast?*» Emilys breath caught. «Ten years is *fast*? Lucy, I grieved! I talked to his photo every night! I raised Christopher alone! Dont I get to *live*?»
«I *know*! I tell him that! We fight about it constantly. I say you deserve happiness, that Victors goodbut he wont listen. Says I dont understand because my dads alive. Hes *stuck*. Keeps Dads photo on his deskjust stares at it. Hes torturing himself.»
«Oh God» Emily whispered. «What do I do?»
«I dont know,» Lucy admitted. «Nothing gets through. Maybe time?»
The call left Emily worse than before. Now she knew: her son wasnt just sulkinghe was in pain. And shed caused it. That evening, she sat staring at a framed photoyoung, smiling James embracing her, little Christopher beside him with a fishing rod. A lifetime ago.
«James,» she whispered. «What do I do? Talk to him. Youre his father. Tell him hes wrong.»
Christophers birthday loomedtwenty-eight. She saw it as a chance. Baked his favourite honey cake, bought the expensive jumper hed once admired.
«Are you sure about this?» Victor asked as she packed the cake.
«Yes,» she said firmly. «Im his mother. I wont miss his birthday.»
She went alone. Knew the address. Climbed to the third floor, heart in her throat. Rang the bell. Silence. Rang again. Nothing. The door stayed locked.
She waited ten minutes. Then called his phone. Long rings. Thena vibration *behind the door*. He was home. Feet away. Choosing not to answer.
Tears spilled. She pressed her forehead to the cold wood.
«Chris please. I brought cake. Your favourite»
Still nothing.
She left in a daze. The cake box weighed a ton. On a bench outside, she wept, uncaring of passersby. Humiliated. Broken.
At home, Victor met her at the door. Asked nothing. Took the box, held her, led her inside.
«Enough,» he said firmly, tucking a blanket around her. «No more humiliation. Youve done all you can. If he wont, thats his choice. Live for *us* now.»
So she tried. Stopped calling. Stopped waiting. She and Victor took trips, saw friends. She laughed, smiledbut every ring still made her heart lurch.
Autumn faded into winter. Before New Year, she crackedcalled Lucy.
«Lucy, love. Sorry to bother you. Any plans for New Year? Fancy visiting?»
«Hi, Emily.» Lucy sounded drained. «Thanks, but were seeing my parents.»
«Right. Hows Chris?»
«Fine. Working.»
«Tell him Never mind. Happy New Year.»
She hung up. Victor, listening, hugged her.
«Lets go to the cottage for New Years,» he suggested. «Light the fire, trim the tree. Just us.»
«What about the porch?»
«Itll hold. Spring will comewell figure it out.»
The cottage welcomed them with snow and silence. Victor lit the fire; warmth seeped into the rooms. They decorated a small tree, made roast dinner, popped champagne. At midnight, Emily wished for one thing: her sons forgiveness.
Life settled. She learned to live with the hurt, like a chronic ache.
Then, one evening during a film, her phone rang. Unknown number.
«Hello?»
«Emily? Its Lucy.» Her voice was strained.
«Lucy? Whats wrong?»
«Weve split up. Me and Chris.»
«*What?* Why?»
«I cant do it anymore,» Lucy whispered, near tears. «Hes unbearable. Angry, shut down. I tried*God*, I tried. But he pushes me away. Tonight, I packed my things. He didnt even stop me.»
«Oh, love Where will you go?»
«A friends. EmilyI called to say Its not you. Its *him*. Hes drowning in the past. Until he faces it, hell never be happy. Im sorry.»
The line went dead. Emily sat stunned. Heartbroken for Lucyand terrified for Christopher. Alone in his shell of grief.
«What happened?» Victor muted the TV.
She told him. He was silent a long moment.
«You have to go to him,» he said finally.
«Buthe wont answer.»
«He will now,» Victor said firmly. «Hes alone. At rock bottom. He needs his mothernot as a judge, just *hers*. Go. Dont leave until you talk.»
The next day, she stood at his door again. A pot of hot chicken soup in her hands. Rang the bell. Silence. Rang again.
Thenfootsteps. The lock clicked.
The door opened a crack, still chained. One bloodshot eye met hers.
«Mum?» His voice was hoarse.
«Its me, love. Let me in?»
He stared. Then slowly unchained the door.
The flat smelled of stale air and loneliness. She set the soup on the table.
«I brought you something hot. You need to eat.»
He lingered in the doorway, watching her.
«Why are you here?»
«Lucy called.»
He flinched.
«Of course. Came to gloat?»
«She wasnt complaining. Shes worried. So am I.»
She moved to hug himhe stepped back.
«Dont.»
«Chris, *talk* to me,» she begged. «What did I do wrong? Why do you hate me? My happiness?»
«I dont *hate* you,» he muttered, turning to the window. «I dont *understand*. How you could. So *fast*.»
«*Fast?*» The word cut anew. «Chris, I slept with his photo for *ten years*! I raised you alone! I kept his memory alive! And then I chose to *live*. Is that a crime?»
«And him?» He whirled, tears brimming. «Dad? You just*erased* him. Replaced him.»
«*No one* replaced him!» Her voice broke. «Hell always be in my heart! Hes your *father*! But I *love* Victor! He saved me from loneliness, from drowning! He makes me *happy*! Cant you want that for me?»
«I *cant*!» he shouted back. «When I see you togetherlaughing, holding handsit feels like *betrayal*! That cottage was *his*! His dream, his hands! And now some *stranger*»
«Hes *not* a stranger! Hes my *husband*!»
They stood breathless, divided by fury and grief.
«I thought after he died, it was just us,» Chris whispered, ragged. «That wed stick together. But you found someone else. And Im *alone*.»
Then she *understood*.
He wasnt jealous. He was *afraid*. Afraid shed forget him too.
She pulled him into her arms, ignoring his resistance. Her grown, broken boy.
«Oh, my love,» she murmured into his unkempt hair. «How could you think Id leave you? Youre my *son*. No one could ever take your place. *Ever.*»
He stiffenedthen crumpled against her, sobbing into her shoulder. She held him, crying with him, for all the pain and the love too vast for words.
They talked until midnight. She served him soup; he ate silently as she spokeof her loneliness, her fear, how Victor had brought her back to life. He listened.
As she left, he stopped her at the door.
«Mum Im sorry.»
«Im sorry too, love.»
She knew it wasnt over. Acceptance would take time. But the wall had cracked. Her son had come back to her.
