Edward got into his car after work, about to drive home, when his phone rang. An unknown number. He sighed and hit answer.
“Hello. Who’s this?”
“It’s me… Hi,” replied a woman’s voice, shaky and unfamiliar.
“Who’s *me*?” Edward tensed. “Identify yourself.”
A pause. Then, barely a whisper:
“It’s me… your mum.”
Edward froze. His grip tightened on the steering wheel, his heart pounding.
“What kind of joke is this? My mother died twenty-nine years ago!”
“No… I’m Margaret. I gave birth to you. Edward, it’s really me…”
He hung up. His pulse raced, palms damp. It felt like someone had wrenched open a door to the past—a past he’d buried long ago.
Minutes later, the phone rang again. Same number.
“I don’t want to hear you,” he said sharply. “I don’t have a mother. The woman who birthed me left when I was nine. I grew up an orphan.”
“Just five minutes. Please…”
“Why? To hear more lies?”
“Just meet me. Once. I’ll explain everything.”
Edward didn’t want to. But he knew she wouldn’t stop. She’d find his address, show up at his door, frighten his wife and daughters.
Two days later, they met in a park on the outskirts of Leeds.
Margaret Wilson sat on a bench, hunched and aged but still clinging to traces of old elegance. Her hands trembled.
“Hello, Eddie…”
“Edward,” he corrected coldly.
She looked up—despair in her eyes.
“I know I failed you… But I had no choice…”
He said nothing. Memories flashed—her screaming, throwing plates, leaving him alone for nights while she went out.
“You dumped me at Aunt Rose’s. Said you’d be back in a month. Then you ran off to Spain with some bloke.”
“I thought he’d help us both… But he refused to take you. And I—”
“You chose him. Over me.”
She sniffled.
“I’ve got no one left. My husband’s dead, his kids kicked me out. No home, no money. I’m alone.”
“Feeling sorry for yourself?” He tilted his head. “Who did I have to pity *me* at nine?”
“Forgive me… I didn’t know how to ask. I kept waiting for you to find me…”
“You never even sent a birthday card. Not once.”
Silence. Then, barely audible:
“You still turned out kind… You grew up good.”
“I grew up because of people you hated. Aunt Rose. My wife. My mates. Not because of *you*.”
She reached for his hand. He pulled away.
“I don’t hate you. But you’re nothing to me. Not even a stranger. Just empty air.”
“I’m dying…” she whispered.
“Then confess. But not to me.”
He stood and walked off without looking back.
For the first time in years, his chest felt light. The past was finally gone. And life—life went on.
