Lucy ladled porridge into bowls, swirling a dollop of jam into her son’s portion to make a silly face.
“Boys! Breakfast!” she called, pouring freshly brewed tea into mugs.
Tommy slumped into his chair and scowled at his plate.
“I hate porridge,” he muttered.
“Since when? Oats are good for you. No skating today unless you eat up,” James said, sitting opposite his son. He scooped a spoonful and took a deliberate bite. “Mmm… delicious. Mum’s a proper magician in the kitchen. Trust me, no one makes porridge like her.”
Tommy eyed his dad skeptically before picking up his spoon. When he finished, Lucy cleared his empty bowl and nudged his tea closer.
“Something on your mind?” she asked her husband. “You’ve been miles away lately. Work trouble?”
“I ate all mine. When are we going skating?” Tommy chirped.
“Go play for a bit. Mum and I need to talk,” James said, catching his son’s sulky glance. “Later, I promise.”
For a second, Lucy swore she could read Tommy’s thoughts—weighing whether to cry over postponed plans or stomp off to sulk. She gave him a reassuring nod, mouthing *later*, and he slid off his stool, trudging away with a pout.
Lucy took his seat. “Out with it, then. What’s eating you?”
James spun his mug. “Dunno how to say it. I don’t even understand it myself.”
“Got a mistress? Planning to leave?” she blurted.
James reeled. “Bloody hell, Lucy! Where’d that come from?”
“Well, if it’s not work, what else has you wound up? Yesterday, I asked you to take the bins out. You nodded, then forgot. You’re all over the place. Spit it out—and don’t lie.”
James studied her, then sighed.
“Mum came to see me.” The words seemed to stick in his throat.
Lucy scoffed. “In a dream? What ghostly revelation’s got you in a twist?”
“Not a dream. She’s alive.” He shoved his mug; tea sloshed onto the table. Lucy snatched a sponge and mopped it up.
“She’s dead. Or were you lying this whole time?” she snapped, tossing the sponge into the sink.
“I didn’t lie. She *was* dead to me,” he said, frustration edging his voice.
“Right. Dead, alive—explain. I’m listening.”
James exhaled. “I was ten. Dad drank. They rowed constantly. He was jealous—she was beautiful. Hit her sometimes. She’d cover the bruises, but I saw.”
His voice flattened. “One night, Dad came home smashed. Said she drove him to it. She stayed quiet, which just wound him up. I went to my room, heard shouting. Then a thud—silence. When I came out, Dad was on the floor. Blood from his head. Mum stood over him, hands clapped over her mouth.”
“She shoved me out, said he’d fallen, she’d call an ambulance. But the police came. She left with them, told me to wait for Aunt Margaret—Dad’s sister. Sat there for hours till she showed up.”
James rubbed his temple. “Aunt Marg sobbed, called Mum a murderer. Said I’d live with her now. What could I do? She filled my head with lies about Mum—lovers, cruelty. I screamed that Mum loved Dad, but no one listened. Uncle Geoff said to tell everyone they died in a crash. ‘No one wants a killer’s kid at school,’ he said.”
His jaw tightened. “Mum never came for me. No calls, no letters. I stopped waiting. Aunt Marg fed me, clothed me, but I wasn’t wanted. At sixteen, I nicked a tenner from her purse—don’t even remember why. She slapped me, threatened the care home. Couldn’t wait to leave. Dunno how I didn’t turn out a delinquent.”
He met Lucy’s eyes. “Lied so long about them being dead, I even lied to you. Scared you’d leave if you knew.”
Lucy gripped his hand. “Christ, James… You never saw her again?”
“Not till three days ago. She turned up at my office. Didn’t recognise her, but I *knew*. Didn’t want to talk—still angry she abandoned me, ruined my life. But… her face. We went to a café. Lucy, I’m ashamed to say it, but I’m glad she’s back.”
“Did she… kill him?”
James nodded. “An accident. Dad swung at her; she pushed him. He fell, cracked his head on the table.”
“Prison?”
“Yeah. Bruises on his chest made it look premeditated. Aunt Marg and neighbors testified against her. Said she wrote me letters—Aunt Marg must’ve binned them. One begged to see me. She showed me Aunt Marg’s reply: *He wants nothing to do with a killer.* I never knew. And I never looked for her.”
Lucy swallowed. “Why now?”
“Asked her that. Said she was scared I’d reject her. Tracked me for years—saw me grow up while I never noticed.” He dragged hands through his hair. “Sold her flat, moved here, took cleaning jobs despite her history degree. Thought I’d be ashamed.”
“Where is she now?”
“Works at the local museum. Gives tours sometimes.”
Lucy frowned. “Think I’ve seen her. Outside our building—tall, thin, sad eyes?”
“Yeah. She admitted watching us.”
“And what does she want?” Lucy folded her arms.
“You’re repulsed she killed him, even by accident? She served her time, Lucy. Just wants to know us.”
“What do we tell Tommy? ‘Here’s Granny, back from the dead’?”
James sighed. “We’ll say she lived abroad. Lost touch. But that’s not… I lived *decades* believing she chose to leave. Now I’m ashamed I never looked.”
“I get it. Childhood grudges run deep. But do you *believe* her?”
“Been asking myself that. Yeah, I do.”
“When are you seeing her?”
“Tomorrow. *We* are. Don’t look at me like that. She’s my mum.”
“Maybe go alone first? Prep Tommy properly—”
“You’re right. Let’s skate now. We’ll adjust to… having her around.” He stood abruptly, calling, “Tommy! Skates on—we’re off!”
Left alone, Lucy chewed her lip. That night, sleep eluded her. James, for once, didn’t stir. *And I thought he was having an affair. Bloody idiot.*
Staring at the ceiling, Lucy remembered her own strained bond with her mum—clashes after Dad left, resentments when Mum dated. At fourteen, she’d screamed *I hate you* during a row. Only later did she learn *hate* meant wishing someone dead.
They’d never truly reconciled. Lucy had left for uni, kept calls perfunctory. Now, guilt prickled.
She padded to the kitchen, moonlight glazing the tiles. *James lost his mum and found her. I never lost mine, yet we’re strangers.* The stove clock read 12:30. *Too late to call now. Tomorrow.*
At dawn, as James showered, Lucy dialled.
“Lucy! I was just thinking of you! Is everything alright?” Her mum’s voice wavered between joy and worry.
“Mum, I’m sorry. I love you.”
“Darling, you’re scaring me. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I… I’m pregnant. James doesn’t know yet.”
“Oh, love! Shall I come help?”
“Don’t need to. James’s mum will. She’s… alive. Long story. Love you.” She hung up as the shower stopped.
Porridge bubbled on the hob. *Nerves already*, she realised, steeling herself for the day ahead.
***
We all carry childhood hurts we’re too ashamed to share. We blame our parents, nurse old wounds. They gave us life, yet we tally their faults.
Do we ever ask how *they* feel when the phone never rings?
By the time we muster the courage to apologise, it’s often too late.
No matter how old we get, we’ll always need our mums. Only they understand. Only they forgive.
