Dont come now, I heard my son say, his voice echoing through the mist of the dream. The road is long, the night train never ends, and youre not as spry as you used to be. Besides, you have the garden to tend in the spring.
I pressed my fingers to my cheek, feeling the thin veil of night. Alex, why not? Its been ages since we saw each other. I want to meet your wife, to get to know the daughterinlaw a little better, as they say.
He chuckled, a sound that rippled like water. Alright, then. Lets wait until the end of the month. Well all come to you during the Easter holidaystherell be plenty of days off.
Truth be told, I had already packed my suitcase, ready to set off, but his soothing words made me stay. I waited at home, the clock ticking in a rhythm that felt like a heartbeat. The days slipped past, and no one arrived. I called Alex several times; his line rang into silence, then he called back, breathless, saying he was too busy and I shouldnt wait for him.
A cold sorrow settled over me. I had been preparing a feast for Alexs arrival with his wife, whom he had married six months ago, yet I had never laid eyes on her. I had given birth to Alex when I was thirty, never marrying anyone else. I chose to have a child on my own, a decision that never haunted me, even when money was scarce and we survived on the edge of poverty. I juggled three jobs, just to make sure my son never wanted for anything.
When Alex left for university in London, I began taking seasonal work in the Midlands, sending him the modest sums I could scrape together for his tuition and rent. My heart swelled each time I could help him. By his third year he was earning his own keep, and after graduation he found a job and supported himself. He visited home only once a year, and I, a woman from Sheffield, had never set foot in London.
When the thought of his wedding entered his voice, I started stashing away money£2,000, enough for a modest celebration. Six months ago, Alex called with the longawaited news: he was getting married.
Mother, dont travel, he warned. Were only signing the papers now; the ceremony will be later. I felt a sting of disappointment, but I accepted. He introduced his fiancée to me over a video call. She was strikingtall, goldenhaired, and clearly from a wealthy family. Her father, a magnate in the City, would soon be my sons fatherinlaw. All I could do was rejoice at his good fortune.
Months drifted by, and still Alex never came, never invited me over. My longing to hug my son and finally meet his wife grew unbearable. I bought a train ticket, packed homecooked foodfresh bread, a few jars of jam, some potatoes and beetrootthen called Alex before boarding.
Are you sure, Mum? he asked, halfasleep. Im at work; I cant meet you. Heres the addressjust flag down a cab.
The train hissed into the capital at dawn. The cab that arrived was pricier than Id imagined, but the early London light painted the streets in gold, and I watched the city glide by through the window. The door swung open and my sons wife greeted me. She didnt smile, didnt hug; she merely gestured toward the kitchen, saying dryly that I could put my things away. Alex had already left for his morning shift.
I unfolded my bags, pulling out potatoes, beetroot, eggs, dried apples, marinated mushrooms, cucumbers, tomatoes, and a few jars of jam. She watched me in silence, then declared that none of this was needed they never cooked, they ordered in every day, and the kitchen was always full of lingering odors.
What do you eat then? I asked, bewildered.
We have deliveries, daily. I dont like cooking; the smell lingers like a ghost, she replied, her name echoing in my mindGwendolyn.
Before I could recover from her cold words, a small boy, about three, toddled into the kitchen.
This is my son, Daniel, Gwendolyn announced.
Daniel? I repeated, surprised.
No, Daniel, she corrected, a flicker of irritation in her eyes. I dont like it when names get twisted.
Very well, Daniel, I said, trying to stay calm. Im Maggie.
Im not Ilona, she snapped. Im Gwendolyn. In London nobody twists names, but perhaps youre used to something else
Tears welled up, not because Alex had a wife and a childthough that hurtbut because he had never mentioned any of this to me. The dream thickened, the kitchen walls shifting, and a massive wedding portrait appeared on the plaster.
Oh, the wedding didnt happen? At least you have a beautiful picture, I muttered, trying to change the subject.
It did, Gwendolyn said, measuring me from head to toe. Two hundred guests. You just werent there; Alex told us you were ill. Perhaps thats for the best.
Will you have breakfast? she asked.
I will, I replied, though my stomach protested. She set before me a cup of tea and a few slices of expensive cheese, which she called breakfast. I was accustomed to a hearty morning meal after a nights travel, so I tried to fry an egg on the spot, only to be barredshe claimed the kitchens smell would linger. She refused the bread too, insisting they followed a strict health diet.
I felt a pang of shame, as if I had been rebuked for bringing love to the table. I sipped my tea in silence while Gwendolyn stared. The boy clambered onto my lap, seeking comfort, but she waved her hands, warning that I knew nothing of their world, that a child was not for my meddling. I offered him a jar of raspberry jam, promising it would be a sweet treat for his pancakes.
With a swift motion she snatched the jar from my hand. How many times must I tell you? Were on a proper diet; we dont eat sugar! she shouted.
The world blurred. I felt the urge to sob, but the tea went untouched. I slipped on my shoes, and the house seemed to fold around me. Gwendolyn didnt ask where I was going; she simply watched me disappear down the hallway.
Outside, I settled onto a bench by the station, the tears finally spilling. It felt as if my heart had been ripped open in a way Id never known. After a while, Gwendolyn emerged with the boy, carrying away all my packed provisions, tossing them into a trash bin.
Wordlessly, I gathered what was left, slung my bags over my shoulder, and made my way back to the platform. Someone had handed me a spare ticket, allowing me to catch the evening train. By the stations canteen I bought a bowl of thick soup, a slice of roast beef, potatoes, and a side salad. I paid more than I thought I could afford, but I reminded myself that I deserved a decent meal.
I stored my remaining bags in a locker, granting myself a few hours to wander the streets of London. The city, with its foggy bridges and bustling markets, seemed almost friendly, and for a moment I lost myself in its rhythm.
The night train rattled on, and I could not sleep. I wept, remembering how Alex had never called to ask where I was, how he had let me drift alone. I had hoped that summer snow would soften my sorrow, but instead I felt a hollow that no season could fill. My only son, the one Id placed all my hopes upon, had become a stranger.
Now, as I lie awake, I wonder what to do with the £2,000 I saved for his wedding. Should I send it back, a silent reminder that a mother still cared? Or keep it, because he never earned it? The dream lingers, a strange, surreal tableau of longing and unspoken farewells.
