My son hasnt called for three months. I told myself he must just be busy at work. Eventually, I travelled to see him without warning. A stranger opened the door and told me shed been living there for half a year.
If I hadnt boarded that coach to Manchester that day, I probably would have clung to the lie for far longer, comforting myself that David was just caught up in life.
That it was work, a new project, the way young people areliving fast and forgetting to ring their mothers. But I went. And what I found at the threshold of his flat turned my world upside down.
It all started quietly enough. He used to call on Sundays, usually around midday, between my roast and his morning cup of tea. Sometimes hed drop a text midweekasking after my blood pressure, if Id been to the GP, or whether Mrs Jenkins downstairs was still making a racket. Little everyday things. After Tom died, those calls became everything to me. The one thing I could rely on.
Sixty-one years old, four years a widow, thirty-two years working for the city councils planning office, and then suddenly retirement: an empty flat and suffocating silence, broken only by that weekly phone call.
In May, David stopped calling.
At first, I didnt worry. The first week, I thought he must have forgotten. I sent a text. He replied: Swamped with work, will call you soon. He didnt. The second weekanother text. All okay, Mum, catch up soon. The third weeksilence. I tried phoning. He didnt answer, would only respond with brief messages hours later, as if someone else was texting on his behalf.
My friend Margaret from the yoga class at the community centre said straightforwardly,
Evelyn, go see him. Somethings not right.
Maybe he has a girlfriend he doesnt want to tell me about, I defended himthough really I was convincing myself.
Then he should at least call, she shrugged.
But I kept putting it off. David never liked surprises. Even when Tom was still alive and we once turned up unannounced, he looked so put-out, as if wed caught him doing something terrible when really the kitchen was just a mess. Hed always needed his space. I thought I understood thator at least told myself I did.
By August, I couldnt bear it any longer. I bought a coach ticket from York to Manchestera three-hour journey. I packed a jar of my homemade strawberry jam and a box of my baked cheesecake: David always loved it since he was at school. All the way there, I rehearsed what Id say. That I miss him. That he doesnt have to call every day, but once a week isnt too much to ask. That Im his mum, not a burden.
I reached the stairwell about three in the afternoon. Third floor, door on the right, brown doormat with Welcome on itthe one Id bought him for his housewarming.
There was no doormat.
Just a plain grey mat, no writing. I knocked. A woman answeredyoung, about thirty, short dark hair in a bob, wearing joggers and holding a mug of tea.
Hello, Im looking for David Harrison, I said, still composed.
She narrowed her eyes.
Theres no David here. Ive been living here for six months.
I stood there, cheesecake in hand, jar of jam under my arm, unable to breathe. The womanEmily, as she told meinvited me in, probably because I looked like Id faint any second.
The flat was different. New furniture, new curtainseven the walls repainted. Nothing I remembered remained. Not a trace of my son.
Emily said shed taken the flat through a letting agency. Shed never met the landlord, all done through an agent. She gave me their number. I rang straight away, from her sofa, the very spot David had sat on not long ago.
The agent confirmedDavid Harrison sublet the flat in February. No, he hadnt left a forwarding address. Yes, the rent came in on time, from a UK account.
I took the last coach back to York. I didnt cry. I was too stunned to cry. My only sonthe one who held my hand at Toms funeral, who helped me fill in my tax return, who promised, Mum, you can always count on mehad moved out, let his flat to a stranger, and didnt say a word to me.
For three days, I didnt call. I waited for him to ring me. He didnt.
On the fourth day, I sent a brief message: I went to Manchester. I know you dont live on Oak Avenue. Please ring.
He called an hour later. For the first time in months, I heard his voicenot a voicemail.
Mum, I Im sorry. I should have told you.
Where are you?
Silence. A long, heavy pause.
Im in Edinburgh. Ive been here since March.
I sat down at the kitchen table. Outside, my neighbour hung out washing on the balcony. The world looked normal. Mine was coming apart.
David talked for a long time. That after Dad died, he felt overwhelmed. That my calls, my questions about the doctor, my care packagesthat it was all too much. He didnt know how to tell me, because he knew it would hurt. So, he chose the worst wayescape.
I felt like if I didnt leave, Id suffocate, he whispered. Not because of you, Mum. Because I felt I had to step in for Dad, to fill that gap.
I wanted to shout. To say I never asked that of him. But as I closed my eyes and thought honestly, I remembered every Sunday call, every time I told him about my day, every appointment, every billas though he were my husband, not my son.
I didnt say it out loud. I wasnt ready.
Come home for Christmas, I said at last.
I will, Mum.
I hung up and sat alone in my kitchen for a long time. The cheesecake Id carried to Manchester was still on the counter, untouched. I ate a slice by myself. It tasted good. It always did.
David came home in December. He sat opposite me at Christmas dinnerin Toms place, but not to replace him. As an adult whod done something hurtful for his own reasons. We didnt talk about Edinburgh over pudding. Maybe we will one day. Maybe not.
Sometimes Margaret asks if Ive forgiven him. I dont have an answer. I only know that now, when he calls on Sundaysand he doesI try to keep it brief. I ask more about his life and tell him less about mine. It isnt much, but its a start.
Sometimes, the greatest act of love a mother can give her grown-up child is to let them goeven if she was never shown how.
