It’s All Because of You
“Mrs. Harriet—there was a strange man bothering your Emily on the playground.”
“Bothering her? What do you mean, Sarah? Where is he? Who was it?”
“How should I know? I went over to ask, but he bolted the moment he saw me—vanished before I could get a word in.”
“This doesn’t sit right with me. Emily! Love, come here!”
The five-year-old girl, her pigtails sticking out in all directions, bounded over to Harriet and beamed up at her.
“Mum! I saw the *cutest* puppies!”
Harriet studied her daughter’s face, trying to decipher what had happened while she wasn’t looking. Emily seemed fine, but a mother’s unease lingered.
“Where did you see them? Who showed them to you?”
Emily blinked in surprise, then shrugged.
“No one *showed* me. I saw them myself—three of them! Two black and one with white spots. Come on, I’ll take you!”
Harriet clutched her daughter’s hand.
“Did a man speak to you? What did he say? Did he bother you?”
Emily frowned.
“Mum, what’s got into you? Your lip’s trembling. No one bothered me! A kind man just asked if I knew Harriet Wilson.”
The woman’s heart lurched. *Who could that be? Surely not… him?* Who else would seek her out, knowing her full name?
“What did he look like, this ‘kind’ man?”
Before Emily could answer, Harriet’s phone buzzed. Her husband, James, was calling—she couldn’t ignore it.
“Yes, darling?”
Her mind still raced about the stranger who’d spoken to Emily. She wouldn’t tell James—no need to worry him. Emily had already been sworn to secrecy.
“Don’t upset your father,” she’d explained, and the girl hadn’t questioned it.
That night, Harriet tossed and turned, plagued by insomnia. By morning, a splitting headache left her drained, her thoughts sluggish. Even the slightest movement sent pain flashing behind her eyes. She decided to abandon chores—today was for rest.
“Let’s dine out tonight,” James suggested, and Harriet agreed gratefully.
Her second marriage was nothing like the first. With James, she felt safe, cherished. She did her best not to trouble him, and in return, he gave her unwavering devotion.
“Brilliant idea,” she said, smiling.
Her spirits lifted—until, stepping outside and sliding into the car, she spotted a familiar figure loitering by the neighbouring terrace. Her breath hitched as her heart hammered against her ribs.
“Harriet, love, what’s the matter?” James called from the driver’s seat.
“Mum, come on! What are you staring at?”
Slowly, she sank into her seat, her gaze locked on the stranger standing just metres away. As the car pulled off, a heavy dread settled in her chest—sharp, suffocating.
At the restaurant, Harriet couldn’t relax. When James excused himself to take a call, Emily’s voice dragged her from her thoughts.
“Mum, I saw that nice man again near our house.”
Harriet nearly choked. *So it was him.* The man who’d erased her from his life a decade ago had returned. The thought twisted inside her—equal parts anguish and revulsion. *How do I live with this now?*
“You saw him tonight?” she asked mechanically.
Emily nodded. “When we left for dinner. He was watching us from the terrace.”
Dinner became an endurance test. Relieved when it ended, Harriet stood to leave. James took her hand gently.
“What’s wrong, love? You’ve been distant.”
She wanted to stay silent—but she loved him too much for lies.
“James… Andrew’s back.”
Her husband froze, dropping her hand. “*Andrew?* He called you?”
“Mum, who’s Andrew?” Emily piped up.
“An… old friend,” Harriet deflected, then met James’s eyes. “I saw him near our house. Twice. It’s him.”
James said nothing. The drive home was quiet. As they neared their street, Harriet knew the confrontation was inevitable. There he stood on the terrace, searching the passing cars—until his eyes locked onto hers.
“You were right,” James murmured. “It’s him. He found you.”
“May I speak to him?” Her voice trembled. “If you’d rather I didn’t—”
“Harriet.” James touched her hand. “He’s your son. I won’t stop you.”
She turned to see Emily asleep in the back. James understood.
“Go. We’ll drive around awhile.”
Grateful, Harriet stepped out. As she approached Andrew, she took in his face—older now, lined, his hair thinner. The hatred she remembered was absent, but his smirk chilled her.
“I’ve been looking for you,” he said. “Wanted to talk. Then I heard you’d married James—had a *daughter*.” His voice hardened, and Harriet knew nothing had changed. He was still selfish, still bitter.
“Did you come just to sneer?” she asked flatly. “Spare me.”
“I’m your *son*. Not inviting me up?”
She could have—but she knew him too well.
“You’re not here to talk. Why now? Ten years of silence—what do you want?”
Their last conversation had been a decade ago. Twenty years old, furious, he’d packed his bags and left, blaming her for the divorce, for his father’s drinking, for his grandfather’s stroke.
“*You* destroyed our family,” he’d hissed. “Because of you, Dad drank himself to death. You’re *dead* to me.”
Now he was back. She knew nothing of his life since. His father had died six months after he’d left, cutting ties with everyone. As if *he* were the one who’d vanished.
“I’ve had no happiness,” Andrew said now. “Not since I found out you cheated on Dad with his best friend.”
“You heard *one* side,” Harriet countered. “You never let me explain. Why come now?”
His smirk turned vicious.
“I need money.”
Disgust coiled in her stomach. No pity, no joy—just revulsion, the same she’d felt for his father.
She’d been married to Peter for nearly twenty years. Young love, happiness—until he changed. The first strike came when Andrew was seven. The beatings became routine, always when Andrew was away. To their son, Peter remained a hero. To Harriet, he was a monster.
Alcohol worsened his rages. She endured, hid the bruises, shielded Andrew—until the night Peter reached for a knife. She fled to James’s house.
James, Peter’s best friend, had known. He’d tried to help, but Peter refused. When Harriet arrived that night, terrified, James told her the truth:
“He won’t change. You know that.”
She’d left. Moved in with her mother. Peter drank harder. Andrew stayed with him, absorbing the poison about her. Peter moved away; Harriet returned to the flat, filed for divorce. Andrew blamed her, then left.
Two years later, she and James grew closer. He never pushed.
“I know you’re afraid of reliving it,” he’d said. “But I’m not him.”
They married. Three years later, Emily was born. At forty-five, Harriet had wanted another child—knowing she’d never reconcile with her son.
Now he stood before her, sneering, demanding money. Rambling about debts, a hard life, his father leaving him nothing.
“This is *your* fault,” he spat. “If you hadn’t left Dad, we’d all still be happy.”
She didn’t tell him the truth. Let Peter remain his idol. What good would it do?
“You chose to leave,” she said. “I never pushed you away.”
“Broke the family, now playing perfect mother?” He scoffed. “Married Dad’s best friend, had a kid to trap him? You can afford to help *me*.”
She looked at him—really looked. He was Peter now.
“You said I was dead to you,” she replied coldly. “Let that stay true. Leave, Andrew. Don’t come back.”
Hatithred burned in his eyes—just like Peter’s used to.
“I *hate* you,” he hissed. “Should’ve been you who died, not Dad.”
A chill ran down her spine, but she nodded.
“Maybe. But it wasn’t. You can’t change the past. *Go*.”
As she watched him walk away, she realized she felt *nothing*.
Perhaps because the mother in her *had* died long ago.
