Emily got married when she was just twenty, and by twenty-two, she had her first and only child. She didnt have much affection for children. When her son arrived, Emily and her husband handed him over to Emilys grandmothers care, sending her a bit of money every montharound £50 or soand carried on living as they pleased, wandering through parks covered in mist and sipping tea in strange cafes.
Two years drifted by, and eventually they had to bring the boy back home, as the grandmother faded away like the ending of a song. Emily grew irritated with her son; she sent him off to nursery to see him less, then to primary school, barely glancing his way. At school, the boy was mocked by classmates who spoke in riddles and drew shapes on the walls.
He couldn’t read nor write, confusing letters with clouds and words with birds. Teachers tried calling his parents, but Emily always claimed she was far too busy, trapped in dreams of shopping arcades and train stations. One day, her husband finally visited the school. The teachers told him about the boys odd behaviour and silent mischief. Returning from the parent-teacher meeting, his father lashed out, punishing him with a leather belt, its sound echoing like distant thunder.
When the boy finished school, Emily pushed him to work in a sprawling factory on the outskirts of town. There, among whispering machines and flickering lights, he met his future wife, Mary. The factory manager gifted the young couple a new flat, somewhere off Brick Lane. When Emily had grandchildren, they felt as distant to her as old postcards sent from forgotten villages.
Once in a while, shed send her grandchildren small envelopes with £10 notes tucked inside during holidays. When retirement arrived, Emily yearned for a grand celebration, complete with glittering lights and expensive pastries. She rang her son: Ive sent you some money on your card. Go out with Mary, buy foodperhaps a bit of jewelleryand well celebrate my retirement at your place. Alright, Mum, he replied. He and Mary sent their children to the countryside for the weekend, so their laughter wouldnt interrupt the grown-up festivities, and began preparing.
When everything sparkled and the tables were full, Emily swept in, pleased as a peacock in a rainstorm. Good effort. Now, off you go to the kitchen. The guests are arriving; someone must greet them. Well sit together when the party ends. The son and daughter-in-law obediently disappeared into the kitchen, watching the night spin out in music and dancing, voices drifting like strange dreams. When the last guest left, Emily entered the kitchen and declared, Theres only one slice of cake left. You can split it. Im not feeling wellwere heading home. I cant stay with you.
The son felt a shadow pass through him, deeply wounded. A week later, Emily rang again: Son, theyre taking me to the hospital for surgery. Bring me some thingsIll send you a list. No, Mum, Mary and I are off on holidayfinally! Its your turn to call Dad. Goodbye. At last, Emily understood: the strange, swirling world she lived in did not revolve around her own desires.
