“Your son isnt our grandson any more,” my motherinlaw announced before she hung up.
“David, I’m asking you one last timeare you going to send money for Tommys boots? Winter’s almost here and his old shoes are falling apart.”
I could hear Margaret clutching the receiver as if she were trying to squeeze the last of my conscience out of it. There was a pause, then a hesitant, forevermakingexcuses sigh on the other end.
“Margaret, you know it’s tight right now. Work is swamped and my bonuss been delayed”
“I hear that every month,” she snapped. “David, this is about our son. He needs winter boots, not a new gadget. Im not asking for myself; Im asking for him.”
“I understand,” I muttered. “But mum she says youre asking too much. She thinks the maintenance payments should cover everything.”
“Which maintenance? The three pence you send once a quarter when your own mother bothers you? You cant even buy laces for those boots with that!”
Tears she couldnt hold back streamed down her cheeks as she stood in the cramped kitchen that still smelled of yesterdays stew and damp laundry drying on a line above the cooker. In the only other room of the little terraced house, Tommy, our sixyearold, slept, his lightbrown hair splayed across the pillow next to a threadbare stuffed bunny. Margaret tucked the blanket tighter, kissed his warm cheek and whispered that shed do anything for him.
The phone rang again and made her flinch. An unfamiliar city number flashed on the screen, but her heart jumpedshe knew who it was. Slowly she walked back to the kitchen and lifted the handset.
“I’m listening.”
“Margaret? This is Agnes Whitaker.”
The former motherinlaws voice was as cold as ice, no greetings, straight to the point.
“Yes, Mrs. Whitaker, good day.”
“I asked David to tell you to stop ringing him with endless requests. Apparently that didnt get through. Listen carefully, because we wont discuss this again. Davids starting a new life. Hell have a normal family. Were done supporting you and your troubles.”
Margaret stayed silent, feeling the chill creep inside her.
“As for the boy” Agnes paused, choosing the most cutting words. “Your son is no longer our grandson. Forget this address and this number. All the best.”
A short, harsh beep sounded like a gunshot in the quiet kitchen. Margaret lowered the phone, stared at a point on the wall, and the words sank in: not a grandson. It was as if you could simply erase a child who bore your surname, who had his fathers eyes and his grandfathers stubborn chin. She sank onto a stool, cradling her head in her hands. It was the endnot just a divorce, but a total severance from the life that had once held hopes of holidays in a country house and the belief that her son could belong to a proper, complete family.
The next morning she awoke with a heavy head but a clear resolve: no more counting on anyone. It was just her and Tommy now, two against the world. She worked as a seamstress in a modest boutique, earned just enough, and managed a frugal life. Shed have to tighten the belt even more.
“Mum, are we going to Grandma Agness for the weekend?” Tommy asked over breakfast, drumming his feet under the table. “She promised to show me the big car Dad bought.”
Margarets heart tightened. How could she tell him that Grandma Agnes no longer wanted to see him? That Dad now had another child to show off new cars to?
“Tommy, Grandmas very busy right now,” she said softly, keeping her voice steady. “Dads busy too. How about we go to the park this weekend, ride the carousel?”
Tommy puffed up for a moment, then the thought of the carousel won him over.
“I want it! And cotton candy!”
“And cotton candy,” Margaret smiled, hiding her hurt behind the grin.
Thats how the new chapter began. Margaret took any extra work she could findhemming neighbours trousers, installing zippers, sewing curtains at night on commission. She survived on four or five hours of sleep, but the sight of Tommys delighted face when he bit into a favourite pastry or his eyes lighting up at a new book made the fatigue fade. She learned to stretch every pound. The winter boots finally arrived on salenothing fancy, but warm enough.
Sometimes, after Tommy was asleep, desperation washed over her. Shed sit at the sewing machine, the rhythmic thrum matching the beat of her thoughts about lifes unfairness. She thought of meindecisive, childish, once beloved. She recalled my proposal, our dreams of children, and how my mother and my own mother had clawed me away, insisting I was not good enough for her, that she was plain and without standing or money. Then a petty accusation, blown up by Mrs. Whitaker into a betrayal of cosmic proportions, and I, unable to bear the pressure, simply walked away.
A year passed. Tommy started first grade. Margaret proudly led him onto the school lineup in a new uniform shed sewn herself, a crisp blazer paired with a bouquet of gladioli. She looked at him and knew she was doing right. They would make it.
At the boutique, the owner changed. Miss Angelica Thornton, a stern yet fair woman, took over and immediately noticed Margarets meticulous work.
“You have golden hands, Margaret,” she said, examining a flawless seam on a silk dress. “Have you ever thought of doing more than just alterations?”
“For what?” Margaret asked.
“Perhaps creating your own line. You have an eye for style.”
Margaret brushed it off. What own line when I need to pay the rent and get Tommy to school? Yet Angelicas words lingered. One evening, while sorting through old fabrics, Margaret found a scrap of bright chintz with tiny flowers. An idea sparked. She fashioned a tiny romper and matching cap for Tommys stuffed bunny. It turned out so cute she took it to the shop to show Angelica.
Angelica examined the miniature outfit, then said decisively, Tomorrow bring me everything else youve madedolls clothes, teddybear outfits, anything.
Margaret was stunned but complied, delivering a small box of her crafts: a few doll dresses, a bear costume, an embroidered shirt with woodland berries for Tommy. Angelica displayed them on a table by the entrance.
Experiment, she murmured.
By evening the little stall was empty. Customers who came to collect their orders lingered, admiring the tiny creations and buying them for their grandchildren. One lady even placed an order for an entire wardrobe for her granddaughters German porcelain doll.
Margaret could hardly believe her eyes. What shed dismissed as a hobby was turning into a modest demand. She began sewing not only curtains but also these petite garments. First for the boutiques window, then as orders grew, she set up a page on a social network called Mums Warmth, showcasing her work.
The money problem faded. She enrolled Tommy in a drawing club hed long wanted, moved into a largerthough still rentedflat with a separate room for him. Fatigue left his face; his eyes now held a spark. She still worked long hours, but the work now brought income and deep satisfaction.
Tommy grew into a gentle, confident boy. He never asked about his father again or about another grandmother. His world was his mother. He boasted to friends that his mum was the best wizard in the world because she could stitch anything.
When Tommy turned twelve, the phone rang again. An unknown number flashed, but Margaret answered.
“Margaret? Hello, this is Agnes Whitaker.”
Margaret froze. She hadnt heard that voice in six years. It was the same cold metal.
“Im listening.”
“Im calling on business,” Agnes said, her tone devoid of embarrassment. “A friend recommended you as a wonderful childrens tailor. My grandsons birthday is coming uphes five. Id like to order an exclusive costume. I know youre booked, but Ill pay double. Its very important to me.”
Margaret closed her eyes. Grandson. Five. So David hadnt liedhe really did have a new family and a new grandson. The woman who had once cast her child out now wanted her craftsmanship. The irony tasted bitter.
“Mrs. Whitaker,” Margaret said slowly, her voice steady, “I must decline.”
Silence hung on the line, surprised. Apparently, refusals were foreign to her.
“What do you mean decline? Ill pay any price!”
“It isnt about the price,” Margaret replied. “A few years ago you called and told me my son was no longer your grandson. You erased him from your life without a thought for the boy.”
“It was a long time ago” Agnes began, but Margaret cut her off.
“For you, perhaps. I remember every second of that conversation. I built my life and my business from scratch, pouring skill and the love I wanted to give my child into every stitch. My brand is called Mums Warmth. I simply cannot create a garment under that name for a family that showed such cold cruelty.”
She paused, letting the words sink in.
“My sonthe one you called no longer your grandsonis sitting in the next room, drawing. Hes talented, kind, and the only thing I have. Your money? Keep it. Maybe it will buy you a conscience, though I doubt it. All the best.”
She hung up without waiting for a reply. Her hands trembled slightly, but her heart was calm. It wasnt revengeit was justice. She slipped into the doorway of Tommys room and peered through the crack. He was perched at his desk, absorbed in a sketch, oblivious to everything. His drawings adorned the wallsbright, full of light and life.
She smiled. Yes, they were fine. And they would only get better. She turned back to the kitchen, set the kettle on, and prepared for another ordinary evening of quiet happiness she had crafted with her own two hands. In that happiness there was no room for the ghosts of the past.
