Your son is no longer our grandson, the former motherinlaw snapped before hanging up.
David, Im asking you one last timeare you going to send money for Harrys boots? Winters coming and his old pair has fallen apart, he has nowhere decent to wear.
Emily gripped the receiver as if she could squeeze the last of Davids conscience out of it. On the other end there was a pause, then a tentative, everexcusing sigh.
Emily, you know its tight right now. Work is swamped, the bonus got delayed
I hear that every month, she cut him off. David, its our son. He needs winter boots, not a new toy. Im not asking for anything for myselfIm doing this for him.
I understand, he muttered. But Mum Mum thinks youre asking for too much. She says the maintenance should cover it.
What maintenance? The three pence you drip over to me once a quarter when your own mother bothers to remind you? You cant even buy laces with that!
Tears, hot and helpless, welled on her cheeks. She stood in her tiny kitchen, the air still smelling of yesterdays stew and damp laundry drying on the line above the stove. In the only other room, Harry, her sixyearold, slept soundlyher sole joy and constant worry.
Ill talk to her again, David promised weakly. Maybe something will work out.
Dont bother, Emily snapped, ending the call.
Speaking to his mother, Margaret Parker, was like banging ones head against a granite wall. A cold, domineering woman who believed the world revolved around her wishes and her underachieving son. Emily wiped the tears from the back of her hand, walked over to the bedroom and checked on Harry. He lay sprawled, his blond hair fanned across the pillow, a threadbare plush rabbit beside him. She smoothed the blanket, kissed his warm cheek, and felt ready to do anything for him.
The next ring made her flinch. An unknown city number flashed on the screen, but her heart thuddedshe knew who it was. She trudged back to the kitchen and lifted the handset.
Emily?
Its Margaret, the former motherinlaws voice was as icy as a winter wind. No greetings, no pleasantriesstraight to the point.
Yes, Margaret, hello.
I asked David to tell you to stop ringing him with endless requests. Apparently that didnt get through. Listen carefully and we wont have to revisit this. Davids starting a new life, a proper family. Were done supporting you and your problems.
Emily stayed silent, feeling the chill creep deeper inside.
As for the boy Margaret paused, choosing the sharpest words. Your son is no longer our grandson. Forget this address and this number. All the best.
A short, harsh buzz sounded like a gunshot in the quiet kitchen. Emily lowered the phone, eyes locked on a spot on the wall. No longer a grandsonsimple, terrifying. As if you could simply erase a child who bore their fathers eyes and his grandfathers stubborn chin. She sank onto a stool, hands cradling her head. It was the end, not just a divorce, but a total severance from a life that once held hope, countryhouse holidays, and the belief that her son could have a real, complete family.
Morning found her with a heavy head but a clear resolveno more relying on anyone else. It was just her and Harry now, a duo against the world. She stitched in a modest tailoring shop, earned just enough, and managed a modest life. Now shed have to tighten the belt even further.
Mum, are we going to Grandma Margarets for the weekend? Harry asked over breakfast, his feet tapping under the table. She promised to show me the big car Dad bought.
Emilys heart clenched. How could she explain that Margaret no longer wanted to see him? That his father now had another child to impress with new cars?
Harry, Grandmas very busy right now, she said softly, keeping her voice steady. And Dads occupied too. How about we go to the park this weekend, ride the carousel, have some candy floss?
Harrys face brightened, the idea of a carousel winning over the disappointment.
I want it! And candy floss! he declared.
Candy floss it is, Emily replied, masking her pain with a smile.
Thus began their new routine. Emily took any extra work she could find: hemming neighbours trousers, installing zippers, sewing curtains at night. She slept four or five hours, but seeing Harrys delighted grin when he bit into a treat or flipped through a new book made the fatigue vanish. She learned to make do. The winter boots she needed were bought on saleplain, not fashionable, but warm.
Some evenings, when Harry was already asleep, desperation would wash over her. Shed sit at the sewing machine, the rhythmic clack of the needle reminding her of lifes unfairness. She thought of Davidthe indecisive, immature man she once loved. She recalled his proposal, their dreams of children, and how his mother, especially, had wrested him away, insisting Emily was too plain, had no standing, no money. Then a trivial mistake was blown up by Margaret into a betrayal of cosmic proportions, and David, unable to bear the pressure, simply walked out.
A year later, Harry started first grade. Emily proudly walked him to the assembly, his new uniformone shed sewn herselfpaired with a bouquet of gladioli. She watched him and knew she was doing right. They would manage.
The tailoring shop changed hands; the new owner, Angela Whitaker, was strict but fair. She immediately noticed Emilys meticulous work.
You have golden hands, Emily, she said, admiring a flawless silk seam. Ever thought of doing more than just alterations?
For what? Emily asked, puzzled.
Something of your own. You have an eye for style.
Emily brushed it aside; she needed to think about rent and school fees, not personal projects. Yet Angelas words lingered. One evening, while sorting old fabrics, Emily found a scrap of bright chintz with tiny flowers. An idea sparked. She crafted a tiny jumpsuit and a matching cap for Harrys plush rabbit. It turned out so cute she took it to the shop to show Angela.
Angela examined the miniature outfit and said decisively, Bring me everything youve made like that tomorrowanything for dolls, toys, whatever.
Emily was stunned, but the next day she presented a small box of handmade goodies: a few doll dresses, a tiny bear costume, an embroidered shirt for Harry with a pattern of forest berries. Angela displayed the items on the shops front counter.
Trial run, she noted.
By evening the shelf was empty. Women who came to pick up orders cooed over the tiny creations, buying them for their children and grandchildren. One lady even placed an order for an entire wardrobe for a prized German porcelain doll.
Emily could hardly believe her eyes. What shed dismissed as a hobby was suddenly in demand. She began sewing these little items in the evenings, first for the shops showcase, then for growing orders. She set up a modest page on a social network, calling the venture Mums Warmth.
Money stopped being a constant thorn. She enrolled Harry in an art club hed longed for, moved into a slightly larger rented flat with a separate room for him. Emily blossomed; the chronic fatigue faded, her eyes regained their sparkle. She still worked hard, but now the work brought both income and deep satisfaction.
Harry grew into a calm, affectionate boy. He never asked about his father or the other grandmother again. His world was his mum. He bragged to friends that his mother was the best magician, able to stitch anything.
When Harry was twelve, the phone rang again. An unfamiliar number, yet Emily answered.
Emily? This is Margaret, said the icy voice.
Emily froze. She hadnt heard that tone in six yearsstill the same cold metal.
Im calling on business, Margaret said, unflinching. A friend recommended you as a brilliant childrens tailor. My grandsons birthday is coming uphes turning five. Id like an exclusive costume. I know youre busy, but Im willing to pay double. Its very important to me.
Emily closed her eyes. Grandson. Five years. So David hadnt been lyinghe really had a new family, a new child. And now the woman who had once cast her own child aside wanted her skills. The irony was bitter.
Margaret, Emily said slowly, her voice steady, I must refuse.
Silence hung on the line, the kind that only someone used to being rejected would notice.
What do you mean refuse? Ill pay any price!
It isnt about the price, Emily replied calmly. A few years ago you called me and said my son was no longer your grandson. You erased him from your life without a thought for the boy.
That was long ago Margaret began, but Emily cut her off.
For you it may be long ago. For me, every second of that conversation lives on. I built my life and my business from scratch, pouring skill and love into every stitch for my child. My brand is Mums Warmth. I simply cannot create a piece for a family that discarded a child with such cold cruelty.
She paused, letting the weight of her words settle.
My son, the one you called no longer your grandson, is right there in the next room, drawing. Hes a talented, kind, smart boyhes everything I have. Keep your money. Maybe itll buy you a conscience, though I doubt it. Goodbye.
Emily hung up without waiting for a reply. Her hands trembled slightly, but her heart was light. This wasnt revenge; it was justice. She slipped into the doorway of Harrys room and peered through the crack. He was hunched over a sheet of paper, lost in his drawing. His pictures adorned the wallbright, full of light and life.
She smiled. Yes, they were okay. And they would be better. She turned back to the kitchen, set the kettle on, and prepared for another ordinary evening of quiet happiness shed crafted with her own hands. In that happiness there was no room for the ghosts of the past.
