Your son isnt our grandson anymore, says my former motherinlaw before she hangs up.
Mark, Im asking you for the last time, are you going to send money for Jacks boots? Winter is coming and hes outgrown his old shoes, he has nothing to wear.
Harriet clutches the handset as if she could squeeze a bit of conscience out of her exhusbands voice. On the other end a hesitant, perpetually defensive sigh drifts through the line.
Harriet, you know its tight right now. Work is swamped, my bonus is delayed
I hear that every month, she snaps. Mark, this is your son. He needs winter boots, not a new toy. Im not asking for anything myself; Im doing it all for him.
I get it, he mutters. But Mum Mum thinks youre asking too much. She says the child support should be enough.
What child support? The three pence you send once a quarter when your own mother bothers to remind you? You cant even buy laces with that!
Harriet feels hot, helpless tears rolling down her cheeks. She stands in her tiny kitchen, still scented with yesterdays soup and damp laundry hanging over the cooker. In the single bedroom beyond the wall, Jack, her sixyearold, sleeps; he is her only joy and constant worry.
Ill speak to her again, Mark promises without conviction. Maybe something will work.
Dont bother, Harriet cuts him off and hangs up.
Talking to his mother, Mrs. Thompson, is like banging your head against a brick wall. The cold, domineering woman expects the world to revolve around her wishes and her sons whims. Harriet wipes the tears from the back of her hand, walks to check on Jack. He lies with his arms outstretched, his blond hair fanned across the pillow, a battered plush rabbit at his side. She pulls the blanket up, kisses his warm cheek. He is everything she would give up for.
The phone rings again, making her jump. An unknown city number flashes on the screen, but her heart stops she knows who it is. She shuffles back to the kitchen and answers.
Hello?
Harriet? Its Mrs. Thompson.
The former motherinlaws voice is as icy as a winter pond. No pleasantries, straight to the point.
Yes, Mrs. Thompson, good afternoon.
I asked Mark to tell you to stop ringing me with endless demands. Apparently it didnt get through. Listen carefully and well not revisit this. Mark is starting a new life. Hell have a normal family. We are done supporting you and your problems.
Harriet stays silent, feeling the chill settle deeper inside.
As for the boy Mrs. Thompson pauses, choosing the most cutting words. Your son is no longer our grandson. Forget this address and this number. Goodbye.
A short, sharp buzz sounds like a gunshot in the quiet kitchen. Harriet puts the phone down, still staring at a single point. No longer a grandson. Simple and terrifying. As if you could just erase a child who bears your surname, who has his fathers eyes and his grandfathers stubborn chin. She slumps onto a stool, hands cradling her head. Its the endnot just a divorce, but a total, final severance from a life that once held hopes, holidays in a big country house, the feeling that her son could have a real, whole family.
In the morning she wakes with a heavy head but a clear resolveshe cant count on anyone else now. Its just her and Jack. Two against the world. She works as a seamstress in a modest boutique, earning just enough for a modest life. Now she must tighten the belt even more.
Mum, are we going to Grandmother Thompsons for the weekend? Jack asks over breakfast, his feet drumming under the table. She promised to show me the big car Dad bought.
Harriets heart clenches. How to tell him that Grandmother Thompson no longer wants to see him? That Dad will now have another child to show off new cars to?
Jack, Grandmothers very busy right now, she says gently, keeping her voice steady. And Dads busy too. How about we go to the park this weekend, ride the carousel, would you like that?
Jack puffs up for a moment, then the thought of the carousel wins.
I want it! And cotton candy!
Cotton candy it is, Harriet smiles, masking her pain.
Their new life begins. Harriet grabs any odd job: hemming neighbours trousers, installing zippers, stitching curtains after hours. She sleeps four to five hours, but when she sees Jacks delighted face biting into a favourite biscuit or his excitement over a new book they can just afford, the exhaustion melts away. She learns to make do. She finally buys the winter boots on saleplain, not fashionable, but warm.
Sometimes, after Jack is asleep, despair washes over her. She sits at the sewing machine, and to the rhythmic clatter she thinks of lifes unfairness. She remembers Markindecisive, immature, once beloved. She recalls his proposal, their dreams of children, and how his parents, especially his mother, wrested him away, insisting she was plain, had no standing or money. Then a minor slip, blown up by Mrs. Thompson into a cosmic betrayal, and Mark, unable to bear the pressure, simply left.
A year passes. Jack starts Year1. Harriet proudly walks him to the school assembly, his new uniform she sewed herself, a bright bouquet of daisies in his hand. She looks at him and knows she is doing right. They will manage.
The boutique gets a new owner. Miss Angelica Clarke, a strict but fair woman, instantly notices Harriets neatness and talent.
You have golden hands, dear, she says, admiring a flawless silk stitch. Have you ever thought of doing something beyond simple alterations?
Like what? Harriet asks.
Like creating your own line. You have an eye for design.
Harriet waves it off. Your own line seems distant when she needs to pay rent and get Jack to school. Yet Angelicas words linger. One evening, while sorting old fabrics, Harriet finds a small piece of bright chintz with tiny flowers. An idea sparks. She makes a tiny jumpsuit and hat for Jacks plush rabbit. Its so cute she brings it to the shop.
Angelica studies the miniature outfit, then declares:
Tomorrow bring everything else youve made toys, doll clothes, anything.
Harriet is startled, but the next day she brings a small box of her crafts: a few doll dresses, a bear costume, an embroidered shirt with forest berries for Jack. Angelica displays them on the shops front counter.
Experiment, she says shortly.
By evening the items are gone. Women who come to collect their orders smile at the tiny creations and buy them for their children and grandchildren. One lady even orders an entire wardrobe for her granddaughters expensive German doll.
Harriet cant believe her eyes. What she thought was a hobby is now in demand. She starts stitching these cute pieces each night, first for the shop window, then as orders increase she opens a socialmedia page called Mums Warmth. Money stops being a constant nightmare. She enrolls Jack in an art club hes long wanted, moves into a larger flatstill rented, but with a separate room for him. Harriet blossoms. The perpetual fatigue lifts from her face; her eyes now shine. She still works hard, but the work now brings income and deep satisfaction.
Jack grows into a calm, affectionate boy. He never asks about his father or the other grandmother again. His world is his mother. He boasts to friends that his mum is the best magical seamstress who can make anything.
When Jack is twelve, the phone rings again. An unfamiliar number, yet something makes Harriet answer.
Harriet? Good afternoon. Its Mrs. Thompson.
Harriet freezes. She hasnt heard that voice in six years. Its still that cold metal.
Im listening.
Im calling about business, the motherinlaw says, no hint of embarrassment. A friend recommended you as a wonderful childrens tailor. My grandsons birthday is coming up; hell be five. Id like to order an exclusive costume. I know youre booked, but Ill pay double. Its very important to me.
Harriet closes her eyes. Grandson. Five years old. So Mark wasnt lyinghe really has a new family now. The woman who once tossed her child out of her life now wants her services. The irony tastes bitter.
Mrs. Thompson, Harriet says slowly, her voice calm and dignified, I must decline.
Silence hangs on the line, surprised. It seems Mrs. Thompson isnt used to being refused.
What do you mean refuse? I said Ill pay any price!
It isnt about the price, Harriet replies evenly. A few years ago you called me and said my son was no longer your grandson. You crossed him out of your life without a thought for the boy. I remember every second of that call. I built my life and my business from scratch, putting love into every stitch for my child. My brand is Mums Warmth. I simply cannot create something under that name for a family that showed such cold cruelty.
She pauses, letting the former motherinlaw feel the weight of her words.
My son, the one you called no longer your grandson, is sitting in the next room, drawing. Hes talented, kind, bright. He is everything I have. As for your money keep it. Maybe it can buy you a conscience, though I doubt it. Goodbye.
Harriet hangs up without waiting for a reply. Her hands tremble slightly, but her heart feels light. It isnt vengeance; its justice. She slips into the doorway, peeks into Jacks room. Hes hunched over a sketchpad, oblivious. His drawings line the wallbright, full of life.
She smiles. Yes, they are fine. And theyll be better. She closes the door, heads to the kitchen to turn on the kettle. Another ordinary evening lies ahead, filled with the quiet happiness she has sewn with her own hands, and theres no room for ghosts of the past.
