23May2023
Dear Diary,
Tonight the phone rang again. Your son isnt our grandson any longer, said my exmotherinlaw, and she hung up before I could even gasp.
David, Im asking you for the last timeare you going to send money for Charlies boots? Winters coming and hes outgrown his old pair, my exwife Emma shouted over the line. Her grip on the receiver was so tight I imagined she was trying to squeeze the last ounce of his conscience out of him.
I could hear the rustle of the kitchen in the background, the lingering smell of yesterdays stew and damp laundry drying on a line above the cooker. The little boy in the next roomour sixyearold Charliewas asleep, his blond hair spread like a halo over the pillow, a threadbare plush rabbit tucked beside him.
Emma, you know things are tight. Work is swamped and the bonus got delayed, I managed to say.
Every month I hear that, she snapped. Charlie needs proper winter boots, not another fancy toy. Im not asking for a handout; Im asking for what his child deserves.
I understand, I whispered. But his motherMargaretkeeps saying I should be content with the child maintenance. She thinks the little amount I send each quarter should cover everything.
What maintenance? Emma laughed bitterly. The three pence you grudgingly send when your own mother reminds you? You cant even buy the laces for a pair of boots with that!
Tears welled in Emmas eyes, hot and helpless. She stood in her cramped kitchen, the one that still smelled of boiled potatoes and damp socks, while Charlie slept peacefully. She tried to reassure herself, smoothing his blanket and kissing his cheek. For him she would move mountains.
A new call flashed on the screen: an unknown London number. Emmas heart sankshe knew who it was. She answered, her voice steady.
Emma? asked a cold voice. Its Margaret.
There was no greeting, no small talk, just a sharp command. I asked David to tell you to stop pestering him with endless requests. Apparently you didnt get the message. Listen carefully, and we wont have to revisit this. Davids starting a new life with a proper family. Were done supporting you and your problems.
Emma fell silent, feeling the chill settle deeper in her bones.
About the boy Margaret paused, choosing words that cut like a knife. Your son is no longer our grandson. Forget this address, forget this number. Goodbye.
The brief buzz that followed sounded like a shot in the quiet kitchen. Emma clutched the receiver, stared at the wall, and felt as if a piece of her world had been erasedjust like that. She sank onto a stool, head in her hands. It wasnt merely a divorce; it was total exile from a life that once promised country houses, holidays, and a sense of belonging.
The next morning, Emma woke with a heavy head but a clear resolve: she could rely on no one but herself and Charlie. She worked as a seamstress in a modest boutique on Oxford Street, earning just enough to keep them afloat. The rent on their little flat in Barking was tight, but she tightened the belt even further.
Mum, are we going to see Grandma Margaret this weekend? Charlie asked over breakfast, his legs jittering beneath the table. She promised to show me the big car Dad bought.
Emmas heart clenched. How could she explain that Margaret no longer wanted to see him? That his father now had a new family, a new child to show his toys to?
Charlie, Grandmas very busy right now, and Dad is busy too, she said softly, keeping the tremor out of her voice. How about we go to the park this weekend? We can ride the carousel and have some candy floss.
Charlies face lit up at the thought of cottoncandy, and the day moved forward.
Emma took any extra work she could findhemming neighbours trousers, installing zippers, stitching curtains after hours. She survived on four to five hours of sleep, but whenever she saw Charlies delighted grin over a fresh pastry or a new book, fatigue vanished. She bought the winter boots on saleplain, not stylish, but warm enough.
Late at night, when Charlie was finally asleep, despair would creep over her. Shed sit at her sewing machine, the rhythmic clack echoing her thoughts on how unfair life had been. She thought of David, once a hopeful partner, now a distant figure whose mother had wrested him away, branding her ordinary and poor. A tiny incident, blown out of proportion by Margaret, had been the final straw that sent David walking away.
A year passed. Charlie started firstgrade, dressed in a uniform Emma had sewn herself, holding a bouquet of fresh dahlias. She walked him onto the school line with pride, certain she was doing right.
The boutique changed hands; the new owner, Angela Hughes, was strict but fair. She praised Emmas needlework. Your hands are gold, Emma. Have you ever thought of designing your own line?
Emma brushed it off. She needed rent money, school feesdreams seemed frivolous. Yet Angelas words lingered. One evening, rummaging through leftover fabric, Emma spotted a cut of bright cotton with tiny daisies. She crafted a tiny jumper and a cap for Charlies beloved rabbit. The result was so adorable she took it to the shop.
Angela examined it, then said, Tomorrow bring me everything youve madedolls clothes, tiny outfits, anything.
The next day Emma presented a modest box of creations: a few doll dresses, a bear costume, a handembroidered shirt for Charlie with a pattern of forest berries. Angela displayed them in the shop window, labeling the exhibit Experiment.
Soon, women stopping for their own orders lingered, admiring the miniature pieces, buying them for grandchildren. One lady even placed an order for an entire wardrobe for a German porcelain doll. Emma could hardly believe it; what shed dismissed as hobby was turning into a niche market.
She launched a small online brand called Mums Warmth. The income steadied, allowing her to enrol Charlie in an art club, move to a slightly larger rented flat with a separate room for him, and finally breathe easier. The exhaustion never fully vanished, but work now brought satisfaction as well as pay.
Charlie grew into a gentle, curious boy. He never asked about his father again; his world was Emma, the best witch who could stitch anything he imagined.
When Charlie turned twelve, a familiar number flashed on Emmas phone. It was Margaret again.
Emma? Its Margaret, the voice said, still as icy as the day it first called.
I’m listening, Emma replied.
I was referred to you as a wonderful childrens tailor, Margaret continued. My grandsons birthday is approachinghell be five. Id like to commission an exclusive costume, and Im willing to pay double.
Emma felt the old sting. The grandson shed been told no longer existed. Davids new family, apparently, had a child now.
Im sorry, Margaret, Emma said calmly, her voice steady. I must decline.
Silence hung heavy. Margaret protested, offering any price.
Its not about money, Emma replied. Years ago you told me my son was no longer your grandson. You cut him out of your life without a thought for the child. I built my life and my business from the ground up, pouring love into every stitch. My brand, Mums Warmth, stands for that love. I cannot create something under that name for a family that showed such cold cruelty.
She paused, letting the words settle.
My son, the boy you said was no longer your grandson, sits in the next room drawing. Hes talented, kind, and hes all I have. Keep your money; perhaps itll buy you a conscience, though I doubt it. Goodbyes.
The line clicked. Emma hung up, her hands trembling slightly, yet her heart felt light. It wasnt revenge; it was justice.
She glanced into Charlies room. He was hunched over a sketchpad, oblivious to the world. His drawings plastered the wallbright, full of life.
I close this entry with a thought that has settled over me like a warm blanket: the people who truly matter are the ones we nurture with our own hands, not the ones who try to keep us warm with empty promises. In stitching my life back together, I learned that true wealth is measured not in pounds, but in the love we stitch into each day.
