“Your son is no longer our grandson,” the former motherinlaw said before she slammed the phone down.
David, I’m asking you one last time, are you going to send the money for Jack’s boots? Winter’s right around the corner and his old shoes have fallen apart; he has nothing to walk in.
Emma gripped the receiver as though she could squeeze not only David’s voice but the last shreds of his conscience from it. On the other end there was a pause, then a hesitant, foreverexcusing sigh.
Emma, you know it’s tight right now. Work is swamped and my bonus has been delayed
I hear that every month, she cut him off. David, that’s our son. He needs proper winter boots, not a new toy. I’m not asking for myself; I’m asking for him.
I get it, he muttered. But Mum Mum thinks youre asking for too much. She says the maintenance should be enough.
What maintenance? The three pennies you slip over to me once a quarter when your own mother remembers? You cant even buy the laces for those boots with that!
Tears, hot and helpless, rolled down her cheeks. She stood in her cramped kitchen, still smelling of yesterdays stew and damp laundry hanging over the range. In the single bedroom down the hall, Jack, her sixyearold, slept soundly, the only joy and constant worry in her life.
Ill talk to her again, David promised without conviction. Maybe something will work out.
Dont waste your breath, Emma snapped, hanging up.
Dealing with his mother, Mrs. Thompson, was like banging your head against a stone wall. The cold, domineering woman was accustomed to the world revolving around her wishes and her clumsy son. Emma wiped the tears from the back of her hand, checked on Jack. He lay sprawled, his light hair fanning the pillow, a threadbare plush rabbit beside him. She smoothed the blanket, kissed his warm cheek. For him she would move mountains.
The next call made her jump. An unfamiliar city number flashed on the screen, but her heart leaptshe knew who it was. She shuffled back to the kitchen and lifted the handset.
Hello?
Emma? It’s Mrs. Thompson.
The former motherinlaws tone was as icy as a winter pondno pleasantries, straight to the point.
Yes, Mrs. Thompson, good afternoon.
I asked David to tell you to stop ringing him with endless demands. Apparently that didnt get through. Listen carefully and we wont have to revisit this. Davids starting a new life, a proper, normal family. Were done supporting you and your problems.
Emma stayed silent, feeling the chill seep deeper.
As for the boy Mrs. Thompson 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 buzz sounded like a gunshot in the quiet kitchen. Emma lowered the phone but stared at a single point. No longer a grandson. Simple, terrifying. As if you could just erase a little human who carried their surname, with his father’s eyes and his grandfather’s stubborn chin. She slumped onto a stool, head in her hands. It was the end. Not merely a divorce, but a total, final severance from a life that once held hopes, holidays in a country house, and the belief that her son could belong to a real, whole family.
Morning found her with a heavy head but a clear resolveno more leaning on anyone. Now it was just her and Jack, two against the world. She stitched dresses in a modest tailoring shop, earned a modest wage, enough for a modest life. Now shed have to tighten the belt even more.
Mum, are we going to Grandma Thompsons for the weekend? Jack asked over breakfast, tapping his foot under the table. She promised to show me the big car Dad bought.
Emmas heart clenched. How could she explain that Grandma Thompson no longer wanted to see him? That Dad now had another child to show off new cars?
Jack, Grandmas got a lot on her plate right now, she said gently, keeping her voice steady. And Dads busy too. How about we go to the park this weekend, ride the carousel?
Jack hesitated a heartbeat, then the thought of the carousel won.
I want that! And cotton candy!
And cotton candy, Emma smiled, hiding the ache behind it.
Thats how their new life began. Emma took any extra work she could find: hemming neighbours trousers, installing zippers, sewing curtains by night. She survived on fourtofive hours of sleep, but a happy Jacks grin or his delight at a new book made the fatigue fade. She learned to make do. She bought the winter boots on salenothing fancy, but warm enough.
Sometimes, after Jack was asleep, despair would wash over her. Shed sit at her sewing machine, the rhythmic clack echoing her thoughts about life’s unfairness. She remembered Davidindecisive, immature, once beloved. She recalled his proposal, their dreams of children, and how his parents, especially his mother, clawed him away, insisting Emma wasnt his match, that she was plain, had no standing or money. Then a petty incident blew up, magnified by Mrs. Thompson into a betrayal of cosmic proportions, and David, crushed by the pressure, simply walked out.
A year later Jack started primary school. Emma proudly escorted him to the assembly in a uniform shed sewn herself, a crisp blazer and a bouquet of gladioli. She looked at him and knew she was doing right. They would make it.
The tailoring shop got a new owner, Miss Angelica Blake, a strict but fair woman who immediately spotted Emmas precision and talent.
You have golden hands, Emma, she said, admiring a flawless silk seam. Ever thought of something beyond just alterations?
Like what? Emma asked.
Like creating your own line. Youve got an eye for style.
Emma waved it off. What own line when Im trying to pay the rent and send Jack to school? Yet Angelicas words lodged in her mind. One evening, rummaging through leftover fabrics, Emma found a strip of bright chintz with tiny flowers. An idea sparked. She crafted a tiny jumpsuit and a little cap for Jacks shabby rabbit. It turned out so cute she took it to the shop to show Angelica.
Angelica examined the miniature outfit, then declared:
Tomorrow bring everything else youve madedolls dresses, bear coats, embroidered shirts with forestberry patterns.
Emma was taken aback, but the next day she delivered a small box of her crafts: a few doll frocks, a teddybear costume, a handstitched shirt for Jack. Angelica placed them on the shops front counter.
Experiment, she said shortly.
By evening the box was empty. Customers who came to collect orders lingered, cooed over the tiny garments, and bought them for their children and grandchildren. One lady even ordered a whole wardrobe for a prized German doll her granddaughter owned.
Emma could hardly believe her eyes. What shed dismissed as a hobby was now in demand. She began stitching not just curtains but these little wondersfirst for the shop window, then for a growing list of orders. She set up a modest page on a social network, calling the venture Mums Warmth.
Money stopped being a perpetual nightmare. She enrolled Jack in an art club hed longed for. They moved into a larger, still rental, flat with a separate room for him. Emma blossomed. The constant fatigue faded from her face; her eyes sparkled again. She still worked hard, but now her work brought both income and deep satisfaction.
Jack grew into a calm, affectionate lad. He never asked about his father or the other granny again. His world was his mum. He bragged to friends that his mum was the best witch in the world, able to sew anything.
When Jack turned twelve, the phone rang again. An unfamiliar number, yet something made Emma answer.
Emma? Hello, this is Mrs. Thompson.
Emma froze. She hadnt heard that cold voice in six years. It was unchangedstill as sharp as steel.
Im listening.
Im calling on business, Mrs. Thompson said, no hint of embarrassment. A friend recommended you as a wonderful childrens tailor. She said you make amazing clothes.
Emma stayed silent, already seeing where this was heading. Her little Mums Warmth had grown into a modest but recognised local brand, featured in town papers and invited to craft fairs.
My grandsons birthday is coming up, Mrs. Thompson continued. Hell be five. Id like to order an exclusive costume for him. Something special. I know youre busy, but Im willing to pay double. Its very important to me.
Emma closed her eyes. Grandson. Five years old. So David hadnt been lying after all; he truly had a new family, a new child. And now the woman who had once cast her son out wanted her services. The irony was bitter.
Mrs. Thompson, Emma said slowly, her voice steady, devoid of anger or spite, only calm dignity. I must decline.
A stunned silence hung on the line. Apparently she hadnt heard a refusal before.
What do you mean decline? I said Ill pay any price!
Its not about the price, Emma replied, equally calm. A few years back you called me and said my son was no longer your grandson. You erased him from your life without thinking about the impact on the little boy.
That was long ago Mrs. Thompson began, but Emma cut her off.
Maybe it was long ago for you. 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 cannot, in good conscience, create something under that name for a family that showed such cold cruelty to a child.
She paused, letting the former motherinlaw feel the weight of her words.
My son, the one you said is no longer your grandson, is sitting in the next room drawing. Hes talented, kind, and bright, and hes everything I have. Your money keep it. Perhaps it will buy you a conscience, though I doubt it. All the best.
Emma hung up without waiting for a reply. Her hands trembled slightly, but her heart felt light. It wasnt revenge; it was justice. She peered through the doorway into Jacks room. He was hunched over a sheet of paper, absorbed in his drawing. His pictures adorned the wallsvivid, full of light and life.
She smiled. Yes, they were fine. And they would be better. She turned back to the kitchen, set the kettle on, and prepared for another ordinary evening of quiet happiness, a happiness shed crafted with her own hands. No room for ghosts of the past remained.
