The Limits of Motherly Love
Anne Parker dialled her sons number for the third time that morning. The first two, shed hung up on herself before the line even rang through. She sat at the little kitchen table, staring out at their dreary patch of communal garden and the chipped paint on the playground slide, wondering: perhaps she shouldnt. Perhaps she could manage alone, somehow.
But when Olivia burst out of the childrens bedroom for the fourth time yelling, Mum! Charlies sick again, hes thrown up everywhere! Anne realised she had no choice.
Simon answered on the sixth ring.
Hello, Mum.
He sounded calm, a bit distracted. Probably at his computer. Sundays never seemed to be a day off for Simon; those sort never stopped working.
Simondarling, hello, she spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully. Sorry to bother you. Are you busy?
Well, Im working, sort of. Is everything alright?
You see, Olivias in a bit of a mess. All three kids are ill. High fevers, vomiting. Shes alone with them; Marks off on night shifts until the end of the month. I got here yesterday to help, and now its all We need to get to hospital, quickly. The youngest hasnt drunk anything at all. Im afraid hell get dehydrated.
Pause. He sighed.
Mum, call for an ambulance.
Simon, the ambulance could take five hours, if it comes at all. You know how it is round here. Ive rung, they said theres a queue. But we need to go now. I thought maybe you could drive us to A&E? I could call a cab, but with three sick children all on my own…
Mum, his voice firmed up, listen. Ive an important evening today. Marina and I are going to dinner at Le Bocage tables booked for seven sharp. Our one-month anniversary. I really cant cancel, you get it? Its important to Marina.
Anne felt something twist inside not her heart, just higher up, hard in her chest.
Simon, please. The kids are really poorly. Sky-high temperatures. Its not just a bug. Olivias on the edge. Im too old, I cant manage three on my own
Mum, youre not old, youre only sixty-eight. Youre in great nick. Call Town Cabs, theyve got those big seven-seaters. Ill ping some money over now, cover whatever it is.
Simon, its not about the money
Mum, I really cant. Marinas booked herself in at the salon already, even got a new dress. Shed be gutted if I bailed. You do understand.
Anne said nothing. She could hear him breathing, steady and calm.
Mum, are you cross with me?
No, Simon. Im not cross.
Good. I appreciate your understanding. Book the cab, Ill send you three hundred quid, enough?
Thatll do. Thank you.
Alright, Mum, Ive got a presentation to finish. Get well soon, everyone.
He hung up first.
Anne sat with the phone in her hand, staring at the wall. On the other side, Olivia was trying to calm the children, voice cracking with exhaustion, then soft and pleading again. The youngest howling non-stop, the older two coughing.
She remembered Simon at seven, falling from the monkey bars and breaking his arm. Shed worked in that poky accounts office on Oak Street. Shed dashed home, didnt even take her coat off, scooped him up and rushed to A&E. He wept and she kissed his tear-stained cheeks, whispering, Its alright, love. Mums here. Mums not going anywhere. His arm had been broken in two places and they plastered him up to the elbow. She slept beside him for three weeks because he was scared to move in his sleep. Fed him with a spoon, because he couldnt use his left hand. Read him stories at bedtime.
That was her Simon: big grey eyes, sticking out ears, called Dumbo by the kids at school. Shed had to go in to talk to his form teacher to put a stop to it.
The man on the phone was someone else now. Forty-two, with a shiny new-build flat in Westbourne Park, a car worth forty thousand, a stylist wife, and dinner reservations at Le Bocage.
She set the phone on the table and went to Olivia.
Olivia was sitting on the floor in the childrens room. The youngest, Toby, lay on her lap, red and clammy with sweat. Seven-year-old Charlie huddled under a blanket on the sofa, staring glassy-eyed at the ceiling. Five-year-old Sophie was curled up asleep on the carpet.
Well? Olivia asked, her voice cracked, worn out of hope.
Well take a cab, Anne said. Ill book it now.
Olivia nodded. There were no tears. She was too exhausted for tears.
Simon cant come?
Hes got an important evening. Anniversary.
Monthly anniversary? Olivia mumbled. Restaurant takes priority over sick kids. Got it.
Dont say that, Anne replied out of habit, though it stung somewhere inside. We all have our priorities.
Yeah, Mum. Priorities.
They fell quiet. Toby moaned, tried to roll over, and was sick again, straight onto Olivias jeans. She didnt even flinch; just hugged him tighter.
There, love, there Well go to the doctor, youll feel better, she murmured.
Anne went to phone for a cab.
The car showed up half an hour later. In that time, theyd managed to change all three children, Olivia had swapped her jeans for joggers, and Anne had packed a bag: water, wipes, clean t-shirts, a towel, paperwork.
The driver, about fifty, with a face as tired as her own, took one look at them and grimaced.
Theyre all coming with you?
All of us, Anne said. Childrens A&E at St Marys.
They wont be sick in the car, will they? Thats new upholstery.
Well do our best, Olivia snapped. Open the boot, we need the sick bags.
He shrugged, popped the boot.
Anne sat in the back with Toby on her lap, Olivia next to her, clutching Sophie. Charlie climbed up front and leaned his head miserably against the window.
It took forever to get there. Sunday evening traffic everyone flooding home from shopping centres. Toby whimpered, Sophie slept, Charlie stayed silent. Annes arms went numb with the weight of the boy, her back ached, her hip throbbed. The doctor called it wear and tear, gave her some ointment, but shed given up using it. Who had the time?
She watched the city slip past, the shops, the people at the bus stops, thinking of Simon.
Hed always been the good boy. Never played up, did well at school, got a scholarship to uni. Straight after graduation, landed a job, started earning. He helped her out he did. Sent over a couple of hundred every month after she retired. Youve done so much for me, Mum, hed said. This is nothing. She didnt argue, she accepted her pension was minuscule, bills monstrous.
Then he married Marina. Pretty girl, always perfectly turned out. Manicure, blow-dry, the works. Worked as a stylist, then moved to some agency doing online brands. Anne never quite grasped what that even meant, but she nodded anyway.
The wedding had been grand, eighty guests, live music, riverside venue. Anne sat at the table in her sale-rail best, watching the newlyweds dancing their first dance. Simon glancing up at Marina, utterly besotted. Annes heart swelled. Finally happiness. Hes found his woman. Soon, babies.
But there werent any babies. Marina said it was too soon, wanted a career first. Flat to do up, travel, all that. Anne said nothing. Not her place.
Whereas Olivias brood arrived promptly. Her first marriage fell apart when Charlie was two. Ex-husband gone up North on shift work, sent money but hardly ever saw the boy. Olivia managed alone, worked in a shop, rented a room. Anne helped all she could: babysat, cooked soup, read bedtime stories.
Later, Olivia met Mark. Solid bloke, hard-working. Also on shift but a decent earner. Married her, adopted Charlie, then came Sophie, then Toby. Rented a two-bed flat, squirreled away what they could for a deposit. Olivia quit the shop, stayed home with the kids. Mark at home a month, then gone two.
Anne saw how worn out Olivia was: dark rings under the eyes, voice stretched to snapping. Shed come round to help, cooking stew, doing laundry, braving the swings with the little ones. Olivia always thanked her, hugged her, said: Id be lost without you, Mum.
Simon called once a week, Sundays. Five minutes, max. Hows things? Were fine. Loads on at work. Marina went to Turkey for her break. Im up against it at work, deadlines tight. Ok, Mum, got to jump on a call. Cheers.
Anne never held it against him. Busy bloke, his own life. She was glad he never asked for anything, never needed help.
But tonight, when he refused something inside snapped.
They pulled up at A&E. The driver looked back.
Right, thatll be £38.
Anne fumbled for her purse, fingers trembling. Olivia was already outside, helping Sophie from the car. Charlie half-fell from the front seat.
There you go, Anne handed him £40. Keep the change.
He gave a brief nod, pocketed the cash and sped off, as if terrified theyd ask for a ride home.
They stood shivering at the entrance three sick kids, one exhausted mum and an old woman with a bad back. Evening crept in, chilly wind biting.
Lets go inside, Anne said, gathering them up.
A&E greeted them with blinding lights, bleach in the air, and a queue snaking along the plastic chairs. Twenty or so parents with children some crying, some hacking coughs, some just sprawled lifeless in their parents laps.
Olivia went up to reception and explained. The woman behind the glass, stony-faced, nodded.
Fill in these forms. Wait for your name. Big queue tonight, so youll have to sit tight.
Our youngest is really bad, Olivia tried. He barely drinks, the vomitings constant. Cant we go any faster?
Everyones bad, came the reply, not unkind, simply factual. Its norovirus season. Wait for your turn.
They sat. Anne held Toby, Olivia held Sophie, Charlie lay with his head in Olivias lap. An hour. Then another. The children moaned, Toby was sick twice more Anne wiped his mouth, squeezed him close. He was burning, barely registering her voice.
Olivia wept silently, face pressed into Sophies hair.
Mum why? she whispered. Why didnt he come?
Anne was silent. What could she say?
Theyre his nephews. His sister. Id do anything for him. Anything. But him a one-month anniversary, a restaurant…
Dont, darling. Not now.
When, Mum? When? Im exhausted. Marks home for one week every two months. Im on my own. So tired. And him flat, car, pretty wife. Hes got everything. Couldnt he give up just one evening?
He couldnt, Anne said. Seems he just couldnt.
Youre defending him?
No. Just stating facts.
Olivia sniffled, lapsed into silence.
At last, they called them through around 10pm. A very young, very tired-looking doctor checked Toby, took his temperature, listened to his chest.
Norovirus, she said. Hell need rehydration, drip overnight. Well admit him.
All three? Olivia asked.
The youngest, absolutely. The others can go home if theyre drinking and fever comes down.
Ill stay with him, Olivia said. Mum, can you take Charlie and Sophie home? Is that ok?
Anne nodded. She didnt have the strength for words.
Olivia and Toby disappeared into the wards. Anne was left in the corridor with Charlie and Sophie. Charlie sat slumped on a chair, Sophie slept in her arms. Half eleven.
She called another cab. Another half hour waiting. By the time they got home, it was nearly midnight. Anne tucked them up in bed, gave Charlie some paracetamol, settled Sophie. She sat in the kitchen, poured herself tea, and didnt drink it. She just sat, staring at the dark window.
Her phone lay before her. She stared at it, thinking: Call Simon? Tell him how they managed?
Then why? What difference would it make?
She remembered him as a child, laughing over ducks in the park. Mum, did you see that ducks eaten all the bread, greedy thing! That high, clear giggle.
Sitting together doing homework, Anne patiently explaining fractions. Simons little frown of concentration.
Him as a student, popping by with pastries, flopping on the sofa, Mum, tell me something hows everything?
When did that stop? When did the questions dry up? When had the chats become polite, obligatory?
After the wedding, probably. Marina took up all the space. Not a bad thing, not really. Thats how its meant to work. Wife first now. Mother secondary.
But this evening, she slid further down the pecking order. She was no longer secondary. She was nobody.
The restaurant mattered more than sick children. Marinas dress was more important than an exhausted sister. Their monthly anniversary trumped a mothers plea for help.
Anne stood and went to the window. The car park was empty and dark. The streetlamp flickered. No one in the council would fix it till tenants started ringing to complain.
Thats life, she thought. The streetlamp flickers, no one bothers to mend it. Ask your son for help, hes at a restaurant. Olivia alone with three feverish kids, husband away; the youngest on a drip in hospital.
Meanwhile, Simon and Marina probably sipping wine at a window table, smiling at each other. Waiters serving dishes Anne couldnt pronounce if she tried. Marina laughing, flicking her hair back. Simon gazing at her with puppy love.
Theyre happy. Alls right with them.
And somewhere, in a tired old maisonette on the edge of London, an old woman stands at the window realising shes lost her son.
She didnt cry. No tears left. Just a cold, heavy lump inside.
She finally went to bed at one in the morning, on the sofa. She heard Charlie coughing, got up twice to check him, gave water, checked his temperature. By dawn, the fever had dropped. Sophie woke up and asked for a drink, managed half a cup of squash.
Olivia called at eight.
Mum, weve had a drip. Tobys sleeping. Doctor says if he keeps improving, hell be out tonight. How are Charlie and Sophie?
Better. Fevers down. Theyre sleeping.
Thank goodness. Mum, are you alright?
Im fine, love. Dont fuss.
Thanks. If it wasnt for you…
Nonsense. Rest while you can.
She hung up. Made herself coffee. The phone lay silent. No call from Simon.
She wondered: would he ring? Would he check up?
Probably not. Hed have his own things going on.
But then the phone rang. Simon.
Anne stared at the screen for a long while before pressing red. Declined.
He rang again a minute later. Declined again.
He sent a message, Mum, is everything ok? Youre not picking up.
She didnt reply.
An hour later he called again. She picked up.
Hello.
Mum, why werent you answering? I was worried.
I was busy.
How did it go last night? Is everyone alright?
Fine.
Kids doing better?
Much better.
Pause.
Mum, are you cross?
No, Simon.
Are you sure?
Im sure.
Alright. You sound a bit odd, thats all. Just wanted to know youre alright.
Ive told you. Were fine.
Ok, Mum. Back to work. Take care.
Bye.
She set the phone down and thought: thats it. The end.
No shouting. No explanations. Just the fact nothing left to say.
She was sixty-eight. Had worked thirty-seven years as an accounts clerk, raised two children alone after her husband died. Hed passed away when Simon was nine, Olivia seven. Heart attack, at work, age forty-two. She was left with two children, a rented flat, and a salary barely enough.
Shed never whinged. Taken on sewing for neighbours, scraping through. The children had clothes and food and both made it to uni. Simon engineering. Olivia started out on teaching. Olivia left before graduating when she got married, Simon saw it through and went straight to work.
Anne had been proud. Look at him, my son clever, independent, good. She thought: I poured my soul into him, and he turned out right.
Now, in her tiny kitchen, walls closing in, she realised she was wrong.
He wasnt bad. He was just different. He lived in a world where dinner reservations were more important than sick kids. Where his wifes comfort took priority over his mothers needs. Where personal space was king, and any request for help was an infringement.
Not her fault. Not his. Just how it was. She didnt know him anymore.
The weeks went by. Olivia returned home with Toby; the children recovered. Mark rang from shift, anxious; Olivia assured him all was well. Anne stayed another week, cooking and cleaning.
Simon phoned every Sunday. Their conversations became brisk, shallow. She answered in monosyllables. He didnt seem to notice, or maybe just pretended not to.
One time he suggested, Mum, come over to ours. Marina will bake a cake, we can have a nice cuppa.
Thank you, Simon. Im busy just now.
Well, when youve got a minute, come round.
Ill see.
But she didnt go. Didnt want to.
A month passed. Then another. Winter turned to spring. Anne visited Olivia, doted on the grandchildren. Toby was mastering new words, Sophie started nursery, Charlie getting ready for school.
One afternoon, Olivia asked, Mum, did you talk to Simon about that night? About not coming?
No.
Why not?
Whats the point?
But hes your son.
Yes, Olivia. He is.
Olivia dropped it. She understood.
Simon called in May, on Annes birthday. She turned sixty-nine.
Mum, happy birthday! Wishing you health and long life! Ill bring your present round later this week, okay?
Thank you, Simon.
We thought about inviting you out to dinner, but I know you hate noisy places. So we just found you something nice.
I dont want any presents.
Of course you do, dont be silly. Weve already bought it. Marina picked out a lovely cashmere throw, really warm.
Thank you. Very thoughtful.
Good. Ill come on Saturday. Better dashmeeting in five. Love you!
Bye, Simon.
He arrived Saturday, six oclock, rang the bell. Anne opened the door.
There he was, on her doorstep, grinning. Suit new, clearly expensive. Gleaming watch.
Hi Mum! Bet you werent expecting me.
Hello, Simon. Come in.
He stepped inside, took his shoes off, wandered into the kitchen, glanced round.
Nothings changed here. Same wallpaper, same table.
Why would I change it? It works for me.
Not criticising. Just saying. Anyway, here you go.
He handed over the bag. The throw really was lovely, soft, silvery grey.
Thank you. Its very nice.
Marinas choice. Shes got great taste, hasnt she?
I can see that.
He sat, she put the kettle on.
So, how are you, Mum? Hows the health?
Getting on.
Great. Were both tip-top. Im running a new project international partners, big contract. Marinas been promoted shes creative director now, double the pay.
Well done.
Yeah, thinking about a new car. BMW, seventh series. Marinas been fancying one for a while.
Lovely.
Pause. He looked at her.
Mum, you sound a bit off. Is something wrong?
No, Simon. Nothings wrong.
Are you sure? Youve been distant for a couple of months already.
You imagined that.
He frowned.
Mum, if Ive upset you, tell me. Im no good at hints.
She poured tea, set his mug on the table, sat opposite.
You havent upset me, Simon.
Then whats the matter?
Theres nothing the matter.
Mum, please. Honestly. Are you still wound up about Olivia and the kids?
She looked at him. His face was open, baffled.
No, Simon. Im not wound up.
So what is it? I cant put my finger on it. Somethings changed.
Its just the way things are, now.
He sighed, sipped his tea.
Mum, I really couldnt help that night. Marina and I had planned that dinner for ages. I couldnt just bail, shed have been devastated. I had to respect her.
I understand.
See? But now youre taking it out on me.
Im not taking it out on you, Simon. I just realised something.
What?
She was quiet for a bit, then said, Youre grown up now. Youve got your own life, your own priorities. You dont need me the way you used to.
He stared at her.
Mum, thats rubbish. Of course I need you. Youre my mum.
Yes, Simon. Im your mum. But thats just a word. It means nothing if there arent actions to match it.
What do you mean? I help with money, I call, I check up…
You call every Sunday for five minutes: How are you, I answer, you say good, then its back to your life. Thats not care, Simon. Its a routine.
He flushed.
Mum, Im busy. Work, projects, wife, I cant be chatting for hours.
Im not asking to. Im just saying how it is.
So whats your point?
You chose dinner over Olivias children in hospital. You put Marinas needs before your exhausted sister. Your one-month anniversary mattered more than your mother asking for help for the first time in years.
He went pale.
I knew it. You are cross. Mum, thats unfair. I explained why I couldnt.
You could have, Simon. You just didnt want to.
Thats not true!
It is. It was your decision. Your right. But its also my right to see who you are.
Who am I? Im your son!
No. Youre just someone who used to be Simon.
He stood up, scraping the chair.
You know what, Mum? I dont need to hear this. I came to celebrate with you, brought a gift, and you paint me as some sort of monster. Its not fair.
Im not painting you as anything. Im simply facing the facts.
Some facts. Im a good son. I work, I pay my way, I dont drink, I dont run wild, I ring you, visit you. What else do you want?
Nothing, Simon. Nothing at all.
He stood breathing heavily. Then grabbed his jacket.
Im going. When youve cooled off, Ill come back.
No need, Simon.
What do you mean?
Dont call. Dont visit. Dont pretend to be my son.
He stared.
Mum do you mean that?
Yes.
You want me to just forget you exist?
You did that a long time ago. I just never noticed.
This is madness. Mum, get a grip. Im your only son!
I have a daughter. I have three grandchildren. Thats enough for me.
He stood, white-faced and lost. Then turned and left, slamming the door.
Anne stayed sitting at the table. Her tea had gone cold. She got up, poured it down the sink, washed the mugs. Tucked the new throw away in the cupboard.
Then she lay on the sofa, under her old blanket. Staring at the ceiling.
No tears. Just the emptiness that began that night in the taxi with Olivia, as Simon toasted his marriage over soufflé.
She thought: so thats that. No more son. Just a man called Simon, successful exec, husband to Marina. Not her Simon. Her Simon was gone, forever that child with sticky-out ears whod cried for his mum.
That boy was gone. Had been for years. Shed just pretended otherwise.
He rang a week later. She didnt answer. He messaged, Mum, lets talk like adults. I didnt want to hurt you.
She didnt reply.
The week after, he came round, ringing the buzzer, banging at the door. Anne sat in the kitchen, listening to him call out.
Mum, let me in! Please, Mum!
She didnt open the door.
He left. Didnt come again.
A month passed. Another. Summer arrived. Anne went to Olivias little house, helped in the garden. Played with the grandchildren, baked cakes. Olivia never brought up Simon. She knew.
One evening, after the children were asleep, they sat on the porch with tea. Olivia said,
Mum, dont you regret it?
Regret what?
Cutting ties with him.
Anne thought.
You can only regret losing something, she said. I didnt lose anything. The Simon I loved hasnt been around for a very long time.
Hes still your son, said Olivia.
Biologically, yes. But really A son is the one whos there when you need him, who comes when you call, whod choose family over fancy dinners. I havent that son.
Olivia hugged her.
Sorry, Mum. Sorry hes like that.
Dont you apologise, love. Not your doing.
They sat quietly. Birds called in the dusk, the air smelled of lilac and cut grass.
Anne watched the sunset, rose-pink across the sky, and thought: life goes on. Theres Olivia. There are grandchildren. Theres the garden, the summer. There is someone to care for and someone to care for her.
Simon has chosen his path one with no room for old mums, sick nieces and nephews, or inconvenient cries for help. His world is dinners out, pretty wife, shiny car.
Let him go.
She would carry on with her own route. Where theres Olivia, who hugs her and says, Id be lost without you, Mum. Where Charlie runs up shouting, Gran, look I can ride without stabilisers! Where Sophie picks dandelions: These are for you youre the prettiest! Where Toby clings to her neck and burbles, Gan-gan.
That was enough. More than enough.
She didnt need Simon. And evidently, he didnt need her, either.
Such is life. Children grow up and drift away. Sometimes, so far, you can never get back.
Anne accepted it. Didnt forgive, didnt forget. Just let it be, like wrinkles, like grey hair, like her aching bones.
Life rolls on, with or without Simon.
Her Simon, the one she loved with all her soul, stayed in her memories a wiry boy with sticking-out ears. Long gone; living on only in old photos, reminders of a life thats over.
And that, she thought, was alright.
Nothing lasts forever not even a mothers love. Sometimes, theres just no one left to give it to. And when that happens, you learn to carry on.
She finished her tea, stood up.
Id best get off to bed, love. Im tired.
Go on, Mum. Sleep well. Charlie says hes found a nest to show you tomorrow.
Hell show me. Ill be sure to have a look.
She went inside, lay down on the narrow bed. Closed her eyes.
She drifted off easily. No dreams of Simon.
He remained in the past, exactly where he belonged.
And she was here, now with those who loved her, truly not with words, but with all their hearts.
And that was enough.
More than enough.
