Cherry Pie and Motherhood
Margaret Woodhouse dialled her sons number for the third time that morning. The phone simply rang out the first two times, then went to voicemailshe knew that sound all too well. It meant Oliver saw her call and wasnt picking up.
He finally answered on the fourth try.
Mum, Im in a meeting.
Youre always in a meeting.
Thats because I work, remember? Whats wrong?
Margaret pressed her lips together. Typical. As if she was interrupting over trifles, as if her calls were a dire threat to the British economy. She only wanted to ask how he was and remind him about Saturday.
Nothings wrong. I just wanted to check what time youll be here on Saturday. Im baking your favouritecherry pie.
Mum, weve talked about this. Saturdays no good. Emilys got a deadline, shell be working all day.
Cant you come on your own? I havent seen you for a month.
Oliver sighed as if shed asked him to row to Australia.
Its been three weeks, Mum, not a month. We were round yours on the 23rd of December.
22nd.
Whatever. Look, Im honestly in a meeting. Let me ring you back tonight, alright?
Margaret checked the clock. Ten in the morning. For Oliver, tonight would come around nine, if at all. Sometimes it didnt come at all. That had happened before.
Alright, she said. Please call.
He hung up quickly, not really bothering with goodbyes.
Margaret was left standing by the window, phone in hand. Outside, big, slushy snowflakes fell over the estates tired linden trees, wavering in the wind. It was much the same as when she and Peter moved in thirty years ago. Except Peter had been gone for two years now, and Oliver seemed well, not a stranger, but definitely different.
She set the phone down on the sill and wandered into the kitchen. The kettle was stone cold. She flicked it on and sat. A crumpled old local paper lay on the tableone shed leafed through the night before. Boring reports: potholes, councils, the usual scandal. She reached to put it aside but knocked the edge of the table, sending a stack of battered exercise books crashing to the floor.
She picked them up without thinking. These were Olivers old school jotters, which shed stashed in the airing cupboard ages ago. Why shed dug them out yesterday, she couldnt remember. Probably was meaning to sort through some junk and cull what she didnt need. But shed opened one, read a page or two, and couldnt do it. Couldnt throw them.
Today, here they were again.
Margaret opened a blue squared notebook. A childs handwriting on the front: “Diary. Oliver Woodhouse. Year 6. PLEASE DO NOT READ!!!” Three exclamation marks. She smiled. Hed been twelve thenso open, so cheerful. Used to tell her everything. Then suddenly, hed closed up and turned sullen. Shed assumed it was just the awkward age. Now he was an adult, but there was still a wall between them.
She thumbed a few pages. Olivers scrawly writing bounced around, but it was readable.
15 September: Today Ben brought a new hamster to school. Called him Gingernut. Mrs Davies said no hamsters in class but we hid him in Bens backpack. In maths, Gingernut got out and ran onto Alice Turners desk. She screamed! Everyone laughed. Mrs Davies sent Ben out. I felt sorry for Gingernut, he mustve been scared.
Margaret chuckled. Ben Turner had been Olivers best mate. They were inseparable up to Year 9, before the Turners moved up north.
She kept reading. Mostly short entriesabout school, friends, football. Nothing momentous. Just a boys life. Her boy.
23 September: Mum was cross today. I forgot to call after school. I was at Bens, we made a model aeroplane. Mum shouted that I was irresponsible, that shed worried, said she couldve had to call the police. I said I just forgot. She didnt believe me. Said I didnt love her. Not true. I do. I just forgot.
Margaret stilled. She remembered that day; Oliver had come back close to seven, shed nearly lost her head with worry. Called everyone she could think of. Hed just been making an Airfix kit, lost track of time. Shed yelled so much hed spent the evening in his bedroom.
A strange, guilty feeling crept ina sense of spying on someone else, even though he was her son. But she couldnt stop reading.
12 October: Got top marks in history. Wanted to tell Mum but she was on the phone with Auntie Val. Talking about Dads new tablets. I stood by her, but she didnt look. I went to my room. Think she forgot to ask.
It came backhim loitering in the hallway after school, her too preoccupied with her sister and Peters blood pressure. Hed wanted to tell her something and shed put it off. Forgot.
The kettle boiled. Margaret stayed put, leafing through the diary.
28 October: Dad said hed take me to the park biking. Mum said his back hurt and he had to rest. Dad wanted to come but Mum said hed overdo it and shed have to look after him. Dad gave me this sorry look and stayed home. I went to the park alone. It was boring.
Margaret swallowed. Shed thought she was protecting Peter then. Being sensible. She read on, and her chest grew heavier with every page.
15 November: Told Mum I want to join the swimming club. Ben goes, he likes it. Mum said its too expensive, swimming is for colds, better to study at home. Didnt argue. No point.
2 December: Mum bought me a new coatblue with red stripes. Told her I didnt like it, the lads would laugh. Mum was hurt. Said shed tried, called me ungrateful. Felt bad. I wore the coat. Ben said I looked like a clown. Didnt wear it again. Told Mum it was too small. She believed me.
18 December: Parents evening. Mum told my teacher about my chemistry mark. Told her not to, but she said teachers need to know. Then everyone found out. Oli Woodhouse, loser. Tom Jenkins teased me all day. Wanted to hit him, but didnt. Mum would call me a thug.
Margaret closed the notebook, hands trembling. She stood and walked to the window. Still the same big, wet snow. The courtyard below was empty. Once, kids always played there. Nownobody. All home, tethered to their gadgets.
Oliver was at home tooin that new flat, with his wife. Without her.
She picked up the diary again. There was more.
9 January: New Years was OK. Mum cooked loads, the table was packed. Dad and I barely ate half. Mum was disappointed, said we didnt appreciate her. Dad said it was nice, just too much. Mum was quiet all night. I tried to eat more, felt sick, didnt say. Didnt want to upset her.
14 February: I like a girl at school. Her name is Chloe. She sits on the second row. Wanted to give her a Valentine, but Mum said I was too young for nonsense, should worry about school not girls. Didnt give Chloe the card. She ignored me all week after.
3 March: Mum came to PE today, wanted to see Mr Miller. Said I shouldnt run cross-country, my lungs are weak. My lungs are fine. I only coughed once and she thought I was ill. Now everyone says Im weak. Hate when she comes to school.
Margaret rested the book on her knees. Something twisted painfully deep inside. She remembered Oliver coughing after PE; shed panicked about bronchitis, gone to lecture the teacher. Thought she was protecting him.
Hed written, I hate her for it.
Well, no, not really hatejust an angry word. He was a child. Didnt really know.
She picked the diary up again.
22 March: Asked Mum if I could stay over at Bens for his birthday. She said no, she cant sleep when Im not home. Said Im still her little boy. Im not. Didnt argue. Ben said I was under her thumb.
17 April: Mum went through my bag, said she was checking my homework. Found a note from Chloe, read it. Asked who she was. Said just a classmate. Mum said too young for girls, ripped the note up. Dont know how Ill look at Chloe now.
Margaret gripped the notebook. She remembered that notesome nonsense about homework. She really had torn it up, thinking she was doing the right thing. Boys should study, not text girls.
The later entries got gloomier.
12 May: I dont want to tell Mum anything anymore. She doesnt listen, or if she does, does what she wants. I say I want one thing, she decides I need something else. Dad says she loves me, but Im tired of it.
29 May: Last day of school. Bens going to camp for the summer. Wanted to go too, but Mum said Im going to Grans in the countryside. Dont want to. Boring there. She already bought the ticket.
Margaret snapped the diary shut. Her heart thudded, uneven. She paced the kitchen, poured a glass of tap water, drank it in one go.
What was thisa prosecution by her twelve-year-old son?
But she had really loved him. Looked after him. Wanted the best. Always.
She sat back down and took up the diary again. Maybe there was something positive further on. Maybe hed just been in a bad mood.
10 June: At Grans. Really is boring. Grans nice, always making me eat. Says Im scrawny. Im not. Mum rang, asked how I amtold her fine. Didnt want her worrying. Actually want to go home. Or to camp with Ben. Anywhere but here.
25 June: Going home soon. Dads picking me up in the car. I miss him. He never lectures, just sits quietly with me. Its enough. Mum talks a lot, tells me what to do, what not to do. Im tired.
The last entry is from August.
23 August: I decided to stop writing in this diary. Its pointless. My thoughts dont change anything. Mums how she is. Dad too. Ill just stay quiet and pretend everythings fine. Easier that way.
Margaret set the book on the table. Her hands had stopped shaking, replaced by a cold hollowness.
So thats when it started. Twelve years old. Year 6. Shed thought Oliver was just growing up, pulling away. But really, he was going quiet, learning his words wouldnt change anything.
She looked at her phone. Oliver had said hed ring tonight. Would he? And if he did, what would she say? Tell him shed found his old diary and read it cover to cover, finally understood what kind of mum shed been?
No. He wouldnt understand. Or hed misunderstand. Hed say it was all long ago, that hed forgotten. But he hadnt forgotten. Otherwise, why would he still feel so distant now?
Emily. That was the change. Emily had come into his life three years ago and everything shifted. Oliver visited less, called less. Then they got married, and he just vanished from her life.
Margaret had never said aloud she didnt like Emily. But she truly didnt. Emily waspolite, always smiling, but nothing behind it, like the plastic ones on shop mannequins. Shed taken Oliver into her own world, a world without Margaret.
Or maybe Oliver had gone willingly. Maybe hed just been waiting for a reasonand Emily was the perfect excuse.
Margaret went into the hall, took her phone, and typed: Oliver, I need to see you. Please come on Saturday. Its important.
She sent it. Two ticks. Read.
No reply. Five minutes. Ten. Half an hour. An hour.
Margaret lay on the sofa. Closed her eyes. Diary lines floated through her memory. Im tired of her love. Ill stop telling her anything. Its easier.
By the time she woke, the sky was dark. Her phone screen showed a new message from Oliver: Mum, really cant do this Saturday. How about next weekend?
She stared at the message for ages. Then she got up and went into the kitchen. The diary still sat there.
She tucked it in a carrier bag. Dug the rest of the notebooks from the cupboard and added them. Tied up the bag and set it by the front door.
Shed throw them out tomorrow.
Or maybe not. Probably not.
She went back to the living room and texted: Alright. Next Saturday, then. Ill be waiting.
His reply came a minute later: Alright. Deal.
Margaret turned off the lights and lay down. Sleep wouldnt come. She lay there, wondering what on earth shed say to Oliver. Show him the diary? Admit shed found it, read it, and finally saw the light?
Saw what? That she was a bad mother?
No. She wasnt bad. She just loved too much. Cared too closely. Feared too deeply.
And hed taken it as suffocation.
Maybe, she thought, he was right.
Margaret sighed. Outside, the wind howled, a neighbours door slammed, water pipes groaned above. Same as always. Except inside, there was a dreadful emptiness.
***
Saturday morning, Margaret rose early. She cleaned the flat, though it was already spotless. Baked a cherry pie. Boiled the kettle. Set the table.
Oliver had said hed be over by two.
By half past one, she sat by the window, keeping watch for his cara silver Mondeo, new last year; he said it was reliable, though Margaret couldnt tell a Mondeo from a Mini.
Two oclock. No Oliver.
At twenty past, she texted: Are you on your way?
He replied at once: Yeah, stuck in traffic. Be about half-an-hour.
He arrived at three. Alone.
Margaret opened the door to find him looking worn. Circles under his eyes, shoulders drooped. He hugged her quickly, awkwardly, then stepped inside.
Smells like pie in here, he said.
I baked it. Your favourite.
Thanks, Mum.
He shrugged off his jacket, hung it up. Headed straight to the kitchen and sat down. Margaret poured him tea, sliced the pie. He ate in silence, mechanically, as if he had somewhere to be.
Emily not with you? she asked.
No. Shes working.
On a Saturday?
Got a deadline.
Margaret nodded, sat opposite him. Watched him eatquick, distracted.
Oliver, she began, I need to talk to you.
He glanced up, wary.
What about?
About us. You and me.
He put his fork down. Leaned back.
Mum, if this is about me not coming round often
Its not. Well, not just that.
She got up, went into the lounge, returned carrying the bag of notebooks. Set it on the kitchen table.
Oliver eyed it.
Whats that?
Your old school books. I found them last week.
He frowned. Whyd you dig those out?
Sorting some old things. Found your diary.
His expression changed instantly.
My diary?
Yes. Year 6. Do you remember?
He looked at the bag as if it might explode.
I read it, Margaret said quietly. Im sorry. But I did.
Oliver stood so fast his chair groaned.
You read my diary?
I didnt mean to, I justopened it, then
Didnt mean to? It said Do not read! In big letters!
I know. Sorry. But Iwell, I wasnt thinking
You never think! Olivers voice was sharp. You just do whatever you want, like always!
Margaret recoiled.
I just wanted to understand
Understand what? Why I moved out? Why I hardly ever come over? Do you really not get it?
He grabbed the bag.
That was twenty years ago, Mum. I was a kid! Youve got to let it go!
I want to let it go, she whispered. I just dont know how.
He stared at her a long time, finally sat down again, bag on his knee.
You know, he said softly, when I moved into my own place three years ago, for the first time in my life I felt like I could breathe. Like nobody was checking up on me, making me account for everything. Thats what its like, Mum. Can you imagine?
Margaret said nothing.
I love you, Mum. But I cant live with you. Its too much.
Why? she asked hoarsely. What did I do wrong?
He sighed. You didnt do wrong. You justdid too much. Cared too much, controlled too much. I couldnt do anything on my own.
I wanted you to be happy.
I know. But happiness isnt something you force on someone. Its something you find yourself.
Margaret dropped her gaze.
And Emily? Does she make you happy?
Yes, Oliver said quietly. Because she doesnt try to fix me. She just lets me be.
Margaret pressed her lips together, a lump in her throat.
So I didnt know how to love you right.
You did. Just your way. But Im grown up now. I need something else.
He stood, picked up the bag.
Ill take these with meif thats alright.
Take them, she nodded.
Jacket on, car keys in hand.
I need to go. Emilys waiting.
You havent finished your pie, Margaret said quietly.
He looked at the half-eaten slice, then at her, with something like pity in his eyes.
Sorry, he said. I really am full.
He left. Margaret sat at the table and cried.
***
Two months passed. Oliver rarely phoned. He visited once, dropped off some shopping, said they were busy with the flat. Margaret didnt tempt him to stay. She tried not to call first herselfvery hard, wanting every day just to hear his voice, ask how he was, but forced herself not to be, well, clingy.
Come March, he rang of his own accord.
Mum, weve just finished the flat. Were having a bit of a do on Saturday, want you to come.
Margaret paused.
A house warming?
Yeah, finished the redecoration at last. Friends and Emilys parents coming. Please?
Of course! she said quickly.
Brilliant. Three oclock. Ill text you the address.
He did, moments after. Margaret checked it on the mapa new estate on the edge of town, all fancy glass developments. Never been anywhere like it.
She spent the whole week preparing. Bought a new navy blue dress, modest but smart. Baked her signature cherry pie. Packed it in foil in a container. Put together a small gift for the flata white linen tablecloth shed embroidered years ago.
Saturday, she woke early, dressed up, did her hair and put on a little blush. She looked in the mirror; not old, not yet.
Got a taxi, a young chap with a blaring radio. The town slipped pastold council estates giving way to posher blocks.
After forty minutes, they pulled up. The building was huge and shiny, overlooking tidy lawns and a bright little playground where young mums in puffy jackets pushed prams.
She went inside. The lift was mirrored from floor to ceiling. She floated to the ninth floor. Found the door. Rang.
Emily opened it. Mrs Woodhouse, do come in! She smiled wide, but her eyes, as ever, were chilly.
Margaret stepped in. The hallway was light, spacious, scented with fresh paint and something savoury.
Oliver, your mums here! Emily called.
Oliver emerged from a room and hugged Margaret. Hi, Mum. Journey OK?
Yes, fine. Got a taxi.
You shouldve saidId have picked you up.
I didnt want to make a fuss.
Emily took the pie. Ooo, looka pie! Thank you!
She carried it off. Oliver hung up her coat.
Come on, Ill show you round.
He walked her through: spacious living room with floor-to-ceiling windows, bedroom with a king-sized bed and built-in wardrobes, a compact office, and a glossy open plan kitchen with an island.
Its lovely, Margaret said softly.
Emily did all the decorating. Chose everything herself.
Emily scooted in from the kitchen, a platter of snacks in hand.
Whats being admired? she asked.
I was just saying you did a grand job with the flat, Oliver said.
Emily smiled. It had to be bright and airy. Took ages to pick the right colours.
You did, Margaret nodded.
The doorbell went. Olivers friends burst inyoung, lively couples. Soon after, Emilys parents arrived: her dad, tall with glasses, and her mum, a round, peroxide-blonde woman. They greeted Margaret politely, but without particular interest.
Everyone gathered in the lounge. Emily poured wine. Oliver teased stories about retiling the bathroom, showed everyone photos. There was plenty of laughter.
Margaret perched on the sofas edge, mostly silent. Shed no idea about interior designers, or winter breaks in the Algarve, or the insane cost of knobs from John Lewis.
So, Mrs Woodhouse, retired long? asked Emilys mum.
About two years now.
Bet its dull, home by yourself?
It can be, Margaret admitted.
Got any hobbies? Knitting? Embroidery?
I do a bit of embroidery.
How sweet! Wish I could, Emilys mum trilled, then immediately turned to her husband, discussing flights to Corfu. Margaret felt herself shrink. How sweetlike a pat on the head.
She excused herself.
Toilet? Emily signalled the way.
Margaret went in, studied her face in the mirror: pale, sad. Old. Like she’d become a prop from someone elses story.
After splashing her face with cold water, she wandered back into the corridor. Voices and gentle laughter drifted from the lounge.
She slipped into the office for peace. There, a desk against the window, books on shelves, a comfy chairand family photos. Oliver and Emily on a beach. Oliver, grinning among friends. Emily, beaming in some fancy dress.
On the lowest shelf, she noticed the familiar blue notebook: his diary.
She reached for it, flicked through. Same entries. Same scribbled, yearning voice.
A silly, dangerous thought strolled into her mind.
What if she read some of this, out loud? In front of everyone. Let them understand how Oliver had once suffered, how sensitive he was. Maybe then Emily would see how much he needed gentle care. Maybe her friends and family would see Margaret not as the clingy old bag, but the devoted mother.
She hugged the diary to her chest, heart flipped over with uncertainty. This was madness. Oliver would be furious.
But what if it was the only way? The only chance to win him back?
She returned to the lounge, where everyone was chattering amiably.
Oh, Mrs Woodhouse! Oliver raised his glass. Come and sitEmilys made a toast.
Margaret stood by the table, placed the diary down with gentle drama.
Emily spotted it. Whats that?
Olivers diary, Margaret said. From Year Six.
Olivers face went pale.
Mum, what are you doing?
I just want to read something Margaret said, voice trembling.
Mum, please dont.
But shed already opened it.
For instance, she started, from the fifteenth of September: Today Ben brought a hamster to school
Mum, stop it! Oliver leapt up.
But Margaret pressed on, albeit shakily.
I felt sorry for Gingernut. He must’ve been scared… See? He was such a sensitive childneeded understanding.
Emily started, Mrs Woodhouse but Margaret continued.
And from the twenty-third of September: Mum was cross today, I forgot to call
Enough! Oliver yanked the diary away. Have you gone mad?
The room went quiet. Emily got up.
Oliver, please dont shout
Dont shout? Did you hear what she just did? Read out my diary to a roomful of strangers!
Theyre not strangers, Margaret whispered. Theyre your friends. Your wife. They ought to know
What, that I had a miserable childhood? That my mother smothered me with love? They all know!
Margaret shrank.
Oliver
Ive asked you, havent I? To leave me space. To let me live how I want. And yet again, you cant! You decide whats best, what to say, what to show. Im not twelve anymore! Im not!
He strode to the door and opened it.
Go. Please.
Margaret stood, mortified, among strangers staressome embarrassed, some pitying.
Oliver, lets just talk, Emily whispered.
Not to her. Not now.
Margaret put her coat on with shaking fingers. Oliver stared at the floor, stone-faced.
Im sorry, she managed.
No answer.
She stepped out. The door shut softly. Voices hummed once she was gone.
She took the lift down, waited in the cold for her taxi, watching the ninth-floor windows shining. In there was a life without her.
***
Three weeks passed. Oliver did not call. Margaret did not call either. She knew if she did, he wouldnt answerworse, he might say something final.
She lived as though underwater. Did chores, watched TV, cooked for one, rarely ate. Lay awake at night.
Her sister called, checked inMargaret lied, said she was fine.
April brought spring at last. The snow melted, trees sprouted their shy leaves. Kids played outside, cycling, shouting after school.
Margaret watched from the window. Remembered Oliver at that age, always with a scuff or graze.
The phone rang.
She jumped: Olivers name.
Heart fluttering, she picked up.
Hello?
Hi Mum.
His voice was even, polite, as if nothing had happened.
Hi Oliver.
Pause.
How are you?
Fine. And you?
Im good.
Another pause.
Look, Mum. I need to say something.
Margarets grip tightened.
Go on.
Ive had time to think. After what happened… and I just cant go on like this.
I know, she said quietly. Im sorry, I shouldnt
Its not just that. You cant let go of me. And Im tired of always feeling guilty.
I dont want you to feel
But I do. Every time I dont answer. Every time I say I cant come. Each time you look at me with those sad eyes.
Margaret closed her eyes.
What are you saying?
Im saying we need distance. Real distance. Not just in miles. In here, he said, and she could imagine him tapping his chest.
You mean, dont talk anymore?
I want us to talk. Just differently. Not as mother and child tied by duty. But as two grownups. By choice.
I dont understand.
He sighed. Im not going to come every week. Not going to ring on schedule. Ill come when I want to and call when I have something to say. You have to accept that. No guilt-trips. No trying to turn back the clock.
She said nothing, swallowed the ache.
Do you hear me, Mum?
I hear you.
Do you agree?
She wanted to say no, to wail that she was his mother and she had rights, and he was all she had. But she said,
I agree.
Thank you.
Pause.
Ill call when I can. Promise.
Alright.
Bye, Mum.
Bye, Oliver.
She set the phone down and gazed into the courtyard. Children played, women walked home from the Co-op, cars idled past.
Life went on. Just not with her in it.
Margaret went into the kitchen, flicked the kettle on, set out a cup.
The paper lay on the table. She picked it up and forced herself to read. Potholes. Council budgets. The weather.
Didnt matter. None of it did.
***
A month rolled by. Oliver didnt call. Margaret didnt either. She waited.
By May, the air was sweet and gardens exploded with blossom. Margaret opened her windows and let in the breeze.
She walked in the park, fed the ducks. Sometimes bumped into other pensioners and neighbours. The usual chatsweather, Sainsburys prices, aches.
One morning, as she was tying her shoelaces for a walk, the phone rang.
Oliver.
She picked up.
Hello?
Hi, Mum. How are you?
Im good. You?
Also good. Listen, got some news.
Yes?
Emilys expecting.
Margaret froze.
Expecting?
Yeah. Not far alongthree months. We just found out.
She sat down hard.
Thats… wonderful, Oliver.
Were thrilled. Wanted you to know.
Thank you for telling me.
Pause.
Mum, I want you in their life. As a grandmother. But
But at a distance, she finished for him.
Yeah. At a distance.
Margaret closed her eyes. It hurt. She managed a smileat least, in her voice.
I understand. Of course. Ill be a good gran. I wont hover.
Thanks, Mum.
Oliver I love you.
He took a moment.
I love you too. In my own way.
I know.
He said goodbye and hung up.
Margaret sat in her sunny kitchen, phone by her side. Outside, birds sang, children shouted, someones radio drifted through the open window.
She thought of the little one on the way. Grandchild. Shed be their grannot the kind who raises them, or lectures, or sticks her nose in. Just there. Somewhere, a little apart.
Maybe that was best.
Maybe shed never really mastered loving in the right waynever quite grasped letting go.
But she could try.
She must try.
Margaret stood. Went to the window. Watched the courtyard blossom and the clouds drift overhead.
Life went on.
She must, too.
Somehow.
She put on her jacket and headed outside, down the familiar footpaths, past faces who barely registered her. Just another woman on the streeta little older, maybe a bit alone.
One of many.
She reached the park, sat on her favourite bench, scattered crumbs for the sparrows. They fluttered in, pecking eagerly.
She watched themso free, going where they pleased, dependent on no one.
She realised shed always been tethered: to her son, her past, her pie, her love.
Maybe letting go meant simply thissitting in the sun, feeding birds, remembering.
Knowing theres a world out there, full of people you love but cant hold onto. And thats okay.
It has to be.
Margaret stood, brushed crumbs from her skirt, and wandered home.
She brewed herself a strong tea, settled by the window, and opened the book shed been meaning to read for ages.
The phone was silent.
And that, in its way, was alright.
