Anthony had chosen a wealthy bride and seemed to have forgotten his mother.
Anthony, youve forgotten to call me back again! I waited all evening!
Margaret Ellis stood in the kitchen, phone pressed to her ear, feeling her voice tremble with hurt. Her son had promised to call the night before, yet the line stayed silent.
Mum, Im sorry, I was swamped at work. No time for calls.
Anthony, you could at least send a text! Im getting worried!
Mum, Im thirtytwo. Im not a child who has to report every minute!
Margaret fell silent. Anthony had never spoken like this before; he had always been attentive, caring, calling daily, visiting on weekends, helping around the house.
Alright, she whispered. Sorry for bothering you.
Its fine. Listen, Ill be coming Saturday, but not alone.
With whom? Margarets eyebrows rose.
With my girlfriend. Her name is Poppy.
Girlfriend? Anthony, is this serious?
Very. Weve been together for six months.
Margaret sank onto a chair. Six months and hed said nothing. He used to share everything, now he kept secrets.
Why didnt you tell me earlier?
I wanted to be sure it was serious. Now Im convinced. Expect us around noon on Saturday.
Okay, Ill be waiting.
When the call ended, Margaret lingered, phone still in her hand, the word girlfriend echoing. At last, her son had found someone, a moment she had dreamed of for years.
Margaret lived alone in a modest twobedroom flat on the outskirts of Manchester. Her husband had died fifteen years ago from a heart attack. She raised Anthony singlehanded, working two jobs, sleeping little, scrimping so her son could have a good life.
Anthony grew up bright and diligent, graduated with top honors, landed a programming job at a major firm, earned well, and moved into a flat in the city centre. Margaret swelled with pride.
On Saturday she rose early, polished the flat until it sparkled, washed every curtain, then headed to the market. She bought meat, veg, fruitAnthony loved her meatloaf with mashed potatoes. She also baked his favourite apple crumble. By one oclock everything was ready: the table laid with a crisp white cloth, the finest china set out. Margaret slipped into her best dress, did her hair, even applied a touch of red lipstick.
At two oclock the doorbell rang. She wiped her hands on her apron, smoothed her hair, and opened the door.
Anthony stood there in an expensive suit, beside him a tall, slim woman in a fashionable dress and high heels, hair styled in an elaborate updo, makeup flawless.
Mum, hi! Anthony embraced his mother. Meet Poppy.
Hello, the girl said, her fingers glittering with jeweled rings.
Welcome, dear.
They stepped inside. Margaret bustled about, offering seats, asking them to remove shoes. Poppys eyes flicked over the faded furniture, the worn wallpaper, the threadbare carpet.
What a cosy little flat, Poppy said with a strained smile.
Thank you, love. Its modest but tidy.
They all sat. Margaret began serving the food, describing each dish. Anthony ate heartily, complimenting everything. Poppy poked at a meatball, taking small bites.
Is it tasty? Margaret asked.
Its fine. I usually avoid fried thingsI watch my figure.
Oh dear, youre already so slender!
Its the result of training with a personal coach five times a week.
Margaret nodded, remembering how she barely managed to afford food and utilities herself.
What do you do, Poppy? she asked.
Im not employed right now, Poppy set down her fork. I run a chain of beauty salonsthree branches around town.
Impressive!
Well, not entirely on my own, she added, tucking a stray strand behind her ear. My father helped open the first salon, then I built the rest.
And your parents?
My father owns a construction firm, my mother does charity work.
Margaret sensed Poppy came from a world of money, success, opportunityfar from the modest pensioners life she led.
Mum, how are you feeling? Any health concerns? Anthony asked.
Just the occasional bloodpressure spike, but I take my tablets.
Good. By the way, Poppy and I wanted to tell you were getting married.
Margarets cup froze midair.
Married? When?
In three months, at a restaurant for a hundred and fifty guests.
Onehundredandfifty? Thats pricey!
Dont worry, Poppys parents are covering everything. They have connections, theyll organise it all.
The best restaurant in town, a host, performers, fireworks.
Margaret stared at her son, barely recognizing the confident man in the pricey suit, speaking of a grand wedding.
Can I help at all? she asked.
No need, Mum. Everythings under control.
Maybe I could bake extra pies for the guests?
Poppy sniffed.
Well have professional catering, thank you.
Or I could help with decorations or invitations?
Mum, just be happy, thats enough.
Margaret nodded, a knot of hurt tightening in her throat, yet she smiled.
After lunch Poppy excused herself to the bathroom. When she returned, her expression was flat.
Anthony, we must be going, she said. I have a meeting with my designer in an hour.
Already? We just arrived!
I said we wouldnt linger.
Anthony gave his mother a guilty look.
Sorry, Mum, we really must leave.
Of course, thank you both for coming.
When they left, Margaret sat at the empty table, staring at the untouched dishes. She had poured so much love into the meal, and they barely touched it before fleeing.
The phone rang. It was her friend Ivy Hawthorne.
Margaret, how are you? Did your son come?
He did, introduced his fiancée.
And how is she?
Beautiful, wealthy, from another world.
How did she treat you?
She seemed fine, but I think she doesnt like our flat. She kept frowning.
Ah, the rich never understand us simple folk.
She likes Anthony, though. She says theyll marry.
Good for him.
Just happy.
A week passed without a call from Anthony. Margaret tried, but he was always busymeetings, trips, Poppy. Another week later he finally called.
Mum, hello. How are you?
Good, love. You?
Great. We visited Poppys parents country housean entire estate. They were very welcoming.
Margaret clutched the receiver tighter.
Im glad for you, dear.
I have to run. Talk soon.
Anthony, wait! Maybe youll come for a stew? Ill make your favourite.
Cant, we have plans. Were picking out rings.
Can I come with you?
Silence.
Mum, thats our private business. Well manage.
Alright, good luck.
When the call ended, Margaret stared out the window at the grey courtyard, feeling her son slipping into another life where there was no room for an old mother in a faded dress.
Ivy stopped by that evening with scones.
Here, have a bite. Youve lost weight.
Thanks, Ivy.
They sat with tea.
You seem sad, Margaret. Because of your son?
He forgets me now. He used to call every day, now weeks go by without a word.
Hes in love, thats all. It will pass.
Or maybe not? Maybe his girlfriend is pushing him away from me?
Dont be silly. Anthonys clever.
Clever, but not my boy any more.
Ivy put an arm around her.
Dont speak like that. Blood is blood.
I wish I could believe that.
Months drifted. Two months before the wedding Anthony finally sent an invitation.
Mum, heres the card. Ceremony at three, then the banquet.
Margaret held the embossed card, the names in gold, the restaurants address.
What should I wear?
Whatever you like.
I thought maybe I should buy something new, to look presentable.
Anthony shrugged.
Buy it if you want. It wont matter.
How could it not matter? Im the grooms mother!
Mum, therell be so many guests. No one will notice.
She lowered her eyes. No one would notice the mother of the groom.
Where will I sit?
Poppy handles the seating. Shell call you.
Poppy never called. Margaret phoned Anthony several more times; he was always busy.
A week before the wedding Poppy finally rang.
Margaret Ellis? Good afternoon, this is Poppy.
Hello, dear. How are you?
Im calling about the seating. Youll be at table twelve.
Twelve? Where is that?
In the far corner, with the distant relatives and Anthonys friends.
Why not the head table? Im the grooms mother!
Poppy was silent.
The head table will be for me, Anthony, my parents, and our closest relatives.
Im a close relative! I gave you life, raised you!
Please, Margaret, dont cause a stir. The seating is set. Table twelve is final.
She hung up, phone trembling in her hand.
Mum, Im in a meeting, cant talk.
Anthony, your fiancée said Ill sit at table twelve, in the corner, like a stranger!
Mum, does it matter which table?
A great deal! Im your mother! I should be by your side!
Mum, Poppys parents are paying for the wedding, they decide.
And I am what? Nobody?
Please, no drama. I have enough stress already.
Anthony
I have to go. Well talk later.
He ended the call. Margaret slumped onto a chair, the number twelve looming in her mind, tucked away from her son.
Ivy visited later that night and found Margaret in tears.
What happened?
Margaret recounted the seating.
How dare they! Ivy fumed. How could they treat you like that?
What can I do? Fight? Then hell stop coming altogether.
Maybe you shouldnt go to the wedding at all?
How could I not? Hes my son!
A son who disrespects you, who lets his fiancée humiliate you.
Margaret wiped her tears.
Ill go anyway. Its my childs wedding.
The wedding day was bright. Margaret rose early, did her hair, wore her best dressold, bought five years ago, but it was all she had. Ivy drove her to a black cab.
Hold on, Tom. Remember, youre a worthy woman. You raised your son alone.
Thank you, Ivy.
The restaurant was opulent: a great hall with crystal chandeliers, white linens, flowers everywhere. Margaret felt lost amidst the splendor.
Guests arrived in evening gowns and tuxedos. Margaret, in her faded dress, felt like a grey mouse. She found table twelve, indeed in the far corner, already occupied by a few peopleAnthonys university friends and a distant aunt of Poppys.
And you are? the aunt asked.
Im the grooms mother.
Really? Why are you here? Usually parents sit at the head table.
Thats how it was decided, Margaret answered briefly.
The bride and groom entered to music, radiant. Anthony in a crisp white suit, Poppy in a stunning dress, surrounded by photographers.
Margaret watched her son, proud of how handsome he looked. Anthony and Poppy sat at the head table with Poppys welldressed parents, a solid pair of diamonds glinting on her motherinlaws neck. No space for Margaret.
The banquet began. The master of ceremonies entertained, performers sang, music swelled. Margaret sat at her corner table, feeling like an intruder at her own sons celebration. Anthony never approached, never looked her way, busy with guests and his new family.
When a lull appeared, Margaret rose, carrying a small wrapped box.
Anthony, congratulations, she said, extending it.
He took it without opening, placing it among the other gifts.
Thank you, Mum.
Poppy, beautiful!
Thanks.
Can we take a picture?
Later, Mum. Im busy.
Poppy laid a hand on Anthonys shoulder.
We must greet the guests, the ceremony continues.
Right, sorry, Mum, I have to go.
Margaret stood alone, watching Anthony walk away with Poppy, never turning back. She returned to her seat; the people at the table looked at her with pity.
Dont worry, a distant aunt said gently. Weddings are stressful. The groom is busy.
I understand, Margaret nodded, but inside she knew her son was ashamed of his plaindressed mother, didnt want the wealthy relatives to see where he came from.
When the celebration ended, Margaret slipped out unnoticed. Anthony was occupied with farewells and didnt see his mother leave.
At home Ivy waited with tea.
How did it go?
Margaret slipped off her shoes, collapsed onto the sofa.
Fine, beautiful, rich. I felt like an extra.
Completely extra?
Yes. He barely spoke to me. Hes embarrassed.
Ivy embraced her.
Dont be sad, Tom. Youve done enough.
I love him.
And he?
Margaret fell silent.
A month later the wedding was two months past. Anthony didnt call. Margaret phoned, but he didnt answer, only sent brief texts about work.
Two weeks later he finally called.
Mum, hello.
Anthony! Finally! Ive been waiting!
Sorry, were on our honeymoon in the Maldives.
The Maldives! How lovely! How was it?
Great. Listen, Mum, we moved. My parents gave us a threebedroom flat in a new development.
Congratulations! Whats the address? Ill visit.
Maybe later. Were still redecorating.
I can help! Clean windows, mop floors!
No need, we have a cleaning service.
Just the address, please.
When the works done, Ill tell you.
He hung up. Margaret stared at the phone, her heart tightening. He hadnt even given her an address.
Weeks turned into months; calls became fortnightly, short and formal.
One day Margaret gathered a bag of pies and went to Anthonys office, having learned the address from a colleague. It was a sleek business centre in Manchesters financial district. She reached the seventh floor, found the reception.
Hello, Im here to see Anthony Vorn.
Do you have an appointment?
Im his mother.
The receptionist raised an eyebrow.
One moment.
She called someone, then turned back.
Mr. Vorn is very busy, cant meet.
Im his mother!
Hes in a meeting, cant step out.
Margaret stood with her pies, cheeks flushing with shame. The receptionist looked at her with pity.
Would you like to leave something for him?
No, thank youShe turned away, realizing that some doors close forever, and walked out into the drizzle, her heart lighter than it had been in years.
