William got into his car, ready to leave work, when suddenly his phone rang. The number was unfamiliar. He answered reluctantly, pressing the green button.
“Hello. Whos this?”
“Its me Hi,” replied an unknown womans voice.
“Who*me*?” William tensed. “Identify yourself!”
Silence. Then the voice, barely audible:
“Its me your mum.”
William froze. His fingers tightened on the steering wheel, his heart pounding.
“What rubbish? My mum died twenty-nine years ago!”
“No Im Margaret I gave birth to you. William, its really me”
He hung up. His heart raced, his palms sweaty. It felt like someone had opened a door to a horrible past hed tried to bury forever.
A few minutes later, the phone rang again. Same number.
“I dont want to hear from you,” he said coldly. “I dont have a mother. The woman who gave birth to me left when I was nine. Ive been an orphan ever since.”
“Please, just five minutes. Im begging you”
“Why? So I can hear more lies?”
“Just meet me. Once. Ill explain everything.”
William refused. But he knewshe wouldnt stop. Shed find his address, show up at his door, disturb his wife, frighten his daughters.
Two days later, they met in a small woods on the outskirts of Manchester.
Margaret Whitmore sat on a bench, hunched, aged, but still clinging to traces of her former beauty. Her hands trembled.
“Hello, Will”
“William,” he corrected coldly.
She looked updesperation in her eyes.
“I know Im to blame But I had no choice”
He stayed silent. Childhood memories flooded himher shouting, throwing dishes, leaving for dates, abandoning him alone.
“You left me with Auntie Claire. Said, ‘Ill be back in a month.’ But you ran off to Spain with some businessman.”
“I thought hed help us both But he didnt want you. And I”
“You chose him. Not me.”
She stifled a sob.
“Ive got no one else to turn to. My husbands dead, his kids kicked me out. Ive got nowhere to live. Not even food. Im completely alone.”
“Feeling sorry for yourself?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. “What about me at nine? Who felt sorry for me then?”
“Forgive me I didnt know how to ask. I kept waiting for you to come to me first”
“You never even sent a birthday card. Not once.”
Silence. Then Margaret whispered:
“But you turned out good Raised proper.”
“I turned out good *because* of the people you hated. Auntie Claire. My wife. My friends. Not you.”
She reached for him, but he stepped back.
“I dont judge you. But to me, youre a stranger. Not even an enemy. Just empty.”
“Im dying” she whispered.
“Then youd best get on with it. But not in front of me.”
He walked away without looking back.
And for the first time in years, he felt a weight lift from his chest. The past, finally, had let him go. And lifewent on.
You’re Not My Mother Anymore
