Even Standing Next to You Is Embarrassing “Mum, this is a disaster!” Emma burst out without so much as a hello. “My laptop’s completely dead. Totally gone. Right in the middle of a project—I nearly lost my mind!” Arina clamped her phone between her ear and shoulder. “Completely?” “Completely. The repair guy said it’s cheaper to buy a new one. And I’ve got to submit my report in three days, you know? I found a decent model, it’s £700.” Seven hundred pounds. Arina mentally calculated what was left in her bank account. Just over a thousand… “I’ll send it over now,” she said calmly. “Mum, you’re the best! Love you!” The dial tone rang. Arina held the phone to her ear for a moment longer, then opened her banking app. Her fingers automatically dialled Emma’s bank details. Seven hundred pounds. Send. The screen flashed up with a confirmation and Arina sank onto a stool by the kitchen table. The evening sun flared through the window, bathing the faded floral tablecloth in stripes of orange… Thirty years ago, exactly the same sunset had glowed over this kitchen the day John said he was popping out to the shops. Emma was just a year old then—chubby cheeks, two funny front teeth, and that habit of grabbing everyone’s nose. John never came back. Not then, not ever. No child support, no birthday calls, not even a Christmas card. He just vanished, as if he’d never existed… Arina carried on. What else could she do? Early mornings at the factory, evening shifts cleaning the local office block. Emma stayed with old Mrs. Brown next door—God rest her soul. Some nights, Arina came home long after dark and just collapsed next to Emma’s cot, unable to make it to the sofa. She’d be up again at 5am, running, year after year. She never kept money for herself. A new winter coat? She could mend the old one. Seaside holidays? Impossible, when Emma needed enrichment classes, then tutors, then a good university. Arina scrimped on everything: yellow-sticker groceries at closing time, mended tights, home-dyed hair with the cheapest box from Poundland. But she saved enough for Emma to buy her own flat. Small, but hers. Emma moved in straight from uni, Arina cried with happiness signing over the deed. Everything for her. Always for her daughter. Emma grew beautiful, got her economics degree, landed a job at a big firm. Arina’s pride filled her chest to bursting. Her girl—in a sharp suit, with perfect nails, talking about financial audits like a pro. Odd, then, that Emma still called so often… always with requests. “Mum, I need to take English classes—I can’t get promoted without them.” “Mum, there’s a work do, I can’t wear the same dress as last year.” “Mum, there’s a last-minute holiday deal—prices like this only come once a year.” Arina always sent the money. Sometimes she borrowed from Linda at work, promising to pay it back from her advance. Sometimes she took extra shifts. She thought it was normal—a mother’s duty. After all, do your children ever stop being your children, just because they grow up? Emma never asked where her mum got the money. Arina never told. It was easier like that. The arrangement worked, year after year. After wiring the money for the doomed laptop, Arina sat up late at the kitchen table, turning an empty mug in her hands. A strange heaviness settled in—a weariness, not quite resentment, more an exhaustion that ran deep in her bones. “Enough,” she scolded herself. “It’s Emma we’re talking about. My own flesh and blood. Who else would I live for, if not her?” But the heaviness wouldn’t go away. She tucked it away, as always… A month later, the phone rang again. Emma’s voice this time was breathless with excitement. “Mum! He proposed! Can you believe it? On the rooftop of a restaurant—with a live band and everything!” “Emma…” Arina pressed her palm to her chest and sat down. “Who did?” “Max! I did tell you about him! We’ve been seeing each other for six months!” Arina tried to remember—Emma had mentioned a Max from a good family, but she hadn’t shared details. She never did. “The wedding’s in two months! His parents have already picked out the venue!” “I’m so happy for you, darling,” Arina smiled, tears streaming down her face. “How can I help? Whatever you need, just say.” “There’s just so much, Mum—a dress, the reception, the flowers… His mum said they’ll pay for their guests, but our side—well, you get it…” Of course Arina understood… She spent the next two weeks at the bank applying for a loan. The amount was terrifying—she tried not to think how many years she’d be paying it off. What mattered most was that her daughter’s wedding should be perfect. They chose Emma’s dress over FaceTime. Emma twirled in the boutique, giggling, trying on one gown after another, while Arina watched on her phone, wiping away happy tears. They settled on a lace dress for £1,200. “Mum, I feel like a princess,” Emma said. Arina would have paid double, just for that smile. Reception. Restaurant. Fresh flowers. Photographer. Videographer. Bridal car. The list grew, but Arina still hadn’t met the groom. “Emma, when do I get to finally meet Max? Or his parents? It’s a bit strange, the wedding’s so soon…” “Mum, honestly, they’re just so busy! His dad’s always running the business, his mum has events…” “Even just a video call? I don’t even really know who you’re marrying.” “We’ll set it up soon! Next week!” Next week came and went. And the next. Still no introduction. Fourteen days before the wedding, Arina called Emma first thing. “Em, is my invitation lost in the post or something? I wanted to show Linda at work, make her jealous…” There was a long, sticky, uncomfortable silence. “Emma?” “Mum… listen, there’s something I need to tell you…” Something cold moved in Arina’s chest. She gripped the phone tighter. “What is it?” “Well, Max’s parents… they’re, you know, wealthy. They have certain standards.” “And?” Emma blew out a breath. Fast, sharp, like she was about to jump into freezing water. “So—you’re not invited, Mum. To the wedding. Please, don’t take it the wrong way…” Arina froze. The words seemed to reach her from far away, muffled, as if underwater. “Not invited?” “Well, yeah. Everyone’s going to be… You’d just feel out of place… Mum, I’ll explain it all later, okay?” “Emma.” Arina forced her dry lips to move. “I paid for this wedding. I spent my whole life on you. Why?” Silence. Then Emma’s voice, hurried and almost shrill: “Because it’s embarrassing to have you next to me, Mum! Have you seen yourself lately? Oh God, I can’t talk about this now. Bye!” The line went dead. Arina sat there, clutching the phone. A minute. Two. Five. Time either stopped or flew by—she couldn’t tell. Her feet carried her into the bathroom, to the mirror above the sink. A stranger stared back from the cloudy glass. Grey hair scraped into a thin tail. A face criss-crossed with wrinkles—around the eyes, mouth, across her forehead. An old cardigan, bought years ago in a charity shop. Thirty years of sacrifice. For Emma. For her daughter’s future. This was the future. They’d arrived… …For two weeks, Arina moved through life in a trance. Work, food she couldn’t eat, sleepless nights spent staring at the ceiling. Inside, she felt empty and hollow. On the wedding day, she finally opened her social media. She wasn’t even sure why. Photos tumbled down her feed. Emma in the lace dress—radiant, joyful. A tall man in a sharp suit—presumably Max. Elegant guests with champagne flutes. A grand hall, white roses, crystal glasses. Arina scrolled on and on. Emma with a pearl-draped lady—likely the new mother-in-law. The groom hugging a smart older man—his dad. Bridesmaids, each more glamorous than the last. But Arina wasn’t “good enough” for this celebration. She cried until morning. Not from hurt—even worse—from a terrible, complete clarity. Thirty years meant nothing. She was just a wallet. The help. An inconvenient relative, hidden from respectable people… Three days later, her phone rang again. “Mum, can we talk?” Emma’s voice was apologetic but oddly shallow, lacking any real regret. “Maybe I went overboard last time…” “Emma,” Arina was surprised by the steadiness of her voice, “you’re an adult, a married woman now. You’ve got a husband and his well-off family. You won’t be asking me for money anymore.” “Mum, what are you saying? I just wanted to apologise!” “I was all alone with a one-year-old. No husband, no money, no help. And I raised you. You’ll manage just fine. You’ve got far more than I ever did.” “Mum, are you seriously sulking, or what?” Arina paused. The breathing on the other end was quick and nervous. “I’m not angry, Emma. I’ve just realised something, that’s all.” She hung up and turned off her phone. Outside, the sunset glowed—fiery, deep, just like thirty years ago. For the first time in ages, Arina wasn’t thinking about Emma. She was thinking about finally buying herself winter boots. And, maybe, that she might finally get a haircut. About living for herself, not for someone else. Just for herself…

Author John SmithReading 9 minPublished by January 14, 2026

Theres shame in even standing next to you.

Mum, its a disaster! Claire blurted, skipping any greeting. The laptops dead. Completely ruined. Right in the middle of my projectI nearly lost my mind.

Marian pressed her phone to her ear.

Gone for good?

Completely. The repairman said its cheaper to buy a new one. And Ive got to hand in my report in three days. Without a computer Im done for. I found a decent model, but its £700.

Seven hundred pounds. Marian quickly did the maths, recalling the balance on her card. Just over a thousand, if she remembered right.

Ill transfer it to you now, she said, keeping her tone steady.

Mum, youre the best! Love you!

The call ended. Marian sat still for a moment with her phone beneath her chin, before opening her banking app. Her fingers automatically entered Claires card number. Seven hundred pounds. Send.

The screen blinked its confirmation, and Marian sank onto a battered stool at the kitchen table. The sunset outside threw copper stripes across the faded floral oilcloth.

Thirty years ago, an identical sunset had glowed over this very kitchen, the day John said he was nipping out to the shops. Claire had just turned onechubby cheeks, two gap-toothed front teeth and a habit of yanking peoples noses. John never came back. Not that day, not ever. No maintenance payments, no birthday cards, not even a postcard at Christmas. Hed simply vanished, as though hed never existed.

Marian coped. What else could she do?

Mornings at the factory, evenings cleaning the offices in town. Claire would stay with Mrs. Parsons next doorrest her soulwhile Marian kept at it. Some nights, she came home so late she simply collapsed beside her daughters cot, unable to make it as far as the sofa. She rose at five and started all over again. Year after year.

She never had money left for herself. A new coat? Not needed. The old one could be patched; it would do. A seaside holiday? Impossible when Claire needed activities, then tutoring, then a good university. Marian saved on everything: discounted groceries at closing time, mending her own tights, dyeing her hair with the cheapest stuff from the chemist.

But she managed to save enough to buy Claire her own flata modest one-bedroom, but still her own. Claire moved in straight after graduating, and Marian wept for joy as she signed over the deeds. It was always for her. Only ever for her daughter.

Claire grew into a beauty, earned a degree in economics, secured a job at a major firm. Marians heart swelled with pride: her girl, in a smart suit, manicured nails, talking in crisp tones about financial reports.

Yet, despite that stability, Clares requests never seemed to stop.

Mum, its English classesIll never get ahead without them. Mum, theres an office partyall the girls are in new dresses, and I cant wear last years. Mum, I found a last-minute holidaydeals like this come once a year.

Marian always sent the money. Sometimes borrowing from Linda at work, promising to repay on pay day. Sometimes taking an extra shift herself. She thought it normal, her maternal duty. Do children ever really stop being children?

Claire never asked where the money came from, and Marian never explained. Both seemed content with this silent arrangement that had worked for years.

After sending the money for the wretched laptop, Marian stayed late at the table, cradling her empty mug. It was a weariness she hadnt felt beforenot quite bitterness, more a bone-deep exhaustion.

Stop it, she chided herself. Its Claire, after all. Your own flesh and blood. Who else is there to live for?

But the heaviness lingered somewhere below the surface.

A month later, the phone rang again. This time, Claire sounded breathless, bubbling over with joy.

Mum! Mum, he proposed! Can you imagine? On the restaurant rooftop, with a live string quartet!

Claire… Marian pressed her hand to her heart and sat down. Who proposed?

Edward, Mum! I told you about himhis family owns half the estate agents in town. Weve been seeing each other for six months.

Had she mentioned him? Marian tried to recall. Possibly in passinga brief word about an Edward from a good family. No real details.

The weddings in two months! His parents have already booked a fancy place.

Claire, Im so happy for you, Marian smiled through tears. How can I help, love? Just tell me.

Theres so much to do, Mum… The dress, the reception, decorations… His mums covering her side of the guest list, but our halfwe have to pay, you see…

Marian did see.

The next two weeks blurred into endless hours at the bank arranging a loan. The sum made her feel faintbest not to think how long shed be repaying it. What mattered was that her daughters wedding would be perfect.

They picked out the dress on a video call. Claire spun in front of the boutiques mirror, trying on one gown after another. Marian watched through her phone, sniffling at each. They settled on a lace one£1,200. Mum, I feel like a princess in it, Claire said. Marian would have paid twice over for a glimpse of that smile.

The reception. Restaurant. Fresh flowers. Photographer. Videographer. The bills mounted, yet Marian never once met the groom.

Claire, when do I get to meet Edward? Or his parents? Its a bit odd before the wedding…

Mum, later! Theyre always busyhis fathers away at meetings, his mother runs every charity event… Well have a call soon, I promise.

Even just by video, darling? Id like to know who youre marrying.

Well set one upnext week for sure!

One week passed and another. Still no meeting.

Two weeks before the wedding, Marian called Claire early in the morning.

Claire, wheres my invitation, love? I wanted to show Mrs. Jones next door.

There was an uneasy, stretched pause.

Claire?

Mum… Listen… the thing is…

The world grew colder inside Marians chest. She gripped the phone tight.

What thing?

Well, Edwards parents… you see… they have certain standards. Theyre quite, well, upper class.

And?

Claire exhaled sharply, as if steeling herself to plunge into icy water.

Well, youre not invited, Mum. To the wedding. Please dont be upsettry to understand…

Marian froze. The words arrived as if submerged, from a distance.

Not invited?

Yes. Its just, everyone there will be from… you know. Youd feel out of place… Mum, Ill explain later, okay?

Claire. Marian forced the words through dry lips. I paid for this wedding. I gave you everything. Why?

Silence. Then, Claires voice, fast and shrill:

Because its embarrassing to have you there, Mum! Have you looked in the mirror lately? I cant do this conversation now! Goodbye!

The line went dead.

Marian sat unmoving, phone in hand. A minute. Two. Five. Time stood still, or else galloped pastshe wasnt sure.

Her legs carried her to the bathroom mirror.

A stranger stared back from the mottled glass. Grey hair tied in a thin, fraying ponytail. Lines carved deep around eyes, mouth, across her forehead. A worn jumper bought on a clearance ten years ago.

Thirty years worn down to nothing. For Claire. For her daughters future.

So this, Marian thought, is what the future looks like.

So much for that.

Marian drifted through the following two weeks in a daze, going to work, cooking food she couldnt eat, lying awake at night blankly staring at the ceiling. Inside, only emptiness, echoing and raw.

On the day of the wedding, she couldnt help herselfshe checked social media, not sure why.

Photo after photo tumbled out: Claire radiant in that lace dress. The tall man in a tailored suitEdward, she presumed. Well-dressed guests waving champagne glasses. A lavish function room, white roses, crystal. Marian scrolled onClaire arm-in-arm with a woman in pearls, surely her new mother-in-law. The groom hugging an imposing man, his father. Bridesmaids, prettier than film stars.

And Mariandeemed unworthy of it all.

She wept until morning. Not so much out of hurt, but with a dreadful kind of clarity. Thirty years meant nothing. Shed been a wallet, a servant, an inconvenient relative tucked from sight beneath the golden lights.

Three days later, her phone buzzed yet again.

Mum, can we talk? Claires voice sounded apologetic, but it was a light, surface sort of regretno true remorse. Maybe I was a bit harsh before…

Claire, Marian was startled by how calm she sounded. Youre a married woman now. You have a husband, his well-to-do family. You wont be asking me for money anymore.

Mum, what? I just wanted to apologise!

I was left with you as a babyno husband, no help, no money. And I raised you. Youll manage fine. You have plenty of advantages I never had.

Mum, come on, are you still upset?

Marian waited. Silence, then faint anxious breathing at the end of the line.

Im not upset, Claire. Ive just finally come to understand a few things.

She pressed the button and turned off her phone.

Once again the sunset blazed outsidethick, russet, just as it had three decades before. Marian looked at the sky and, for the first time in years, didnt think of her daughter. She thought of needing new winter bootsand perhaps, finally, booking herself a visit to the hairdresser. Maybe, at last, it was time to live for herself.

And for no one else.