Hello, son…
-Hi, Gran! How are you doing here? – greeted Vincent, a tall, broad-shouldered twenty-five-year-old, stumbling in from the wintry evening, his arms weighed down with carrier bags.
His grandmother, a delicate old lady with silver hair wrapped in a floral scarf, spotted him at the threshold, loaded down with groceries, and fussed indignantly, waving her hands.
-Vincy, darling, whatever have you brought me so much for? You only popped round yesterday! I havent finished the last lot.
Vincent grinned, his gentle baritone filled the hallway, openly adoring as he gazed at his grandmother.
-Gran, take them and dont argue, youre so frail these days: just skin and bones! Here, I got your medicines too, – he produced another small bag with a pharmacy logo from his jacket pocket.
The old lady teared up, the corners of her eyes shimmering, – Thank you, Vincy, what would I do without you… Come in, darling, only a word of warningIve got a visitor.
-A visitor? – Vincents brows arched in surprise as he entered the kitchen, smiling in expectation.
From behind the table rose a woman. Her face was pale and tired, with fine wrinkles and bruised shadows beneath her eyes. Her clothing was good quality, but battered and faded. Something eerily familiar, long-banished, lingered in her gaze, and Vincents heart thudded wildly.
-Hello, son! – whispered the stranger, arms stretched out, as if she wished hed rush to embrace her.
Vincent recoiled in confusion and shot an inquisitive look at his grandmother. She wiped away tears with her frail hand.
-Yes, love, your mother has come. She wants to talk to you! – she murmured, breaking down once more.
Vincent stood frozen. Could it really be his mother? The woman hed cried for at night as a child, but could never remember. The mother who was absent in every grief, every illness, every joy.
At last, shaking off his trance, Vincent turned to his weeping grandmother: – Gran, Im sorry, I have to go, Ill come back later, alright? Sorry, Gran, I cant…
He kissed her cold, tear-stained cheek and slipped out.
Vincent wandered through snow-drifted London streets, with eyes closed he could have found his waythey were etched in him since childhood, always walked alone, without the most important person of all. Into nursery, school, universitynever with her! He never knew the warmth of his mothers hand.
Vincent had no memory of his mother. Not truly. Hed only glimpsed her in a photograph, over which his perpetually drunken father sobbed, muttering, Shell come back, shell come back, youll see…
But she never did. One day, his father diedhis heart simply gave in
Vincent remembered that scenethe terrifying, blue-faced man sprawled on the sofa, clutching her photograph and an empty whisky bottle.
Through all his life, Vincent was wanted only by his grandmother, Margaret Palmerhis fathers mother. She became his world: both mother and father, all rolled into one…
His mother was informed about what happened, asked if she would take him in. She replied shortly: I cant, family circumstances dont allow it. Send him to care.
So Margaret kept her grandson. She couldnt bear to send him to a home; fought for custody and raised him alone. Vincent remembered days when breakfast, lunch, and dinner was nothing but watery soup. Yet there was always something, and Gran insisted on giving him her own tiny bit of chicken.
Now, thanks to his small, tough grandmother, Vincent had grown up, been educated, and tried to repay her with care, kindness, and love.
His mother never helped. Not once. Well, not helpednever called, never wrote, never remembered his birthday… Never cared, Hows my son? And now, suddenly, she appeared! Why?
-Why, why is she here now? – thought Vincent, wiping tears as he walked. He was a grown man of twenty-five, already a father to a little daughter. The thought gnawed at him all day.
***
-Vincy, why are you so pale, as if youve seen a ghost? Youre not poorly, are you? – asked Mary, Vincents wife, anxiety in her eyes.
-Daddy, why is your face so gone? – piped up little Daisy, mimicking her mum.
Vincent hoisted his daughter high, then pressed her to his chest, breathing in the sweet scent of her hair: -Its alright, my treasure, off you go and play!
He wanted to talk to Mary, unburden himself
-Mary, you wont believe itmy mother turned up! Went round Grans, and there she was, sitting as if it was nothing, drinking tea! – he said, already seated at the dinner table.
Mary, halfway through setting plates, sank down in her chair: -How did she find you?
-Grans address never changed. I couldnt face her, bolted as soon as I realised who she was
-Vince, maybe you should at least hear her out. I cant even imagine what mustve happened to make a woman forget her child for twenty-five years. Something truly extraordinarymaybe prison, or something else
(Marys imagination failed her at something else, and she had no more excuses for Vincents mother.)
-I dont know, Mary, I cant understand her and I cant forgive her either
***
Next day, Vincent popped round to Gran Margarets at lunchtime, as usual.
-Vincy Gran startedYou really ought to listen to your mother. She knows how much shes let you down… But believe me, shes tormented herself over it. Im getting on, you know, and if anything happens… She is still your mother. Heres her address Gran handed him a slip of paperIn case you decide to see her
-I dont have a mother, Gran! Youve been everything to memother, father, grandmother – Vincent said bitterly, but slipped the note into his trousers pocket.
Again Vincent spent the day in grim reflection The gnawing emptiness and gloom wouldnt leave him, as if somehow he was guilty in front of this woman who never managed to be a mother.
Days and weeks passed. Vincent kept fingering the note in his pocket, smoothing it out, hiding it again
***
One evening, he finally went. After work, standing outside a tatty door in a damp, cat-smelling stairwell, he pressed the bell.
-Son! – she stood in the doorway. Old dressing gown, frizzy hair, mismatched socks. The smell of sour stew and mustiness hit his nose.
-Good evening! – Vincent said, unable to force the word mum. – Ive come to listen to you. To try and understand. What do you want from me?
-Nothing, son! Just wanted to speak and ask forgiveness! My time is nearly up illness wont spare me. I suppose its penance for my sins
Vincents heart wrenched for this haggard woman with bruises beneath her eyes.
-Youre ill?
-Yes, but thats not it. Come in, son! – she stepped aside, inviting him in.
Vincent sat in the kitchen, perched on a stool.
-Forgive me, son! Ive wronged you terribly – the woman wiped her tears, rivers down her cheeks – I fell in love back then! Couldnt help myself. If George had told me killI wouldve done it!
Vincent frowned, repulsedhe couldnt grasp that kind of love. In his mind, it was bordering madness, but he still listened.
-George wanted to marry me, but he said Id have to forget everythingmy old life, youhe wouldnt tolerate someone elses child! You understand, son? – she searched his eyes for understanding. All Vincents gaze held was pity. He just waited.
-I was happy with George, had a daughter, Lydia. But then it all collapsed like a house of cards. Lydia grew up, married, moved to Italy. George died. And I was left completely alone.
She paused, noticing Vincent eyeing a cobwebbed, darkened corner: -We didnt always live like this… George had a good job, we had a house in Surrey. But after he died, I found hed left so many debts, I had to sell everything and move into this castle.
Vincent, deep down, scolded himself for feeling no sympathy for his motherat least he took comfort in feeling no spite.
-And your daughter?
-Im nothing to her! Shes ashamed her mothers so shabby Dont think I want anything from you, son! Just forgive me Its hard to leave with such a heavy soul.
Vincent rose: -Ill try to forgive you. Its hard, but Ill do my best
***
-Vincy, where have you been?! – Mary greeted him anxiously.
-I went to her! – Vincent whispered, swallowing the lump in his throat.
-To your mother? – Mary gasped.
-Yes I do pity her.
-Youre the best, Vince! – Mary wrapped him in a tight embrace – I knew you wouldnt turn your back.
-Yes, Mary, I forgave her, but I still cant call her mum…
-Forgiveness is for the strongestand you are strong.
Now Vincent visits his mother sometimes, and she quietly cries with joy that her son has grown into a good manthough not thanks to her.
Hello, Son… “Hey, Gran! How are you doing here?” greeted Vinnie, a tall, broad-shouldered twenty-fiv…
