A VISIT TO…MY SON…

Mom, you really dont need to travel now, my son Alex said. Think about it the journey is long, a whole night on the train, and youre not getting any younger. Why bother? Besides, spring is here and youll have plenty to do in the garden.

I answered, Son, why not? We havent seen each other for ages, and Id love to meet your wife, get to know my daughterinlaw a bit better.

He replied, Alright, lets wait until the end of the month. Well all come to you then Easter gives us a few extra days off. I had already decided to make the trip, but I trusted his suggestion and stayed at home, waiting for him.

In the end, no one came. I called Alex several times; he kept letting the calls go to voicemail. When he finally called back, he said he was very busy and that I shouldnt wait for him. I was devastated. I had been preparing a welcome meal for his wife, whom he had married only six months earlier, yet I had never laid eyes on her.

I had given birth to Alex when I was thirty, long after Id never married. I wanted a child for myself, and though it was a choice some might judge, I never regretted it. Money was scarce, and we survived on whatever work I could find. I took on a handful of jobs just to provide my son with the basics.

When Alex grew up, he earned a scholarship to study in London. To support his first months there, I even took seasonal work in Spain, sending him the funds he needed for tuition and living costs. My heart swelled with pride at being able to help my child.

By his third year, Alex was working parttime, earning his own keep. After graduation he secured a fulltime job and became financially independent. He visited home only once a year, and I, who had never left my hometown of Manchester, had never set foot in London.

When I thought about Alexs upcoming wedding, I started saving. I put away £1,800, hoping to contribute to the ceremony. Six months ago Alex called to tell me the news he was getting married.

Mom, dont come, he said. Were just going to have a civil ceremony now, the big wedding will be later. I felt a sting of disappointment, but I tried not to show it. Alex introduced me to his fiancée, Eleanor, over video. She was beautiful, welloff, and her father was a wealthy businessman. All I could do was be happy for my son.

Months passed, and Alex still never visited or invited me over. I was desperate to see my daughterinlaw and hug my son, so I bought a train ticket, packed homemade bread, jam, boiled potatoes, beetroot, eggs, dried apples, pickles and a few jars of preserves. Just before boarding, I called Alex.

Are you serious, Mum? Im at work and cant meet you. Heres the address get a taxi, he said tersely.

I arrived in London early, hailed a cab, and was shocked by the fare. The city was bright and fresh, and I watched the scenery glide by. Eleanor opened the door, didnt smile, didnt hug, and simply gestured for me to go to the kitchen. Alex had already left for his job.

I set my bags down, laid out the food Id brought, and Eleanor watched in silence. She finally said, We dont need any of this. We get our meals delivered every day, and I dont like cooking the kitchen smells for hours afterwards.

Before I could process her words, a small boy of about three toddled in.

This is my son, Daniel, Eleanor announced.

Daniel? I thought you said Danilo, I blurted.

No, Daniel. I hate it when people twist my sons name, she snapped. And Im not Ilona, Im Eleanor. She seemed to take pleasure in correcting me.

Tears welled up. It wasnt just that Alex had married a woman with a child; it was that he never told me anything. I looked at the wall and saw a huge wedding portrait.

So the wedding didnt happen? I tried to change the subject.

It did, Eleanor replied. We had two hundred guests. You just werent there; Alex said you were ill. Maybe thats for the best. She measured me from head to toe.

She offered me a cup of tea and a few slices of expensive cheese, calling it breakfast. I was used to a hearty morning meal after a nights travel, so I tried to fry some eggs and toast the bread Id brought. Eleanor flatly refused, insisting the kitchens smell would ruin their healthy diet. She also declined the bread, saying they were on a strict regimen.

Feeling unwanted, I sat with my tea while Eleanor stared silently. The boy climbed onto my lap, and I tried to hug him, but Eleanor waved her hands, warning me not to interfere with the child. I handed him a jar of raspberry jam, saying, You can have this with your pancakes. She snatched the jar away, shouting, We dont eat sugar. Were on a proper diet!

I felt a wave of humiliation. I left the room, put on my shoes, and walked out into the hallway. Eleanor didnt even ask where I was going. I sat on a bench outside the building, let the tears flow, and felt a sorrow I had never known.

Later, Eleanor came out, took all my preserved food and tossed it into the trash. I had nothing left to pack, so I bought a lastminute ticket for the evening train. Near the station I found a small eatery and bought a bowl of beef stew, some fried meat, potatoes and salad. I paid a good sum, telling myself I deserved at least a decent meal.

I stored my bags in a locker and spent a few hours wandering around London, delighted by the citys charm, momentarily forgetting my grief. On the train home I couldnt sleep; I wept, hurt that Alex hadnt even asked where I was or if I was safe.

Now I sit with the £1,800 I saved for the wedding. Should I send it to Alex, showing that I always cared for him, or keep it, because after everything he doesnt seem to deserve it? The answer, Ive learned, isnt in the money but in the respect I give myself. I realized that a mothers love is priceless, but a mothers dignity is something she must protect, even if it means letting go of expectations that never came true.