A VISIT TO MY SON…

Mother, you really shouldnt bother making the trip now, my son Alex said, his voice flat over the phone. Its a long night on the train, and youre not as spry as you used to be. Besides, springs here; youve got a garden full of work already.

I pressed my palm against the receiver, trying to keep my breath steady. Alex, why? We havent seen each other in ages. I just want to meet your wifesee the daughterinlaw facetoface, as they say.

He hesitated, then replied, Alright, lets agree to wait until the end of the month. Well all come to you over the Easter holidayslots of days off then. His tone was soothing, almost persuasive.

Truth be told, I had already packed a small suitcase, ready to set off. But his promise made me linger, hoping hed keep his word. Days slipped by. I called him several times; each time he let the call go to voicemail. When he finally called back, he sounded distracted. Im swamped, Mum. You dont need to wait for me.

A heavy knot settled in my chest. I had been preparing a modest feast for his arrivalfresh bread Id baked, a pot of jam, a few jars of pickles. Alex had married only six months ago, yet I had never laid eyes on his wife.

Id given birth to Alex when I was thirty, a decision Id never regret. I never married, choosing instead to bring a child into the world for myself. Money was always scarce; we survived on odd jobs, never enough to be comfortable. I juggled three parttime positions, just to keep a roof over Alexs head and a hot meal on the table.

When Alex earned a scholarship to study in London, I even took temporary work in Germany, sending him whatever I could to cover tuition and rent. My heart swelled each month when my transfer arrived; it felt like I was finally giving him a chance.

By his third year, Alex was pulling his own weight, picking up a weekend job and, after graduation, a fulltime post in the city. He visited home once a year, at most. I had never set foot in London; it was a place Id only heard about on the news.

When Alex announced his engagement six months ago, I scraped together every spare pound I could. I stashed away £1,500, dreaming of the day Id finally meet his bride and hug my son again.

Dont come, Mum, he warned me last week. Were only signing the papers now; the ceremony will be later. My shoulders sagged, but I held onto the hope that a video call would bridge the distance. He introduced me to his fiancée, Eleanor, a strikingly beautiful woman with a smile that seemed rehearsed. Her father, he said, was a wealthy businessman. All I could do was smile and nod, pretending everything was fine.

Weeks turned into months. Alex never came, never even asked me to come. The ache of waiting grew unbearable. One morning, I bought a train ticket to London, packed the little suitcase with homemade bread, boiled eggs, beetroot, dried apples, pickled mushrooms, cucumbers, tomatoes, and a few jars of jam. I called Alex as I boarded.

Are you serious, Mum? Im at work; I wont be able to see you. Heres the addressjust get a cab, he said, barely pausing.

The train rolled into London at dawn. I hailed a taxi, and the fare made my eyes water£45 for a short hop across the city. Yet the city was beautiful in the early light, the Thames shimmering, the rooftops whispering stories. I tried to focus on the view.

The taxi pulled up to a sleek, modern apartment block. Eleanor opened the door, her expression unreadable. She didnt smile, didnt hug me; she simply gestured toward the kitchen, saying dryly, You can put your things over there. Alex was nowhere; hed already left for work.

I set my bags down, pulling out potatoes, beetroot, eggs, dried apples, pickled mushrooms, cucumbers, tomatoes, and several jars of jam. Eleanor watched me in silence, then said, You didnt need to bring all that. We dont eat like that. We order in every day, and I dont like cooking the kitchen smells linger, and it takes forever to air out.

Her words cut through me before I could react. A small boy, about three, toddled in, clutching a soft toy. Everyone, meet my son, Daniel, Eleanor announced.

Daniel? I asked, unsure.

Daniel, she corrected sharply. Dont twist my sons name. She snapped, Im Eleanor, not Ilona. The tension snapped tight, and my throat tightened with tearsnot because she had a child, but because my son had never mentioned this part of his life.

I glanced at the wall and saw a glossy wedding portraittwo smiling faces, a crowd of two hundred, the whole scene frozen in perfection.

So there was a wedding? I asked, forcing a smile.

It was a wedding, Eleanor replied, eyes cold. Just you werent there; Alex said you were ill. Maybe thats for the best. She turned back to the kettle, Will you have breakfast?

I will, I whispered, though my voice trembled.

She placed a teacup and a few slices of expensive cheese before me. In her world, that was breakfast. I was starving after the long ride, hoping to fry an egg on the stale bread Id brought. Eleanor barred me, No fryingsmell stays in the kitchen. She refused the bread, claiming they were on a healthy diet.

I felt a wave of humiliation crash over me. All those years of saving, of dreaming, reduced to a cold plate of cheese and tea. I sipped the tea, the steam rising like a ghost of the warmth Id imagined. The boy clambered onto my lap, seeking comfort. Eleanor waved her hands, No, donthes not yours. I offered him a jar of raspberry jam, saying, You can have this with your pancakes later. She snatched the jar, shouting, How many times must I tell you? Were on a strict dietno sugar!

My eyes blurred. I left the kitchen, shoes in hand, and walked down the corridor, feeling the sting of every whispered rebuff. The hallway was quiet, the only sound my own footsteps. I slipped out onto the street, finding a bench beside a bus shelter and let the tears fall. The citys bustle seemed distant, a muffled roar against my breaking heart.

Later, Eleanor returned, taking the boy outside. She gathered my empty jars and tossed them into a trash bin, her face impassive. I packed the remaining items back into my suitcase, the weight of disappointment heavier than any luggage.

At the station, I discovered a small café. I bought a bowl of borscht, a piece of roast meat, and some potatoes with saladfinally, a proper meal. I paid the hefty bill, thinking, I deserve something decent after all this. I stored my bags in a locker, giving myself a few hours to wander Londons streets. The city, with its historic brickwork and winding alleys, gave me a brief respite; I almost forgot my sorrow.

The train home was silent. I stared out the window, tears tracing paths down my cheeks. Alex never called, never asked where I was. I had hoped the summer would bring sunshine, not this cold, empty reception. He was my only son, the one I had placed all my hopes upon, and now he seemed a stranger.

Now I sit with the £1,500 I saved for his wedding. Should I send it to him, prove that Ive always cared? Or keep it, a reminder of a love that was never returned? The answer feels as distant as the London skyline I just left.