A Past That Won’t Let Go
Now Daniel is twenty. He lives in York, studies through correspondence, works part-time at a garage, and builds his life, scarcely recalling his hometown of Sheffield, where it all began. His mother, Evelyn, watches his progress with pride—and sorrow. Too much slipped through her fingers. Now that her son is grown, she carries a guilt that neither time nor excuses can quiet.
She often remembers how things were. More than once, she’s tried to justify her choices, but it never worked. And so, one day, Evelyn finally gathered the courage to speak to her son openly. She invited him for the weekend, baked his favourite scones, settled him at the kitchen table, and sitting across from him, wringing her hands, she said:
“Forgive me, Danny… for everything. I was a poor mother.”
He was silent. Forced a smile and replied:
“I had an ordinary childhood.”
But both knew it was a lie. His childhood had been cold, lonely, filled with quiet resentment and the bitter wait for a warmth that never came.
Daniel grew up a quiet, obedient boy. He never complained, never asked for much. He simply waited—for the day his mother might hug him, notice him, praise his drawings or cheer his top marks. But more often, he heard sharp words, irritation, or simply indifference. Evelyn would snap, shout, call him a “burden,” a “mistake of her youth.” Yet still, he hoped, still reached for her—for love, for acknowledgment, for that one word he needed most: “love.”
Perhaps she truly never loved him. Or perhaps she didn’t know how. Life had been cruel too soon. At fifteen—pregnant. The lad ran off, her mother shrieked, friends turned away. Evelyn was alone.
“It’s your own fault,” her mother spat through tears. “Now you’ll feed your misery yourself.”
Her gran promised help, but in truth, only stepped in when Evelyn collapsed from exhaustion. The baby cried nights; Evelyn seethed, locked herself in the loo, and sobbed where no one could hear. The child was her punishment, a cross she couldn’t cast aside.
Life showed her no kindness. Money was always short. Evelyn scrubbed stairwells, hauled heavy bags, then cleaned houses just to scrape by. She was tired. Bitter. Dropped out of school. Joy vanished. And still, the child grew—needing, crying, falling ill. She fed him, clothed him, but her heart stayed shut. He was in her way. And she never hid it.
When Daniel turned five, his gran died suddenly—a stroke. The house grew quieter, emptier, more frightening. Evelyn dreaded the future but didn’t change. If anything, she withdrew further. Worked, studied by correspondence, trained as a bookkeeper to escape poverty. Money came, stability too. But warmth for her son never did.
Seventeen. Daniel left for York. Enrolled, gone—and for the first time in years, Evelyn breathed easy. Freedom, at last. Yet the empty flat brought no joy. She caught herself wondering: where was he? Had he eaten? Would he manage? And for the first time, something ached in her chest. Too late.
He called sometimes, told her how he fared. She listened, surprised, tried to answer gently. When he visited, she found herself glad—not that he’d returned, but that he’d forgiven her. Without words. Just by being there. He built that bridge himself, step by step.
And now, years later, Evelyn finds the strength to speak the truth. That she had hated, raged, dreamed of running. That she’d failed. That she hadn’t loved as she should have. All those years, she’d hidden behind duty, never knowing how to be a mother.
And there he sits, just as before—restrained, grown—uttering the words that break her heart:
“I had an ordinary childhood.”
But there’s no anger in his voice. Only weariness. And forgiveness. Because he’s grown. Because he’s strong. And because he’s learned to love—even the one who never knew how to love him.
