Margaret’s POV
"You'll never accept what I really am."
The words echo in my head for days. Playing on repeat like a song I can't escape. Haunting every quiet moment.
I hear them when I wake up. When I brush my teeth. When I stare at the ceiling at 3 AM, unable to sleep.
My son's voice. Tired. Broken. Accusing me of something I don't want to examine too closely. I can't shake them. Can't rationalize them away. Can't pretend the conversation didn't happen.
The phone call ended four days ago. Feels like four years. Every hour stretches longer than the last.
I stand in front of the bathroom mirror. Study the woman staring back at me. When did I become someone my own son couldn't talk to?
The face in the glass looks older than I remember. Lines around the eyes that weren't there before. Gray at the temples I've been meaning to color.
I used to be his safe place. His soft landing. The person he ran to when the world got too hard.
Now he hangs up on me. Accuses me of things I don't understand. Looks at me like I'm a stranger wearing his mother's face.
The doubts creep in late at night. When Richard is snoring beside me and the house settles into silence.
Did I make mistakes?
The question circles endlessly. Picking at wounds I thought had healed years ago.
Was there something in his childhood I missed? Some sign I should have seen? Some moment where everything went wrong?
Maybe I wasn't a good enough mother. Maybe I was too distant. Too focused on my own life. Too busy with committees and charities and social obligations.
Maybe if I'd been more attentive. More loving. More... something. Blaze would have turned out differently.
The thought surfaces before I can stop it. Ugly and honest and everything I've been trying not to feel.
Different. Normal. The son we expected instead of the one we got.
I hate myself for thinking about it. Hate myself more for not being able to stop.
What kind of mother wishes her child was someone else? What kind of person looks at their only son and sees disappointment?
But I can't help it. Can't rewire twenty-seven years of expectations. Can't pretend that everything is fine when clearly, devastatingly, nothing is.
Dinner is quiet. Richard cuts his steak with surgical precision. I push vegetables around my plate.
The silence feels heavier than usual. Loaded with things we're both avoiding.
I test the waters. Casual. Careful. The way I've learned to approach difficult topics after thirty years of marriage.
"I've been thinking about Blaze." My voice sounds strange in the quiet dining room. "About... everything."
Richard doesn't look up from his plate. Keeps cutting. Keeps chewing. Like I haven't spoken at all.
"What's there to think about?" His tone is flat. Final. "He's got Sophie now. Everything is figured out. Just how we wanted."
Figured out. Like our son's identity is a math problem. An equation that just needs the right solution.
"But what if…"
"Margaret."
The knife scrapes against porcelain. A sound that sets my teeth on edge. Richard's jaw turns to granite.
"I'd rather eat glass than discuss this." His eyes finally meet mine. Cold. Warning. "Our son is fine. End of conversation."
I don't push. Learned long ago that pushing Richard leads nowhere good. He shuts down. Walls go up. Days of silence follow.
Nothing productive would come from forcing the issue. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.
"Of course." I return to my vegetables. "You're right."
The lies come easier than they used to. Small mercies.
We finish dinner without another word. Richard retreats to his study. Scotch and sports highlights. His nightly routine. I clean the kitchen. Load the dishwasher. Wipe counters that don't need wiping.
Anything to avoid the quiet. Anything to keep my hands busy while my mind races. Later, when the house is dark and Richard's snores echo down the hallway, I find myself climbing the stairs.
Blaze's childhood bedroom sits at the end of the hall. Door closed. Untouched since he left for college eight years ago.
I push it open. Step inside. Let the memories wash over me.
Hockey trophies line the shelves. Dozens of them. Bronze and silver and gold. Proof of all the games I watched. All the early mornings and long drives and freezing arenas.
Team photos cover one wall. My son, in various stages of growth. Missing teeth giving way to braces giving way to that devastating smile.
His bed is still made with the same comforter. Navy blue with white stripes. His choice at fifteen. A stuffed bear sits against the pillows. Worn from years of love. He slept with it until he was nine.
I sink onto the mattress and run my fingers over the pillowcase. It doesn't smell like him anymore. Just dust and time and absence.
I miss him. God, I miss my son so much it feels like drowning.
Not the man who hung up on me. Not the stranger who accuses me of crimes I don't fully understand.
I miss my little boy. The one who ran to me with scraped knees. Who crawled into my bed during thunderstorms. Who looked at me like I had all the answers.
When did I lose that boy?
I can't imagine my life without Blaze. Can't just erase my only child. Pretend he doesn't exist because he turned out differently than planned.
He's my son. My baby. The person I loved before he even had a name.
I need him. Need him in ways I've never been able to articulate. Need his voice on holidays. His laugh at family dinners. His presence in my life.
But the boy in these photos. Gap-toothed smile. Bright eyes. Pure joy radiating from every frame. Is that the same man who looked at me with such pain? Such resignation? Such utter exhaustion?
I pick up a photo from his nightstand. Eight years old. First hockey trophy. Grinning like he'd won the lottery.
Is the Blaze I have now really this funny, lovely boy I raised?
Or did I lose him somewhere along the way? Some moment I didn't notice. Some conversation I handled wrong. Some silent lesson I taught without meaning to.
The photo blurs. Tears I didn't feel coming slip down my cheeks.
I don't know how to fix this. Don't know how to be the mother he needs when I don't understand what that means.
Don't know how to accept something that everything I was raised to believe says is wrong.
But I know I can't lose him again. Can't survive another nine years of silence. Can't let my only child become a stranger.
I just don't know how to tell him that. Or if he'd even believe me if I did.