For thirty years, each time the natal date came round
The regret, always simmering, became profound.
For what had seemed the fairest course for all back then,
When parents shamed brought pressure, she would not again
Consider. Claims that she was far to young to be
A mother though the shotgun waved insistently.
And so her son was given, others gained the joy
Of smiles, first words, first steps, he had become their boy.
When married later on, she’d foolishly agreed
That family should wait, her spouse must first succeed
In his profession, see them debt-free and secure.
That hoped-for rainbow’s end was only heartless lure.
It moved, always it moved, and proved to be excuse.
The truth! Her husband simply could not see the use
Of raising tiny liabilities. Their cause
Was finally crushed for good by early menopause.
She now faced life alone her husband dead
From ceaseless striving for the top. What lay ahead?
Much more than ever now, ‘if-onlys’ filled her muse.
She wished she’d kept her son. To hell with other’s views.
By now he’d have a wife and children holding dear
Her stand-in. That posterity was lost was clear.
THE PHONE, male voice, strange how she sensed what was to come.
Stress for both though gold alloyed. “It seems that you’re my mum.”