Seven Candles

News of Ryan’s collapse spread quickly among friends and family, and I quickly learned who genuinely cared about Noah, and who only cared about their own reputation.

Margaret called me the moment she heard, her voice frantic, but not once did she ask about her own grandson.

“Emily, tell me the truth, did your father pull the funding because of you? You need to do something, tell your father to stop, or the entire Parker name will become a laughingstock across London!”

I asked her, my voice calmer than I expected even from myself, whether she knew why my father had withdrawn the funding.

Margaret hesitated a beat, then said, evasively, “Ryan mentioned something vague about Noah, but every child gets a smack now and then, you’re overreacting.”

I hung up mid-conversation, my hands shaking with anger, but also with a clearer understanding than ever that this woman had never truly seen Noah as her grandson — only as an ornament of the Parker name.

Lisa was slightly different — she called sounding more genuinely concerned, but her first question was still whether I could “have a word with your father” to reconsider, since her husband Daniel had a small investment tied to Ryan’s company through a joint project.

“I know Ryan was wrong, I’m not defending him,” Lisa said, “but the whole family is being dragged down now, even Oliver, he’s having to change schools because we can’t afford the fees anymore.”

I said nothing, thinking of the eight-hundred-pound iPad Oliver had received just one day after Noah was slapped to the kitchen floor, and I realised no one in my husband’s family had ever truly seen my son’s pain — only the numbers affected by it.

Only one person called to ask about Noah first, to ask whether the bruise on his cheek had healed, whether he was sleeping well — that was Mrs. Eleanor, the housekeeper who had worked for the Parker family for nearly twenty years, who still slipped Noah extra biscuits whenever Ryan wasn’t home.

“That boy is the sweetest child I’ve ever looked after,” she said over the phone, her voice breaking, “I only hope he grows up in peace, whatever happens to the company.”

Mrs. Eleanor’s simple words made me cry harder than anything Margaret or Lisa had said.

About ten days after Margaret’s first call, she drove out to my father’s farm in the Cotswolds herself, unannounced, dressed as if she were attending a tea party in Kensington.

My father met her in the living room, I sat beside him, while Noah played outside with the newly hatched chicks.

“James, I know you’re angry with Ryan, I’m angry with him too,” Margaret began, her voice straining for softness, “but have you thought about the honour of both families? People are talking all across London about this. My club, my friends, everyone’s asking.”

My father looked at her, his voice calm but carrying a weight that made Margaret straighten in her seat.

“Margaret, I’ve sat here listening to you for three minutes, and you haven’t asked a single question about your own grandson. Do you know how frightened Noah was before I withdrew that funding?”

Margaret faltered, her lips moving as though to say something, but in the end she only managed a vague line about “children forgetting quickly enough.”

My father stood, signalling the conversation was over.

“You should go. When you genuinely want to know how your grandson is doing, my door is always open. But if you’re here only to talk about the family’s honour, I don’t have time for that.”

Margaret left in silence, and that was the last time she reached out to me of her own accord for many months.

Lisa was different — nearly six months later, once Ryan had settled somewhat into his new consulting work, she suddenly drove out to the farm alone, unannounced, her eyes red as she came through the gate.

“Emily, I’m sorry,” she said the moment she saw me, her voice trembling, “I know back then I only worried about Oliver and Daniel, I never once asked about Noah. Looking back now, I’m ashamed of myself.”

I invited her in, made tea, gave her time to settle.

“I’ve realised something,” Lisa went on, both hands wrapped around her cup, “growing up, my mother treated me exactly the way Ryan treated Noah, just without the hitting — always comparing me to my brother, always saying I had to try harder to deserve love. I swore I’d never let that happen to my own son, but when Ryan’s troubles hit, my first instinct was still to think about what I stood to lose, not about Noah.”

I listened without interrupting, realising Lisa was perhaps wrestling with the same family legacy Margaret had left both her children, only wearing it differently on the outside.

From that day on, Lisa began calling to check on Noah every few weeks, sometimes bringing Oliver to play on weekends, and gradually the two cousins found again the closeness that the slap and the iPad had very nearly destroyed.