The ache of remembering, the impossibility of forgetting.
April had teased with warmth, but by early May, the air turned sharp—a sudden frost, even snow for two days. The long holiday weekend loomed.
“I’ve decided to visit Mum’s grave,” Mary said to her daughter the night before. “It’s been too long.”
“How long will you stay? Will you see family?” asked Eleanor.
“Family…” Mary hesitated. “Mum died young. I never knew my father. No brothers or sisters. I’ll stay with my cousin. She lives in our old flat. I meant to call, but I never saved her number. Maybe she never had one. Doubt she’d go anywhere. Just a day trip, really.”
“Can I come? I’ve never seen where you grew up.”
“I thought you’d have plans. But yes—let’s go together.” Mary brightened. “You lived there till you were three. Don’t you remember?”
Eleanor shook her head.
“Margaret visited us once when you were older. When she heard I wouldn’t return, she asked to live in the flat. Always dreamed of escaping the village. I helped her sort the paperwork.”
At dawn, they boarded a coach. Mary scanned the station, spotting a few half-familiar faces—none approached. The seats filled quickly.
“Are you nervous?” Eleanor asked as the engine hummed. “Facing the past, all those memories.”
“Not all memories are kind. Some are better left buried,” Mary sighed.
“You mean your father?”
“Him, too. Let’s not talk of it now.” Her tone clipped.
The coach rumbled through streets Mary once knew. The drone lulled Eleanor to sleep against the window. Mary envied her. The woods blurred past—sleep wouldn’t come. Too many ghosts, long boxed away, now rattling loose.
—
Golden sunset brushed the balcony where two girls sat.
“Last exam tomorrow, then freedom!” said Lucy. “We’ll sleep, swim, do whatever we want.”
Mary rocked on a stool, hands tucked under her thighs.
“You’re quiet. Are you ill?” Lucy squinted. “Or—?”
“Or what?” Mary snapped.
“You know. The girls whisper about you and Nathan.”
Mary froze.
“Don’t be daft. Nothing happened.” She stood abruptly. “Mum’ll be home soon. She’ll scold us for slacking.”
The key turned. Mum eyed them.
“Studied hard?”
“Yes, Aunt Jane,” Lucy chirped, squeezing past to leave.
Mary trailed Mum to the kitchen.
“You’ve gone pale. Have you eaten?”
“Not hungry.” She fled to her room.
Mary left the prom early, nausea coiled in her throat. She shivered on a bench till dawn crept in.
“You’re back?” Mum set down her knitting.
The pink dress made Mary’s face ghostly.
“Mum… I’m pregnant.”
“What? Nathan? I knew those cinema trips—”
“Not Nathan.” Mary bit her lip raw.
“Who then? Were you—?” Mum gasped, clutching her chest.
“I was scared. Everyone would’ve pointed…” Mary trembled.
Mum pulled her close.
“We’ll manage. But who—?”
“No. I hate him. If you make me marry him, I’ll drown myself.”
They wept till sunrise. Mary deferred uni, fled to the city, took a hospital job. Mum visited weekends.
When the matron noticed her belly, Mary confessed.
“No heavy lifting. Can you file?”
Mary nodded, swallowing tears.
In October, Eleanor was born. Mum met them at the hospital.
“Home now. Auntie Meg helped. She’s perfect—like a little Ellie.”
Mary shuddered returning home. Twice, she spotted Simon—he passed without recognition. She enrolled part-time.
When she saw his wedding photos in the park, the flinch faded.
“I can’t stay where everything reminds me,” she told Mum.
At three, Ellie stayed with Mum while Mary settled in the city. Memories locked away, love poured into her daughter.
At nine, Mum fell ill. Cancer took her two years later. Mary buried her beside Gran.
Auntie Meg moved into the flat when Mary refused to return.
—
Newbuildings jutted on the horizon. Mary fidgeted. Eleanor stretched awake.
“Slept at all? Is this it?”
The coach halted. They stepped onto the chilly platform.
“Straight to the cemetery. We’ll visit Auntie after,” Mary said, handing Ellie sandwiches.
The graves sprawled, unfamiliar. Mary faltered.
“Rest here.” She sank onto a bench. “Like she’s hiding from us.”
Eleanor vanished between headstones. Silence pressed—heavy, fleeting. Mary’s age now matched Mum’s last.
“Simon deserved his early grave,” she thought. Then guilt. Fourteen years dead, and she’d wasted fear on a ghost.
But the old fury simmered. He’d stolen her life. Every near-romance fled—her body remembered what her mind tried to bury.
A memory surfaced: ice-slick streets, his arm “helping” her home, the hallway crush, his hand stifling her scream—
“Mum?” Ellie’s voice yanked her back. “You found someone you know?”
Mary stared at the black granite smirk. “Just… an old face.”
Mum’s grave was tidy—Auntie’s doing.
Meg panicked at their knock.
“Here for the flat?”
“Just thanking you for tending the grave.”
Meg relaxed. “Not family, but close. Fancy signing it over to me?”
Mary promised to visit. They caught the last coach home.
“Glad you left that place,” Ellie said, microwaving pasta.
Mary saw the granite face again. She’d never tell Ellie whose blood she carried—some secrets were too heavy to pass on.
Memories were like ghosts—dormant till summoned, then sharp as yesterday. They’d never fade.
They say you live as long as you’re remembered. His wife had moved on, his grave untended. The best revenge would be forgetting—but Mary couldn’t. Ellie was his echo in her life.
“So, have you picked a uni?” Mary asked.
And life, as it must, carried on.
