He waited for her every day until he realised she would never come.
“Tom, have you decided what you’ll do this summer?” Lily perched on the edge of the table, crossing one leg over the other, her fingers laced together over the denim stretched across her knee. “Are you even listening?”
“Mhm,” Thomas murmured, his eyes fixed on the laptop screen.
“What’s so interesting?” She swung her foot impatiently.
But Thomas couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He read the message over and over, biting his lip.
“I can leave if you’re busy.” Lily pouted. “Should I go?”
She had spent the whole morning primping in front of the mirror—lining her eyes just so, squeezing into tight jeans and a white T-shirt with bold black lettering on the back: *”Don’t Worry, Be Happy!”*—just the way he liked it. And now he wouldn’t even look at her. Lily slid off the table, swaying slightly as she crossed the room. She paused at the door and glanced back. Thomas hadn’t moved, still lost in the glow of the screen.
“I’m leaving!” Her voice was sharp, laced with warning—as if to say, *You’ll regret this.*
Her hand closed around the doorknob. One last look at his turned back.
“Fine then.” She tossed her long blonde hair and strode out, slamming the door behind her.
She descended the dormitory stairs slowly, waiting for Tommy to bolt after her, to pull her back. When no footsteps came, she half-ran the rest of the way, her lip trembling. She flew past the porter and burst into the warmth of the bright afternoon sun.
Thomas hadn’t even noticed Lily was gone—or that she had been there at all. His fingers hovered over the keys as he stared at the message, at the smiling face in the profile picture. It was her—his mother. Changed, her once-vivid beauty softened by time, now painted over with thick makeup. But it was her. And yet, it was as though he had forgotten her face entirely.
Fifteen years ago, he had thought her the most beautiful mother in the world. Maybe she wasn’t the best—not as warm as he’d wished, just a boy of five—but he had loved her fiercely. Her face *had* faded from memory, but he remembered every detail of the last day he saw her.
She stood before the mirror, tall and slender in a tight blue dress. *Swish, swish*—the brush smoothed her glossy, silken hair. She tossed it back, set the brush down, and looked down at Tommy, who craned his neck to meet her gaze.
Something was off that morning. She didn’t rush him, didn’t snap at him to hurry up or call him slow for dragging his feet. She wasn’t rushing at all—and that made his chest tighten with unease.
“Are you ready?” Her voice stuttered, as if stumbling over the words.
“Are we going to nursery?” he finally asked.
“Yes. Just… a different one.”
Tommy frowned.
“It has to be this way,” she said firmly, leaving no room for questions. “Let’s go.”
And he went, scrambling to keep up. She didn’t glance back, didn’t scowl at him to hurry—and that only made the dread worse.
The drive was long. Tommy watched as tall brick buildings gave way to cottages, then to fields. Past blue-green bus shelters lining the road.
The car stopped before wrought-iron gates. A three-story building loomed ahead. *This doesn’t look like nursery*, Tommy thought.
They walked up the path to the entrance. A blue plaque hung by the door instead of the usual red. He couldn’t read yet—but if he could, he’d have known it wasn’t a nursery at all. It was a children’s home.
The long corridor smelled of porridge. “Where are the other children?” Tommy almost asked, but then they stepped into an office crammed with filing cabinets.
“Hello, Thomas Whitaker.” An elderly woman with grey hair studied him. He couldn’t tell if her look held pity or reproach.
“Well. I suppose you’ve said your farewells. You may go,” she told his mother, barely glancing at her before turning back to Tommy.
“Come. I’ll introduce you to the others.” Her hand was dry and bony.
Tommy yanked free and bolted into the hall. Empty. His mother was gone. Only the faintest trace of her perfume lingered in the air—*the best smell in the world*, he’d have found her by it—but the woman’s grip locked around his wrist and dragged him away.
“Mum! *Mum!* Let me go!” He thrashed, suddenly understanding: she had left him here. In this big, silent place.
He shook with loneliness.
Toys held no interest. Other children stared curiously. He spent the day pressed against the window, watching the path, waiting for her to return.
He waited *every* day—until, by ten, he knew she wasn’t coming. Her face blurred in his memory. The scent of her perfume vanished.
He studied hard. For her. Just in case. He was the only one from the home to make it to university. Got his own room in halls—strange, after sharing with fifteen others.
When he thought of her, it was always that last morning: her brushing her hair, the long drive, the panic.
He never searched for her. Why? She’d abandoned him without a word.
Then, today, the message came. He didn’t know what he felt—if he felt anything at all. He studied her photo: hair dyed brassy red with dark roots, thick eyeliner framing tired eyes. Lips stretched in a smile that didn’t reach them. He read the words again.
*Tom, hello. My name is Margaret Whitaker. I’m your mother. You look just like your father—when I saw your picture online, I knew it was you. I’d love to see you, to explain. Please reply.*
*”You’d love to see me. After fifteen years?”* His chest burned.
*5 p.m. at the Penguin Café, by the quay*, he typed, deliberately cold. Let her know he hadn’t forgiven her. Let her brace for indifference. Or maybe he wouldn’t go at all. Let her wait, the way he had.
But curiosity won. Thomas arrived first. He recognised her instantly. She fluttered nervously, catching his eye. When she smiled, he noticed a missing tooth—glaring—and avoided looking at her mouth.
Was this the same perfume? Cloying, sweet—it tickled his nose.
“I’m so glad you came. Are you hungry? I saw your photo online—that race you won. You still do well in school?”
“I graduated. Third year at uni now. That race was four years ago, back at the home. Took you long enough to write.”
He was harsh on purpose. Payback. She shrank, aged. Her smile faltered.
“Why… why did you leave me?”
She fiddled with her fork, her nails bright and chipped.
“I *wanted* to come back. I was your age when you were born. Your father left when you were a baby. We weren’t married. My parents lived in the country. I didn’t want to go back. It was hard. I had to work.”
“I met someone. Didn’t tell him about you. Meant to. Never did. He died two years ago.” She set the fork down, then picked it up again.
“I failed you. Could you ever forgive me? I’ve got a flat now. Halls can’t be nice.”
“Better than the home,” Thomas said flatly.
Anger swelled. He wouldn’t call her *Mum*. He *wanted* to walk out—yet couldn’t.
Somewhere, deep down, an old feeling stirred. She’d had it hard. But so had he. Alone. Surrounded by other lost children.
“You could stay with me. I don’t want anything. I work in a shop. I know you need time. I’m sorry—” Tears welled.
He didn’t move in. But he visited. Tried to forgive. Couldn’t. Still, he came back. Sometimes with Lily.
It’s lonely, living alone. Better to have someone—even someone who betrayed you. When he looked at other women, none could replace her. And when he looked at this one—worn by life, her smile brittle—he felt it. A bond no anger could break.
