Every day he waited for her, until he realised she wasn’t coming.
“Tom, have you decided what you’re doing this summer?” Jenny perched on the edge of the desk, crossing her legs, fingers clasped over her denim-clad knee. “Are you even listening?”
“Mhm,” Tom muttered, eyes glued to his laptop screen.
“What’s so interesting?” Jenny swung her foot impatiently.
But Tom couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He read the message over and over, biting his lip.
“I can leave if you’re busy,” Jenny huffed, pouting. “Should I go?”
She’d spent all morning getting ready—touching up her eyeliner, slipping into skinny jeans and a white T-shirt with bold black lettering on the back: *Don’t Worry, Be Happy!* Just how he liked it. And he hadn’t even glanced at her. Jenny slid off the desk, swaying her hips as she crossed the room. She paused at the door and looked back. Tom was still hunched over his laptop, oblivious.
“I’m leaving!” Her voice carried a warning, as if to say, *You’ll regret this.*
Her hand closed around the doorknob. One last glance at his back.
“Fine then.” She tossed her long blonde hair and marched out, slamming the door behind her.
She took the dorm stairs slowly, half-expecting Tom to rush after her, to call her back. Then, in a burst of frustration, she sprinted down, lips pressed tight. She flew past the porter and out into the warm, bright sunlight.
Tom hadn’t even noticed she’d gone—or that she’d been there at all. He kept rereading the message, staring at the smiling face in the profile picture. It was *her*—his mum. Changed, but still faintly recognisable beneath heavy makeup. Yet it *was* her. And he’d thought he’d forgotten her face.
Fifteen years ago, he’d believed she was the most beautiful woman in the world. Maybe she wasn’t the gentlest mother, not the cuddly kind he’d longed for as a five-year-old, but he’d loved her fiercely. Her features had blurred in his memory, but the last day he’d seen her? He remembered *everything*.
She’d stood before the mirror, tall and slim in a tight blue dress. *Swish, swish*—the brush smoothing out her silky hair. She’d tossed it back, set the brush down, and looked down at him with an odd expression.
That morning had been different. She hadn’t rushed him, hadn’t snapped at him to hurry up so they wouldn’t be late for nursery. She hadn’t called him slow or lazy for dawdling. And that only made the dread in his chest grow.
“Are you ready?” Her voice wavered slightly.
“Are we going to nursery?” he asked.
“Yes. Just… a different one.”
Tom frowned.
“It has to be this way,” she said firmly, shutting down questions. “Let’s go.”
And he followed, hurrying to keep up. She didn’t look back, didn’t scold him—that wasn’t like her. Something was wrong.
They drove for ages. He watched as brick buildings gave way to low houses, then wooden ones. Blue-and-green bus shelters lined the road.
The car stopped in front of iron gates leading to a tall, grey building. *This doesn’t look like nursery,* Tom thought.
They walked up the path to the entrance, where a blue sign hung by the door. Not red, like at his old nursery. He couldn’t read, but if he could, he’d have seen it wasn’t a nursery at all. It was a children’s home.
Inside, the hall smelled of porridge. “Where are the kids?” he almost asked—but then they entered an office stacked with files.
“Hello, Tom Carter.” An older woman with grey hair studied him. There was something in her gaze—pity, or disapproval.
“You’ve said your goodbyes, then. Go on.” She gestured to his mum, barely glancing at her before turning back to Tom.
“Come. I’ll introduce you to the others.” Her grip was bony and dry.
Tom tore free and bolted. The corridor was empty—his mum was already gone. Just a trace of her perfume lingered. The woman caught his wrist again, pulling him away.
“Mum! Mum! Let me go!” He thrashed, suddenly understanding: she’d left him. *Here.* Alone in this cold, big place.
He trembled with loneliness.
He ignored the toys, the curious stares of other kids. He pressed his face to the window, waiting for her to reappear on the path.
He waited *every day*, until, around age ten, he gave up. Her face had faded. The scent of her perfume was gone.
He worked hard in school—for her. Just in case she ever came back. He was the only one who made it to university. Got a dorm room. Strange, sharing with just one person after sixteen beds in the home.
Thinking of her, he always remembered that last day. The brush in her hair. The long drive. The terror.
He never searched for her. Why bother? She’d abandoned him without a word. But today, a message. And now he didn’t know what to feel—if he felt anything at all. He studied her photo. Dyed copper hair with dark roots. Heavy eyeliner. Lips stretched into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. He read the words again.
*Tom, hello. My name is Linda Carter. I’m your mum. You look so much like your dad—when I saw your photo online, I knew it was you. I want to see you. To explain. Please answer.*
*”She wants to see me now? After fifteen years?”* His chest burned.
*Meet me at The Seagull Café on the pier. 5 PM.*
He made it sound cold. Let her know he hadn’t forgiven her. Let her brace for rejection. Or maybe he wouldn’t go at all. Let *her* wait, like he had.
But curiosity won.
He spotted her straight away. She looked eager, nervous. When she smiled, he noticed a missing tooth. He tried not to stare.
Was this the same perfume? The cloying sweetness made his nose itch.
“I’m glad you came. Are you hungry? I saw your old competition photos online—first place! You’ve done so well.”
“I finished school. I’m at uni now. Those competitions were years ago, in the home. Took you long enough to message.”
He spoke harshly, punishing her. She shrank, aged. Her smile faltered.
“Why did you leave me?”
She fiddled with a fork, nails chipped and bright.
“I wanted to come back. I was your age when I had you. Your dad… he left when you were a baby. We weren’t married. My parents lived in the countryside. I didn’t want to go back. It was hard. Then I met someone. I didn’t tell him about you. He died two years ago.” She set the fork down, then picked it up again.
“I failed you. Can you ever forgive me? I have a flat now—the dorm must be cramped?”
“Better than the home.” His glare could’ve burned her.
He wanted to walk away. But something tiny stirred in his chest—something old and buried. She’d had it rough. But so had he. Alone, surrounded by other abandoned kids.
“You could stay with me. I don’t want anything. I work in a shop. I know you need time—”
Her eyes glistened.
Tom didn’t move in, though he visited. He tried to forgive her, to understand. But he couldn’t call her *Mum*. The word stuck in his throat. *Too late*, he wanted to scream. But he stayed quiet. He kept coming back. Sometimes with Jenny.
Living alone is hard. You need someone—even someone who’s failed you. He’d look at other women and feel nothing. But this one, worn down by life, with hard eyes and a sad smile? She was *his*. And no amount of anger could change that.
