Every day he waited for her, until he realised she wasn’t coming.
“Tom, have you decided what you’re doing this summer?” Emily perched on the edge of the desk, crossing her legs, fingers laced over her jean-clad knee. “Are you even listening to me?”
“Mmm,” Tom murmured, eyes fixed on his laptop screen.
“What’s so interesting?” She swung her foot impatiently.
But Tom couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He kept rereading the message, biting his lip.
“I can leave if you’re not bothered,” Emily huffed, pouting. “Should I go?”
She’d spent all morning getting ready—smoky eyes, tight jeans, a white top with “Don’t worry, be happy!” scrawled across the back in bold black letters, just how he liked it. And he hadn’t even looked at her. Emily slid off the desk, swaying slightly as she crossed the room. Pausing at the door, she glanced back. Tom hadn’t moved, still lost in his laptop.
“I’m leaving!” Her voice was sharp, a warning—*you’ll regret this*.
She grabbed the door handle, casting one last look at his back.
“Fine, then.” Tossing her long blonde hair, she stormed out, slamming the door behind her.
She took the dorm stairs slowly, half-expecting Tom to come running after her. When he didn’t, she bolted down, lips pressed tight against the sting of disappointment. She flew past the porter and burst into the warm embrace of sunlight outside.
Tom hadn’t even noticed she was gone—or that she’d been there at all. He kept staring at the message, at the smiling profile picture. It was *her*—his mum. Older now, traces of her old beauty clinging beneath heavy makeup. But it was her. And yet, he felt like he’d forgotten her face…
Fifteen years ago, she’d been the most beautiful woman in the world to him. Maybe she wasn’t the warmest mum, not the cuddly kind five-year-old Tom had wished for, but he’d loved her desperately. Her face had faded from memory, but he remembered *that* day perfectly.
She’d stood before the mirror, tall and slim in a fitted blue dress. *Swish, swish*—the brush smoothed through her glossy hair. She flung it over her shoulder, set the brush down, and looked at him, little Tom staring up.
Something felt off. She wasn’t rushing him like usual—no snappy *”Hurry up or we’ll be late for nursery!”* No calling him slow or lazy. The absence of her impatience made his chest tighten.
“Are we going to nursery?” he finally asked.
“Yes. Just… a different one.”
Tom frowned.
“It has to be this way,” she said firmly—no room for questions. “Let’s go.”
He hurried after her, unnerved by the silence. She didn’t glance back, didn’t scold him for lagging. Everything felt wrong.
They drove for ages. Brick towers gave way to terraced houses, then wooden cottages. Blue-and-green bus shelters dotted the roadside. The car stopped at iron gates leading to a big three-storey building. *Nothing like nursery*, Tom thought.
They walked up the path to the entrance, where a blue plaque hung instead of the red one at his old nursery. He couldn’t read it, but if he could, he’d have seen it wasn’t a nursery—it was a children’s home.
The corridor smelled of porridge. “Where are the kids?” Tom almost asked—but then they stepped into an office crammed with filing cabinets.
“Hello, Tom Wright.” An older woman with grey hair studied him. Her gaze held something—pity? Disapproval?
“Well then. Say your goodbyes.” She glanced at his mum, then back at him. “Come, I’ll introduce you to the others.” Her grip was dry, unyielding.
Tom yanked free and bolted. The hall was empty. His mum was gone. Only the faintest trace of her perfume lingered—the most beautiful smell. He could’ve tracked her by it, but the woman’s hand clamped around his wrist again, dragging him away.
“Mum! *Mum!* Let me go!” He fought, suddenly understanding—she’d left him here, in this big, cold place.
Trembling, he ignored the toys, the curious stares. He stood by the window all day, waiting for her to reappear on the path.
He waited every day—until, by age ten, he accepted she wasn’t coming back. Her face blurred in his memory. The scent of her perfume faded.
He studied hard. *For her.* Just in case she ever came back. He was the only one from the home to get into uni, earning a dorm room. Strange, sharing with just one person—back at the home, sixteen beds filled the sleeping quarters.
Thinking of her always brought back that last morning: the brush through her hair, the long drive, the suffocating panic.
He never looked for her. Why bother? She’d abandoned him. But today, a message arrived. He kept staring at her photo—dyed copper hair with dark roots, heavily lined eyes, bright lipsticked smile that didn’t reach her gaze.
*Tom, hello. I’m Sarah Wright, your mum. You look just like your dad—when I saw your photo online, I knew it was you. I’d love to see you, explain everything. Please reply.*
*”Love to see me? After fifteen years?”* Rage simmered inside him.
*Today, 5 PM. The Penguin Café, riverside,* he replied, cold and detached. Let her know he wasn’t rushing into her arms. He *deserved* to know why she’d done it. Maybe he wouldn’t even go. Let *her* wait, like he had.
But curiosity won. He spotted her instantly at the café. She brightened, eyes pleading for his attention. When she smiled, he noticed a missing tooth and forced himself not to stare.
Her perfume was cloying—was it the same one from back then?
“I’m glad you came. Are you hungry? I saw your photo—that race you won. You’ve done so well!”
“I finished school. Third year at uni now. That race was four years ago, at the home. Took you long enough to message.”
He was cruel on purpose, punishing her for the abandonment. She shrank, the smile slipping.
“Why did you… leave me?”
She fidgeted with her fork, nails chipped and bright.
“I wanted to come back, really. I was your age when you were born. Your dad… left when you were tiny. My parents lived in the countryside—I couldn’t go back. It was hard. I met someone. Hid that I had you. Then 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. The dorm can’t be great—”
“Better than the home,” Tom shot back.
Anger swelled. He couldn’t even call her *Mum*. He wanted to walk out—but couldn’t. Deep down, something stirred. *She struggled. But so did I.*
“You could stay with me. I don’t want anything. I work at a shop. I know you need time—” Tears welled.
Tom didn’t move in, but he visited. He *tried* to understand, to forgive—but couldn’t call her Mum. Just *you* or the stiff *her*. And she tried too hard, too late.
*”Too late!”* he wanted to scream. But he stayed silent. Kept coming back. Sometimes with Emily.
It’s lonely, living alone. Even a betraying parent is better than nothing. Tom looked at other women and couldn’t picture any as his mum. But this one—weathered, with tired eyes and a desperate smile—felt like *his*, beyond all the hurt.
