Every day he waited for her, until he finally realised she wasn’t coming.
“Tom, have you decided what you’re doing this summer?” Emma perched on the edge of the table, crossing one leg over the other, lacing her fingers together over her knee, clad in tight jeans. “Are you even listening?”
“Mhm,” Tom murmured, eyes fixed on his laptop screen.
“What’s so interesting?” Emma swung her leg impatiently.
But Tom could barely believe what he was seeing. Again and again, he reread the message, biting his lip.
“Should I just leave if you’re too busy for me?” Emma pouted. “Do you want me to go?”
She had spent all morning getting ready—applying her eyeliner just right, slipping into fitted jeans and a white T-shirt with bold black letters across the back: “Don’t worry, be happy!” Just the way he liked. And yet, he barely glanced at her. Emma slid off the table, swaying slightly as she crossed the room, pausing at the door to look back. Tom still hadn’t moved, lost in the glow of his screen.
“I’m leaving!” Her voice carried a warning, a silent “*You’ll regret this*.”
Her hand closed around the doorknob. One last glance at Tom’s turned back.
“Well, fine.” She tossed her long blonde hair and stormed out, slamming the door behind her.
She took the dorm stairs slowly at first, half-expecting Tom to chase after her. But when no footsteps followed, she rushed down, swallowing the lump in her throat. Bursting past the porter’s desk, she spilled out into the warm, bright sunlight.
Tom didn’t even notice she had gone—had barely registered she’d been there at all. He kept staring at the message, at the smiling face in the profile picture. *Her*. His mother. Changed, aged, her once-vibrant beauty now masked by heavy makeup—but undeniably her. And yet, he could hardly remember her face.
Fifteen years ago, he had believed she was the most beautiful mother in the world. Maybe she hadn’t been the kindest, not as warm as he’d wanted his five-year-old self to believe—but he had loved her desperately. Her features had blurred in his mind over time, but he remembered that last day with painful clarity.
She had stood before the mirror, tall and graceful in a tight blue dress. *Brush, brush*—the soft strokes smoothing her silky hair. She tossed it over her shoulder, set the brush down, and looked down at little Tommy, gazing up at her.
Something had felt wrong that morning. She didn’t hurry him along, didn’t snap at him to dress faster so they wouldn’t be late. Instead, she was slow, deliberate. And that silence made his chest tighten.
“Are we going to nursery?” he finally asked.
“Yes. Just… a different one.”
Tommy frowned.
“We have to,” she said firmly, shutting down any questions. “Come on.”
And he followed, quick steps trying to keep up. But she didn’t glance back, didn’t scold him for lagging—and the unease grew.
The drive was long. He watched as brick buildings gave way to small houses, then open fields. The car finally stopped outside tall iron gates. “*This doesn’t look like nursery*,” Tommy thought.
They walked up the path to the entrance, where a blue sign hung—unlike the red one at his old nursery. He couldn’t read it yet. If he had, he’d have seen it wasn’t a nursery at all. It was a children’s home.
Inside, the corridor smelled of porridge. “Where are the other kids?” he almost asked—but then they entered an office lined with files.
“Hello, Tom Wilkins.” The grey-haired woman studied him with something between pity and reproach.
“I suppose you’ve said your goodbyes. You may go,” she told his mother.
A bony hand took Tommy’s. “I’ll introduce you to the others.”
He wrenched free and bolted into the hall—but she was already gone. Only the faintest trace of her perfume lingered. He would have followed that scent anywhere, but the woman’s grip closed around his wrist again, pulling him away.
“Mum! Mum! Let go!” He thrashed, the truth crashing down: she’d left him here, in this cold, unfamiliar place.
He spent the day pressed against the window, waiting for her to reappear on the path.
He waited every day after that—until, by ten, he understood. She wasn’t coming. Her face faded, the memory 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. The dorm room, shared with just one other, felt almost luxuriously private after sixteen beds in a row.
When he thought of his mother, he always saw that last morning. The brush in her hair, the long drive, the crushing emptiness.
He never looked for her. Why bother? She’d abandoned him without a word. Until today. A short message, and now—he wasn’t sure what he felt, or if he felt anything at all. He studied her photo: garish red hair with dark roots, heavy eyeliner, lips stretched in a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
*Tom, hello. It’s Linda Wilkins. Your mother. You look so much like your father—when I saw your photo online, I knew it was you. I need to see you, to explain. Please reply.*
“*You need to see me now? After fifteen years?*” The words screamed inside him.
*Today, 5 PM. The Penguin Café, riverside.* He replied coldly, deliberately. Let her know he wasn’t eager. Let her brace for rejection.
But curiosity won. He went.
He recognised her instantly. She smiled too much, desperate for his approval. A missing tooth made him avoid looking at her mouth. The cloying perfume wasn’t the one he remembered.
“You came,” she said. “Are you hungry? What can I get you? I saw your photo—that competition you won years ago. Such a bright boy.”
“I finished school. Third year at uni. That competition was at the home. Took you long enough to reach out.” He spoke sharply, punishing her.
She shrank under his words.
“So why did you leave me?”
Her fingers trembled around her fork. “I wanted to come back. I was your age when you were born. Your dad left when you were a baby. My parents were in the countryside—I couldn’t go back. I met someone. Didn’t tell him about you. Then it was too late.” She hesitated. “He died two years ago.”
“It’s my fault. Can you ever forgive me? I have a flat now—the dorm must be awful.”
“Better than the home.” His glare burned.
Part of him wanted to walk away. But beneath the anger, something else flickered—a buried, stubborn warmth. She had struggled. So had he.
“You could stay with me,” she offered. “I work in a shop. I don’t expect anything. I’m so sorry—” Tears welled.
He never moved in. But he visited. He tried to forgive, to understand, yet couldn’t call her *Mum*. Sometimes he brought Emma.
Loneliness was worse than flawed love. She wasn’t the mother he’d dreamed of—just a tired woman with a hollow smile. And yet, when he looked at her, he felt it: a bond no anger could erase.
Some wounds never fully heal. But even the deepest scars can learn to bend.
