I was only three when I lost my mother. I watched her die right before my eyes as she tried to hurl me from a roaring motorbike that had barreled toward us. Her red dress caught fire for a heartbeat, then everything went black and silent.
The doctors did all they could, and after a long spell I finally opened my eyes. No one dared to ask me about my mum, fearing Id start calling out for her, but I kept quiet. I stayed silent for six months, until one night I woke up with a shrill cry: Mum!
In that dream the memory surged back, the red flame flared again in my mind. By then I was living in a childrens home and I could not understand why Id been placed there. I developed a habit of standing by the large window that looked out onto the road and the main lane, straining my eyes into the distance.
Why are you always standing there? grumbled the old matron, Mrs. Thompson, as she swept the floor with deft strokes.
Im waiting for my mother. Shell come for me, I replied.
Ha! Youll wait forever, she sighed. Come, Ill get you a cup of tea.
Alright, I said, then I went back to the window, flinching whenever someone approached the home.
Days turned into weeks, months slipped by, and I never left my post, hoping that one grey, joyless day a red dress would appear, my mother would stretch out her arms and say, At last Ive found you, my boy!
Mrs. Thompson wept for me more than for the other children, but she could do nothing to ease my ache. Doctors, psychologists, and others kept lecturing me that I shouldnt wait forever, that I shouldnt camp by that window day and night, that there were games and friends to occupy me.
I would nod politely, agree, and the moment they turned away I was back at the window. Mrs. Thompson often watched the silhouette of a boy through the glass; she lost count of how many times she waved a farewell as she left for work.
One evening she turned, glanced at the child, and set off home, her tired feet moving slowly. Her path crossed a footbridge over the railway, a spot few lingered at, but a young woman stood there, staring down. She made a subtle motion, and Mrs. Thompson understood what she intended.
You fool, the woman snapped, stepping closer.
What did you say? the stranger demanded, her faded eyes hard as steel.
Fool! What were you thinking, you scoundrel? Dont you know its a grave sin to rob yourself of life? It isnt yours to end! she shouted.
What if I cant go on? the woman cried out, panic in her voice. If I have no strength left? If I see no point in anything?
Then come with me. I live just past the crossing. We can talk there. Theres no point standing here.
Mrs. Thompson slipped away silently, holding her breath. Behind her the womans footsteps faded, and she breathed a sigh of relief, grateful to have escaped in time.
Whats your name, you daft thing? the woman asked.
Ethel, I answered.
Ethel My own daughter bore that name. She died five years ago, a terrible illness took her in a year, left me an orphan. Im alone nowno children, no husband, no grandchildren. They call me Mrs. Thompson. Come in, this isnt a palace but its my home. Ill change and set a table, well have dinner and tea, and everything will settle. Ethel smiled gratefully at the elderly woman.
Thank you, Auntie Thompson, I said.
Ah, dear, lifes always hard on a woman. So many tears, so much suffering. But flinging yourself into extremes is never the answer, she replied, pouring a fragrant cup of tea.
I was born in a village and lived carefree until I was seven. My parents loved me; I was their only child. Then everything fell apart. My father abandoned us, slipping away to a second family with other children. My mother, crushed by the blow, turned to drink and took her anger out on me.
In revenge on her estranged husband, she began bringing strangers into our home. She abandoned all chores, leaving everything to my tiny shoulders. Soon, the drunken men stripped away the little we had left from my father.
I took odd jobs for neighboursweed pulling, odd errandsand was paid in food. I fed my wayward mother without any thanks. I stopped hoping for a proper family; I knew a normal life was impossible.
My father never called, never asked how we fared. Some said hed moved abroad, and I accepted Id never see him again.
Years of insult and humiliation weighed on me alone. Poverty kept me friendless; the local lads avoided the daughter of a drunk mother. My village was relatively welloff, and families like mine were few, so I became an outcast early on.
One night, a drunk from my mothers circle barged into my small room. By sheer luck I shoved him out a window and escaped. I hid in an old, leaning shed until dawn, then slipped back inside when the house fell silent, grabbed my documents, some cash from a hidden stash, a few belongings, and fled, never to return.
That evening my father, John, arrived, hoping to meet his daughter. He was horrified by what he saw, scoured the neighbourhood, but no one knew where I was. He finally learned how Id lived all those years. He wept in his expensive car, cursing himself for returning so late.
John had been a longhaul trucker. On one run he met a wealthy, unmarried woman named Grace. She used his transport firm repeatedly, insisting John be the driver. She liked his looks and his temperament, and she did everything to win him over. Within a few years she bore him two sons, then announced she was leaving England.
Come live with us, or go back to your wife. I love you, Johnny, and itll be hard without you, but I wont force you. Choose, she said.
John chose her. He felt sorry for abandoning his daughter but didnt want to split his life between two families. Moreover, my mothers constant accusations and jealousy wore him down, and her drinking only made things worse.
One day, while I was at school, John came home to find his wife in the arms of another man. That sealed everything. When I returned, I found my mother drunk, telling me our father had left and would never come back. I refused to go back home.
I moved to the city and sought work. Luck smiled when I met a kindly old lady, Mrs. Whitaker, who let me rent a tiny room, which I paid for three months in advance. When the lease ended, she offered me a place as her livein caretaker, rentfree.
For five years I tended to her, and in the last two she was bedridden. When she passed, I, overwhelmed with grief, discovered she had left her modest flat to me, albeit on the edge of town.
Later I met a young banker named George. I thought fate finally smiled. Our twoyear marriage ended abruptly when I caught him with another woman. He never apologized, drove the lover away, then beat me so badly I ended up in hospital.
I never managed to tell George I was pregnant. I lost the baby, and doctors warned I might never carry another child. I had no family, no home, no flatGeorge sold the one Id inherited and bought a flashy car. I stayed silent, because I still loved him, believing wed spend our lives together.
After being discharged, I wandered aimlessly until I found myself on a railway bridge. Mrs. Thompson listened to my story without interrupting, then said, Its not the end. You still have to live, you know? Youre young, your future is aheadlove, happiness. Stay with me for a while; I work all day and only get home at night.
I spent two weeks at Mrs. Thompsons. A new constable, Inspector Graham, came round to meet the locals. Mrs. Thompson wasnt home, so he talked to me, promising to return when she did. He kept his word, visiting often, and soon became a trusted friend, calling me Olly.
One day Inspector Graham called, Do you know Ivan Savelyev?
Yes, thats my father, I replied.
Hes been looking for you for years.
With that, everything changed. My father, overjoyed to have found his daughter, bought me a decent flat, opened a solid bank account, helped me secure a respectable job, and promised to visit more often.
I went to see Mrs. Thompson with some treats, only to find her bedridden, feverish and weak.
Somethings taken me down, dear! Im scared I wont pull through, she whispered.
Dont worry, Auntie. Ive called an ambulance; theyll be here soon. Trust me, I said.
She smiled faintly. You know I work at the home, right? Theres a boy there, Victor. Hes just turned five. I want to leave my flat to him, put it in his name. Let it stay with you.
What boy is that? How will I know him?
Youll know. Hes the one whos been standing by the secondfloor window for two years, waiting for his mother in a red dress
The ambulance whisked Mrs. Thompson to hospital, then a convalescent home. I paid for her treatment and the stay. When she returned to work, the window was emptyVictor had been adopted.
The children kept saying his mother finally came. One morning, as Victor took up his post, a womans silhouette appeared on the road. He clutched his heart and shouted, Mum!
The lady in the red dress turned, smiled, and waved.
Mumaa! Victor cried, sprinting toward her, fearing shed vanish. She opened her arms, rushing to meet him.
Mother! Mother, I knew youd come! Ive waited for you forever
I held the thin little body, tears streaming, resolved to shield him from any more sorrow. Time passed. Victor grew, ready for school, eager for a little brother. He lived with me, Inspector Graham, and the evergrateful Mrs. Thompson, whose thanks never faded. Our quiet happiness lay in the love we gave each other day after day.
