The ache of memory, the impossibility of forgetting
April had been kind with its warmth, but by early May, the temperature dropped sharply—snow even fell for two days. The long holiday weekend loomed.
“I’ve decided to visit Mum’s grave. It’s been too long,” Mary told her daughter the day before.
“Will you stay long? With relatives?” asked Alice.
“Relatives…” Mary paused. “Mum died young. I never knew Dad. No brothers or sisters either. I’ll stay with Auntie Nora. She lives in our old flat. I meant to call, warn her, but I never saved her number. Or maybe she never had one. Doubt she’d go anywhere. Really, I planned to go and come back the same day.”
“Can I come? I’ve never seen where you grew up.”
“I thought you had plans. Didn’t want to impose. Let’s go. It’ll be nicer together.” Mary brightened. “You lived there till you were three. Don’t remember?”
“No.” Alice shook her head.
“Auntie Nora visited us once. You were older then. When she heard I wasn’t coming back, she asked to live in our flat. Always dreamed of escaping the countryside. I went with her to help sort the paperwork. We’ll stay there if we don’t make it back in time.”
At dawn, they left for the train station. Waiting for the coach, Mary glanced around—a few familiar faces, but no one approached. Nor could she place their names. The bus filled quickly, nearly every seat taken.
“You’re nervous, aren’t you?” Alice leaned in as they settled. “Facing the past, the memories.”
“Not all memories are good. Some are better left buried,” Mary sighed.
“You mean Dad?”
“Him, among other things. Let’s not talk about it now.” Her tone was sharper than intended.
“Fine.” Alice slumped back, staring ahead.
The coach rolled from the station, through the city Mary once called home. The engine’s hum lulled Alice to sleep, her head drooping against Mary’s shoulder.
Mary envied her. She watched the blur of trees outside, too unsettled to rest. Years of repressed memories now clawed their way up, unsettling her, making her question this return to her youth…
***
Evening sun warmed the faces of two friends on the balcony.
“Last exam tomorrow, then freedom!” Lena grinned. “We’ll apply to uni, wait it out—actively.” She nudged Mary. “Sleep in, swim, do whatever we want.”
Mary swayed on the stool, hands beneath her.
“What’s wrong? You look pale.”
“Nothing.”
“Come on. The girls whisper about you and Nick…”
Mary froze.
“Was it him?”
“Don’t be daft. Nothing happened.” Mary stood abruptly. “Mum’ll be home soon. She’ll moan if we’re not revising.”
The lock clicked—her mother, back from work.
“Finished studying?” she asked, no greeting.
“Yes, Auntie Claire.” Lena squeezed past. “I’ll go, then?”
“Go on. Chat tomorrow.”
Mary followed her mum to the kitchen.
“You look peaky. Not eating?”
“Not hungry. Hot.” Mary retreated to her room.
***
Mary left the prom early, nausea rising in the stuffy hall. She sat on a bench till the chill forced her home.
“You’re back?” Her mum set aside her knitting.
Mary sat beside her.
“Something wrong?”
The pink dress only highlighted her pallor.
“Mum… I’m pregnant.”
“What? Nick? I knew those cinema trips—”
“It’s not Nick.” Mary bit her lip.
“Who, then? Were you—?”
“I don’t know. I was scared. Everyone would’ve pointed…”
Her mother pulled her close.
“We’ll go to the hospital. How far along?”
“I went. Negative blood type—too risky. And it’s late.”
“Christ.” Her mum exhaled. “We’ll manage. Just tell me—who?”
Mary pulled away.
“No. I hate him. If you think I’d marry him, I’d rather drown.”
“Don’t talk like that.”
They wept till dawn. Mary wouldn’t apply to uni that year. She’d move to the city, work—her mum would help.
***
At the hospital, the matron noticed Mary’s swelling belly.
“You shouldn’t lift buckets. No husband, I suppose? I’ll transfer you to reception.”
In October, Alice was born.
“Look at her—our little beauty,” her mum whispered.
Mary shuddered returning home. Twice she saw him—he passed without recognition. A year later, she enrolled remotely.
When she learned he’d married (a bride smirking in the park), the dread eased.
“I can’t stay where everything reminds me,” she told her mum.
When Alice turned three, Mary left—returning only to bury her mother years later.
***
The bus slowed past cranes and new builds. Mary tensed.
Alice yawned. “Slept at all? That our town?”
They stepped off, stretching stiff legs.
“To Auntie Nora’s?”
“No. The cemetery first.”
Alice munched a sandwich. “You?”
“Not hungry.”
Mary’s pulse raced. The graves had multiplied—they searched, disoriented.
“Rest here,” Mary said, sinking onto a bench.
Alice wandered off.
“Don’t go far!”
Silence pressed in. Mary neared the age her mother died. If she saw him now, she’d spit her pain in his face.
“Found it!” Alice called.
Mary stumbled, knee striking a railing.
Then she saw it—the black granite, that smirk. Fourteen years dead.
Relief. Then shame for it.
Alice appeared. “Someone you knew?”
“No. Just… someone.”
Her mother’s grave was tidy—Auntie Nora’s doing.
“You back for the flat?” Nora fretted.
“Just visiting. Thanks for tending the graves.”
Nora relaxed. “Not strangers, are we? If you sell the country house, I’ll split it.”
They caught the last bus home.
“Glad you left,” Alice said, heating pasta.
Mary recalled the face on stone. She’d never tell Alice who he was—to speak it would relive it.
Memory fades to numbness, till a trigger brings it screaming back. They say you live as long as you’re remembered. His wife had forgotten. The best revenge was oblivion.
But Alice was his echo. His eyes, his smile—blessedly, nothing more.
Mary would carry this splinter forever.
If she couldn’t forget, she’d force herself not to dwell.
“Decided on uni yet?” she asked.
Life carried on.
