Victor Harper was only three when his mother was taken from him. She fell, screaming, as a roaring motorbike barreled toward them, flinging Victor aside. Her red dress caught fire for an instant, then the world went black and silent.
Doctors fought for his life, stitched his broken bones, and finally coaxed his eyes open. Everyone feared the moment he would ask for his mother, but Victor stayed mute. He kept his silence for six months, until one night he awoke with a gutwrenching cry: Mum!
That scream ripped the memory from his dream and ignited the scarlet flame of his loss once more. By then Victor lived in a childrens home on the outskirts of Manchester, and he could never understand why he had been placed there. He developed a habit of standing at the large eastfacing window that looked out over the main road and the elmlined avenue, his eyes fixed on the distance.
Why are you always glued to that window? grumbled Mrs. Thompson, the elderly housekeeper, as she swished her mop.
Im waiting for Mum. Shell come for me, Victor whispered.
Mrs. Thompson sighed, Dont waste your time, love. Lets get you a cup of tea.
Victor nodded, but after the tea he slipped back to the window, flinching whenever a car rattled past the gates.
Days turned into weeks, months into years, and Victor never left his post, hoping that one grey afternoon a woman in a scarlet dress would appear, reach out with trembling hands, and say, At last Ive found you, my son!
Mrs. Thompson wept every time she looked at the boy, feeling a deeper sorrow for him than for any of the other children. Doctors, psychologists, and social workers tried to convince Victor that waiting forever was futile, that he should play, make friends, learn to read. He nodded politely, but the moment they stepped away he rushed back to the window. Mrs. Thompson lost count of how many times she saw his thin silhouette reflected in the glass, and how many times she waved a goodbye she knew would be ignored.
One rainy evening she turned toward the gate, her tired feet aching as she headed home. The only bridge over the railway was mostly deserted, but a young woman stood at its edge, staring down at the tracks. She made a sudden, almost imperceptible motion, and Mrs. Thompson understood what she intended.
Stupid thing you are, the woman muttered as she stepped closer.
What did you say? the old housekeeper asked, her eyes clouded with age.
Stupid! What were you thinking, you wretched thing? Dont you know its a terrible sin to deprive yourself of life? It wasnt your choice to end it, and youre not the one who should finish it.
But what if I cant go on? the woman shouted, desperation cracking her voice. What if Ive run out of strength, see no purpose?
Then come with me. I live just beyond the crossing. Well talk there, not out here.
Mrs. Thompson slipped away, breath held, as the womans footsteps faded behind her. Relief washed over the housekeeper; she had made it in time.
Whats your name, you daft thing? the woman asked.
Blythe.
Blythe My own daughter bore that name. She died five years ago, a fever that ate her from the inside, leaving me alone, childless, without husband or grandchildren. Im called Mrs. Thompson now. Come in, my cottage isnt a palace but its my own. Ill change, set a table, well have tea, and things will settle. Blythe smiled gratefully at the weary elder.
Thank you, Auntie Thompson, the old woman said.
Ah, dear Blythe, a womans life is never easy. Countless tears, endless hardships. Throwing yourself into extremes is the last thing you should do.
Dont misunderstand, Blythe said, warming her hands around a steaming mug, Im strong enough, but this feels like madness.
Blythe had grown up in a Yorkshire village, blissfully ignorant of sorrow until she was seven. Her parents adored her, being their only child. Then everything fell apart. Her father abandoned them, moving to another town where he had already started a second family. Her mother, crushed by abandonment, turned to drink and vented her rage on Blythe.
In retaliation, her mother began inviting strangers into their home, neglecting chores, leaving the burden of survival on Blythes small shoulders. Soon the friends stripped what little remained of her fathers modest earnings. Blythe took odd jobsweed the garden, fetch waterfor scraps of food, feeding a mother who never thanked her. She stopped expecting kindness, knowing a normal family was beyond reach.
Her father never called, never asked how they fared. Rumours said hed moved abroad, and Blythe accepted shed never see him again. Poverty kept her isolated; boys steered clear of the drunk mothers daughter, and she became a pariah in her onceprosperous village.
One night, when Blythe was fifteen, her mothers drunken companion smashed through the door. Blythe barely escaped, leaping out the window to avoid a fate she could not imagine. She hid in an old, rickety shed until dawn, then slipped back in, gathered her papers and a few coins, and fled without looking back.
By evening her estranged father, Ian Mackenzie, arrived, hoping to reunite. Horror seized him at the sight of the empty cottage, and he searched the neighbours, learning for the first time the harsh reality of his daughters life. He wept in his battered Volvo, cursing his own tardiness.
Ian had spent years as a longhaul trucker. During one route he met a wealthy, single woman named Gillian Hartley, who repeatedly hired his transport company, always insisting that Ian himself deliver the cargo. She liked his steady nature, and soon she coaxed him into a relationship. Over the next few years she bore two sons, then announced she would leave England.
Do you want to stay with us? Come away together. If not, return to your wife. I love you, Ian, and it will be hard without you, but I wont force you. Choose, she urged.
Ian chose her. He felt guilty abandoning Blythe, but he no longer wanted to split two families. Her mothers endless accusations and jealousy wore him thin, as did her increasing reliance on alcohol.
One afternoon, while Blythe was at school, Ian returned home to find his wife in bed with another man. That was the final break. He told Blythe that her father had abandoned them, never to return. Blythe, unwilling to go back, fled to London, seeking work.
A kind, lonely pensioner named Mrs. Finch took Blythe in, renting her a tiny room which Blythe paid for three months in advance. When the lease ended, Mrs. Finch offered Blythe a place as a livein caretaker, free of charge. For five years Blythe tended to the elderly woman, the last two years while Mrs. Finch lay bedridden. When Mrs. Finch passed, Blythe, overwhelmed with grief, discovered she had inherited the modest flat in a council estate on the outskirts of the city.
Later, Blythe met a young banker named George Ellis. He was charming, dependable, and Blythe felt fate finally smiling. Their twoyear marriage shattered in a single night when Blythe caught George with another woman. He refused to apologise, drove the lover away, then assaulted Blythe so brutally she ended up in A&E.
Blythe never managed to tell George she was pregnant. She lost the baby, and doctors warned she might never conceive again. With no husband, no homeher flat sold by George for a sleek new carBlythe felt the world crumble.
She left the hospital, wandered aimlessly until the iron rail of a railway bridge drew her forward. Mrs. Thompson, listening without interruption, finally spoke when Blythe fell silent.
Nothings lost yet. You still have to live, love, and find happiness. Youre young, the world is yours. Stay with me for a while; I work all day, come home only at dusk.
Blythe spent two weeks under Mrs. Thompsons roof. A new police constable, PC Gregory Hayes, arrived to meet the residents of the block. Mrs. Thompson was away, so Gregory chatted with Blythe, promising to return when the housekeeper came back. He did, and soon became a steadfast friend, calling her Gry.
One afternoon Gregory called Blythe, his voice urgent.
Do you know Ian Mackenzie?
Yes, thats my father, Blythe whispered.
Hes been looking for you for years.
The revelation changed everything. Her father, overjoyed to have found her, bought her a decent flat, opened a respectable savings account, helped secure a reputable job, and vowed to visit often.
Blythe later visited Mrs. Thompson, bringing biscuits and hoping for a chat. She found the housekeeper pale, feverish, and frail.
Somethings taken hold of me, dear Blythe! Im afraid I wont make it, the old woman croaked.
Dont worry, Auntie. Ive called an ambulance; theyll be here soon. You can count on me, Blythe replied.
Mrs. Thompson nodded weakly. You know I work at the home. Theres a boy there, Victor. He turned five last month. I want you to look after his flat when Im gone. Keep his memory safe.
Whos the boy? Blythe asked.
Youll see. Hes the one whos stood by the secondfloor window for two years, waiting for his mother in a red dress
The ambulance whisked Mrs. Thompson to the hospital, then to a rehab centre, all costs covered by Blythes new salary. When she returned to the childrens home, the oncefamiliar window was emptyVictor had been adopted.
Rumours swirled that his mother finally arrived. One crisp morning, as Victor stood at his post, a woman in a scarlet dress appeared on the road. The boys heart hammered; the woman turned, smiled, and waved.
Mummmmm! Victor shouted, running toward her, terrified she might vanish. She opened her arms, meeting him halfway.
Mum! Mother, I knew youd come! Ive waited for you forever
Blythe held the thin, trembling child, vowing never again to let him know sorrow. Time passed. Blythe and Gregory settled into a spacious house, raising Victor as he prepared for school, eagerly awaiting a little brother. Mrs. Thompson, now fully recovered, lived with them, eternally grateful for Blythes kindness. Their quiet happiness blossomed from the love they shared each day.
