Every day he waited for her, until he realized she wouldn’t come.
“Tom, have you decided what you’re doing this summer?” Emily perched on the edge of the desk, crossing one leg over the other, fingers laced together over her knee. “Are you even listening?”
“Mhm,” Tom muttered, eyes glued to 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 too busy for me.” Emily pouted. “Should I go?”
She’d spent the whole morning getting ready—dark eyeliner, skinny jeans, and that white top with *Don’t worry, be happy!* scrawled across the back, just how he liked it. And he hadn’t even glanced at her. She jumped off the desk, swaying slightly as she walked to the door, pausing to look back. Tom was still hunched over his laptop, oblivious.
“I’m leaving!” Her voice carried a warning—*you’ll regret this*.
She gripped the doorknob, glaring at his back one last time.
“Fine, then.” Emily tossed her long blonde hair and stormed out, slamming the door behind her.
She took the dorm stairs slowly, waiting for Tom to come chasing after her. Then, in frustration, she bolted down, nearly crashing into the porter before bursting outside into the warm, bright sunlight.
Tom barely noticed she was gone—that she’d even been there. His eyes were fixed on the message, on the smiling face in the profile picture. *Her.* His mum. Changed, traces of her old beauty buried under too much makeup. But still *her*. And yet, he’d almost forgotten her face…
Fifteen years ago, he’d thought she was the most beautiful mum in the world. Maybe she wasn’t the *best*—not as warm as little five-year-old Tommy wished—but he loved her fiercely. Her face had faded from memory, but he remembered that last day perfectly.
She stood in front of the mirror, tall and slender in a tight blue dress. *Swish, swish*—the brush smoothed her silky hair before she tossed it back, set the brush down, and looked at him.
That morning felt wrong. She wasn’t rushing him, didn’t scold him to hurry up or call him slow. And that made his chest tighten.
“Are we going to nursery?” he finally asked.
“Yes. Just… a different one.”
Tommy frowned. “Why?”
“Because we have to,” she said sharply, cutting off questions. “Let’s go.”
And he followed, scrambling to keep up, unease growing with every step she didn’t glance back.
The drive was long. Brick houses turned into cottages, then wooden ones. Blue-and-green bus shelters dotted the roadside.
The car stopped outside tall iron gates. *This doesn’t look like nursery,* Tommy thought.
Inside, the building smelled of porridge. “Where are the kids?” he almost asked, but then they entered an office lined with files.
“Hello, Tom Wilson.” An older woman studied him, her gaze unreadable.
He caught something—pity? disapproval?
“You’ve said your goodbyes. Off you go,” she told his mum, barely looking at her before turning back to him.
“Come. I’ll introduce you to the others.” Her grip was rough.
Tommy wrenched free and bolted. The corridor was empty. His mum was gone—just a faint hint of her perfume lingering. He’d have followed that scent anywhere, but the woman seized his wrist and dragged him away.
“Mum! Let go!” He thrashed, the truth hitting him: *She left me.*
He trembled, hollow with loneliness.
The toys, the kids staring—none of it mattered. He stood by the window all day, waiting for her to reappear.
He waited *every* day, until, by age ten, he finally understood: *She’s not coming back.*
He studied hard—for her. Just in case. He was the only one from the home to make it to uni, got a dorm room. Strange, sharing with just one person after sixteen beds in a row.
Thinking of her always brought back that last day—the hairbrush, the long ride, the panic.
He never searched for her. Why bother? She’d abandoned him. But today, a message:
*Tom, hello. I’m Helen Wilson. Your mum. You look just like your dad, so when I saw your photo online, I knew it was you. I want to explain. Please reply.*
*”You want to see me now?”* His chest burned.
*Tonight, 5 PM. The Riverside Café,* he typed coldly. Let her feel what he had. Or maybe he wouldn’t go. Let *her* wait.
But curiosity won. He spotted her instantly. She smiled nervously, catching his gaze. A missing tooth made her grin lopsided.
Her perfume was too sweet, nothing like he remembered.
“I’m glad you came. Hungry? I saw your competition photo—you looked so proud!”
“I finished school. Third year now. That competition was *four* years ago. Took you long enough.”
He was cruel, punishing her. She shrank, the smile slipping.
“Why did you leave me?”
She fiddled with her fork, bright nails trembling.
“I wanted to come back. I was your age when I had you. Your dad left when you were a baby. My parents lived in the countryside—I couldn’t go back. Then I met someone. I never told him about you. He died two years ago.” She clutched the fork tighter.
“I failed you. Can you ever forgive me? I’ve got a flat now—the dorms must be awful.”
“Better than the home,” he shot back.
He wanted to walk out. But somewhere deep, an old feeling stirred. *She struggled. But so did I.*
“You could stay with me. I don’t expect anything. I work at a shop. I’m sorry—” Tears welled.
He never moved in, though he visited. Tried to forgive. Couldn’t call her *Mum*. Just *you*—sometimes *Helen*. Too late for anything else. But he kept coming back. Sometimes with Emily.
It’s hard being alone. Even a betrayer is better than no one. He’d look at other women and feel nothing. But this one—worn-down, with hard eyes and a pitiful smile—still felt like *family*, despite it all.
