**Diary Entry – 12th October**
“Rory, have you decided what you’re doing this summer?” Imogen perched on the edge of the desk, crossing her legs, fingers laced over her denim-clad knee. “Are you even listening?”
“Mhm,” Rory muttered, eyes glued to his laptop screen.
“What’s so fascinating?” She swung her foot impatiently.
But Rory couldn’t believe what he was reading. He kept scanning the message, lips pressed tight.
“I can leave if you’re busy,” Imogen huffed. “Shall I go?”
She’d spent all morning primping—smudged eyeliner just right, skinny jeans, a white tee with *Don’t worry, be happy!* printed across the back, the way he liked. And he hadn’t even glanced at her. She slid off the desk, swaying slightly as she crossed the room. At the door, she turned back. Rory hadn’t moved.
“I’m leaving!” Her voice held a warning—like he’d regret this.
She grabbed the handle, casting one last look at his hunched shoulders.
“Fine then.” Imogen shook her long blonde hair and marched out, slamming the door behind her.
She took the dorm stairs slowly, half-expecting him to chase after her. When he didn’t, she bolted down, lips trembling. Flew past the porter, out into the blinding sunshine.
Rory hadn’t noticed she’d left—hadn’t noticed she was ever there. His eyes were fixed on the message, the smiling profile picture. It was *her*—his mum. Changed, with faded traces of beauty masked by too much makeup. But undeniably her. And yet, he’d forgotten her face.
Fifteen years ago, he’d thought her the prettiest woman alive. Maybe not the warmest, not the mum five-year-old Rory wished for—but he’d loved her desperately. Her face had blurred in his memory, but that last day stayed sharp.
She’d stood before the mirror, tall and slender in a fitted blue dress. *Brush, brush*—her glossy hair smoothed under the bristles. She tossed her hair back, set the brush aside, and looked down at him.
That morning felt off. No rushing, no snapping about kindergarten, no calling him “slow” or “lazy.” The calm made his chest tighten.
“Ready?” Her voice wobbled.
“Are we going to nursery?”
“Yes. A different one.”
His stomach lurched. “*Why*?”
“Because we have to.” Her tone cut off questions. “Come on.”
He hurried after her, uneasy. She didn’t glance back, didn’t scold him for lagging. Nothing felt right.
They drove for ages. The tall brick buildings gave way to terraced houses, then countryside. Blue-and-green bus shelters dotted the road.
The car stopped outside iron gates. The building didn’t look like a nursery.
They walked up the path. A blue plaque hung by the door—not red, like his old nursery. He couldn’t read, but if he could, he’d have seen it wasn’t a nursery at all. It was a children’s home.
The corridor smelled of porridge. “Where are the kids?” he almost asked—but then they entered an office crammed with files.
“Hello, Rory Evans.” An older woman studied him, her gaze unreadable.
“I think you’ve said your goodbyes. You can go now,” she told his mum, barely glancing at her.
“Come. I’ll introduce you to the others.” The woman’s grip was dry and firm.
Rory wrenched free and bolted. The corridor was empty. His mum was gone—just the faintest trace of her perfume lingering. He’d have followed that scent anywhere, but the woman seized his wrist and dragged him forward.
“Mum! *Mum!* Let go!” He thrashed, the truth crashing over him. She’d left him here.
He spent the day at the window, waiting for her to reappear on the path.
He waited every day. By ten, he knew she wasn’t coming. Her face had faded; the perfume scent vanished.
He studied hard—for her. Just in case she ever returned. He was the only one from the home to make uni. Got a dorm room. Strange, sharing with just one person after sixteen beds.
Thinking of her always brought back that last morning—the hair-brushing, the long drive, the hollow panic.
He never searched for her. Why bother? She’d abandoned him without a single visit.
Then the message came.
*Rory, hello. I’m Eleanor Evans. Your mum. You look just like your father—I knew it was you when I saw your photo online. I’d love to see you, to explain. Please reply.*
“*Now* she wants to see me?” His chest burned. After fifteen years of waiting, of aching for answers.
*Today, 5 p.m. The Penguin Café, riverside.* He kept it cold. Let her know he wasn’t some eager child. Maybe he wouldn’t even go. Let her wait like he had.
Curiosity won.
He spotted her instantly. She brightened, eyes pleading. When she smiled, he noticed the missing tooth. He looked away.
Was this the same perfume? The cloying sweetness made his nose itch.
“I’m so glad you came. Hungry? I saw your old sports day photo—you won, didn’t you? Do you like uni?”
“I graduated years ago. That photo’s from the home. Took you long enough to reach out.”
He was harsh, punishing her. She shrank, her smile wilting.
“Why did you leave me?”
She fiddled with her fork, nails chipped and bright.
“I wanted to take you back. I was your age when you were born. Your dad left when you were a baby. My parents lived in the countryside—I refused to go back. I had to work.
“Then I met someone. I didn’t tell him about you. Didn’t know how. He died two years ago.” Her voice cracked. “I’m sorry. Could you ever forgive me? I’ve got a flat now. The dorms can’t be great—”
“Better than the home.” His glare could’ve scorched her.
Rage boiled in him. He couldn’t call her *mum*. Wanted to walk out. But something deeper tugged—a buried feeling he couldn’t name.
“You can visit. I don’t expect anything. I work at a shop now. I just… I regret it all.” Her tears fell.
He never moved in, though he visited. Tried to justify her, to understand. Couldn’t. Never called her *mum*—just stumbled between *you* and stiff *you*. She tried too hard. *Too late*, he wanted to shout. But he kept returning. Sometimes with Imogen.
Living alone is hard. You need someone—even the one who failed you. Rory looked at other women and couldn’t picture them as his mother. But this one—weathered, with sharp eyes and a pitiful smile—still felt like *home*, no matter the hurt.
**Lesson:** Some bonds outlast sense. You can spend years nursing the wound, but blood still calls to blood. Maybe forgiveness isn’t about them—it’s about setting yourself free.
