dâyou not think?â
Silence.
âBy the way, Iâm not just some nutter.â
The line went dead.
Sean exhaled a big, long, fed-up breath, and looked down to his Yellow Pages. He drew a line through the company name and number and moved down to the next. He was almost at the bottom. It was taking fucking ages, this.
Itâs the menus, you see.
Those fucking menus.
THE JACKET
She stopped at the shop window for the third time that week. And how could she not? That jacket. Dark grey cashmere with a sumptuous silk lining, sparkling with an all-over sequin embellishment. It was divine. Oh, she hadnât worn anything like that in years, nor parted with that kind of money. £1,950, said the price. She shook her head. She could afford it, but then she wouldnât be able to afford much else. She had her priorities straight. Ha! Changed days.
She caught her reflection in the window. Yes, a lot had changed, both inside and out. There once was a day when all these things mattered, things like this jacket in the window, things like what she was pictured wearing, who she was pictured with and where. There once was a day when she cared more about those things than her own flesh and blood. When she gave up her son. Her baby.
But now her time in the spotlight was over, while her friends bathed in the love of their children and grandchildren. And here she stood alone at a shop window. On the outside looking in. She looked at her reflection once more and wondered if she had left it too late. Where was he now? Her boy. Did he have the same name, the one that she gave him? Did he have children of his own? Did they ask after their grandmother? Did he miss her?
She found out.
It wasnât easy. It wasnât as simple as typing his name into a computer and up came his address. Things were different back then. Back then, if you gave up your child, you gave them up, that was it. They were gone. It was what made them so easy to let go, and so hard to get back. So it cost her. Private investigators, the type of people she thought youâd only find in films. She hired one, who failed, then another, who also failed, until the third one managed to track him down.
Australia.
She wrote a letter, the old-fashioned way. He wrote back, and then they decided to meet. She bought a ticket, got on a plane, and off she went.
âItâs me,â she said when he opened the door. âItâs Mum.â She spread her arms and welcomed his embrace. It must have been an unremarkable sight to any passers-by, a mum visiting her son, but it was the dream of saying those words that had kept her going when she felt like giving up.
She sat at his dining-room table as he handed her a cup of tea and a biscuit with a smile. They had some small talk. They chatted about the weather, the weather Down Under, the weather back home. They chatted about her journey over and the films she watched during the flight. And he apologised for not being able to pick her up from the airport, due to work stuff getting in the way.
âSorry,â he said.
Apologising for his career coming before his own flesh and blood.
âNo,â she said, reaching across the table to hold his hand. âIâm sorry.â
He laughed warm-heartedly and squeezed her hand back. He knew what she meant, but he told her it was fine. He knew that things were different in those days, there were fewer choices, there were expectations that women were required to meet. He understood, and it was fine, honestly.
But she apologised again. She apologised for depriving him of a mother, a mother to love and to receive love from. She regretted causing the pain he must have felt, the longing, but she hoped that today could be the start of making up for everything that was lost between them.
He wiped a tear from his eye. He assured her that he was never deprived of a motherâs love. He had been blessed with a wonderful adoptive mum and dad who loved him
Silence.
âBy the way, Iâm not just some nutter.â
The line went dead.
Sean exhaled a big, long, fed-up breath, and looked down to his Yellow Pages. He drew a line through the company name and number and moved down to the next. He was almost at the bottom. It was taking fucking ages, this.
Itâs the menus, you see.
Those fucking menus.
THE JACKET
She stopped at the shop window for the third time that week. And how could she not? That jacket. Dark grey cashmere with a sumptuous silk lining, sparkling with an all-over sequin embellishment. It was divine. Oh, she hadnât worn anything like that in years, nor parted with that kind of money. £1,950, said the price. She shook her head. She could afford it, but then she wouldnât be able to afford much else. She had her priorities straight. Ha! Changed days.
She caught her reflection in the window. Yes, a lot had changed, both inside and out. There once was a day when all these things mattered, things like this jacket in the window, things like what she was pictured wearing, who she was pictured with and where. There once was a day when she cared more about those things than her own flesh and blood. When she gave up her son. Her baby.
But now her time in the spotlight was over, while her friends bathed in the love of their children and grandchildren. And here she stood alone at a shop window. On the outside looking in. She looked at her reflection once more and wondered if she had left it too late. Where was he now? Her boy. Did he have the same name, the one that she gave him? Did he have children of his own? Did they ask after their grandmother? Did he miss her?
She found out.
It wasnât easy. It wasnât as simple as typing his name into a computer and up came his address. Things were different back then. Back then, if you gave up your child, you gave them up, that was it. They were gone. It was what made them so easy to let go, and so hard to get back. So it cost her. Private investigators, the type of people she thought youâd only find in films. She hired one, who failed, then another, who also failed, until the third one managed to track him down.
Australia.
She wrote a letter, the old-fashioned way. He wrote back, and then they decided to meet. She bought a ticket, got on a plane, and off she went.
âItâs me,â she said when he opened the door. âItâs Mum.â She spread her arms and welcomed his embrace. It must have been an unremarkable sight to any passers-by, a mum visiting her son, but it was the dream of saying those words that had kept her going when she felt like giving up.
She sat at his dining-room table as he handed her a cup of tea and a biscuit with a smile. They had some small talk. They chatted about the weather, the weather Down Under, the weather back home. They chatted about her journey over and the films she watched during the flight. And he apologised for not being able to pick her up from the airport, due to work stuff getting in the way.
âSorry,â he said.
Apologising for his career coming before his own flesh and blood.
âNo,â she said, reaching across the table to hold his hand. âIâm sorry.â
He laughed warm-heartedly and squeezed her hand back. He knew what she meant, but he told her it was fine. He knew that things were different in those days, there were fewer choices, there were expectations that women were required to meet. He understood, and it was fine, honestly.
But she apologised again. She apologised for depriving him of a mother, a mother to love and to receive love from. She regretted causing the pain he must have felt, the longing, but she hoped that today could be the start of making up for everything that was lost between them.
He wiped a tear from his eye. He assured her that he was never deprived of a motherâs love. He had been blessed with a wonderful adoptive mum and dad who loved him
Similar Books
