**”Where are you, my boy?..” — A Tale of One Elderly Spring**
Margaret Whitmore fumbled her bony, weathered hand into the letterbox. Her fingers trembled, her joints creaked, but she managed to fish out the only envelope inside—a postcard. The edge was worn, the cover adorned with flowers. “*Happy Mother’s Day,*” she read with fading eyes. Slowly, she opened it, her lips moving soundlessly, as if afraid to scare away the warmth radiating from those few short lines.
*”Mum, Happy Mother’s Day. Wishing you health and warmth. Coming to see you soon. Love, Andrew.”*
Her son. Her only boy. Her Andrew. Now grey, now a grown man, long since a father himself. But in her memory—forever the child whose scarf she’d tied and whose school shirt she’d smoothed every morning.
Margaret pressed the card to her chest and whispered:
*”Soon… He’ll be here soon…”*
Like clockwork, she settled back onto the worn-out sofa by the window. Through the faded lace curtains, the same old courtyard stretched before her. Unchanged for twenty, thirty years. Only the trees had grown taller, the benches more crooked.
On her lap lay a photo album—his school uniform, graduation, university days, his young bride clutching a bouquet. His whole life had unfolded before her. And now—silence. Only occasional postcards and rushed phone calls where he was always “swamped at work,” “definitely coming this weekend.” Weekends had come and gone. Still, she waited.
Peering closer through the glass, she spotted a young woman sitting on a bench, staring mournfully down the street. Moments later, a lad approached. He spoke, he waved his hands, but she only turned away, shaking her head. Then—tears. He left, and she stayed. Alone. Just like her.
Margaret murmured under her breath:
*”Always waiting. Women do, all their lives. First our fathers, then our husbands, then our sons. And these days—our daughters too, though far less often. That’s our lot, isn’t it?”*
Memories flooded in. Waiting for her husband to return from war, lying awake at night when Andrew was away at summer camp, sprinting through the frost to the chemist when he spiked a fever. Everything for him. Every bit of herself—for him.
The table was set for his arrival: cherry pie, his favourite raspberry jam, elderflower cordial, a bowl of prawn cocktail—just like when he was little. The tablecloth pressed, the plates arranged. But no one sat down.
Tears splattered the postcard. She turned from the window and suddenly cried out:
*”I won’t sit here alone anymore! Just this once—I won’t!”*
She sprang up, grabbed her shawl, threw on her coat, and marched outside. She approached the girl, still hunched on the bench. The young woman looked up, startled.
*”Forgive me,”* Margaret whispered. *”I’m not mad. I just saw you and thought… maybe you’re like me. Maybe you’re alone today. Would you come in? I’ve tea, cake. Just for a bit of company.”*
The girl hesitated. *”Sorry, but… my boyfriend was supposed to—well, thank you. That’s very kind. But…”*
*”I understand,”* Margaret said softly, smiling. *”Don’t mind me. I just thought… maybe neither of us had to be lonely tonight. Take care, love.”*
She shuffled back up the steps. Her heart pounded like she was sitting an exam. The landing was dark—but there, leaning against the door, was a shape. She squinted. Then her heart lurched.
There, slumped against the wall, was a man. Unshaven, exhausted, like he’d travelled for miles.
Hearing footsteps, he opened his eyes. And smiled. Softly, just like when he was small, he whispered:
*”Mum… Hello, you.”*
She couldn’t hold back the tears. Her hands shook; her voice, fragile as spun sugar, escaped her lips:
*”You came… My boy came home.”*
And just like that—the world was whole again. The waiting, the loneliness, the empty windows—gone. Because the only thing that truly mattered had happened.
She’d waited. And he’d come.