**”Where Are You, My Boy?…” – A Tale of One Elderly Spring**
Margaret Whitmore fumbled with trembling fingers as she reached into the letterbox. Her knuckles ached, her skin thin as parchment, but she pulled out the only envelope inside—a postcard. Its edges were worn, violets printed on the front. “Happy Mother’s Day,” she whispered, squinting at the faint words. Hands unsteady, she opened it, her lips moving silently as if afraid to scare away the fragile warmth radiating from those few scribbled lines.
*”Mum, happy Mother’s Day. Wishing you health and comfort. Will visit soon. Love, Andrew.”*
Her son. Her only boy. Her Andrew. Grey-haired now, grown, a father himself. But in her mind—forever the child she buttoned into his school uniform, forever the little boy she wrapped a scarf around before sending him off into the cold.
She clutched the postcard to her chest.
*Soon… He’ll be here soon…*
As always, she settled onto the worn settee by the window. Through the faded lace curtains, the courtyard stretched out, unchanged—as if frozen twenty, thirty years ago. Only the trees had grown taller, the benches more crooked.
On her lap lay the photo album. His first day in school blazer, graduation, university, his young bride holding lilies. She had watched his whole life unfold. Now—silence. Just the occasional card, the rushed calls where he was always *”swamped at work,”* always *”definitely next weekend.”* The weekends came and went. And still, she waited.
A movement caught her eye. A young woman sat on a bench, staring bleakly down the street. Soon, a man approached—talking, pleading, while she turned away, shaking her head. Then tears. He left. She stayed. Alone. Just like Margaret.
She murmured to no one, *”All women wait. Our whole lives. First our fathers, then our husbands, then our sons. Rarely our daughters… That’s just a woman’s lot, isn’t it?”*
Memories rose like ghosts. Waiting for her husband after the war. Lying awake nights when Andrew was at summer camp. Running to the chemist in the snow when he spiked a fever. Everything for him. Every breath.
The table was set for his return—cherry pie, his favourite jam, compote, coronation chicken salad, just like when he was small. Ironed linens. Plates laid out. But no one came.
A tear splashed onto the postcard. She turned from the window, sudden fury rising—
*”I won’t sit alone! Not today! Just once—I refuse to be alone!”*
She snatched her shawl, threw on her coat, and marched outside. The girl still sat there, now startled as Margaret approached.
“I’m sorry,” Margaret said softly. “I’m not mad. Only—I saw you sitting here, and I thought… Perhaps you’re like me. Perhaps you’re alone today. Would you care for tea? I’ve a pie. Just… human company.”
The girl hesitated. “It’s kind, but… my boyfriend was meant to— Well. Thank you, but…”
“Of course,” Margaret smiled faintly. “No matter. I only thought… perhaps we needn’t be lonely tonight. All the best to you.”
Back up the stairs she went, heart hammering like a girl before exams. The landing was dark—but a shadow leaned against her door. Unshaven, weary, as if he’d travelled miles.
He stirred at her footsteps, opened tired eyes, and smiled—just like he had as a boy.
*”Mum… Hello.”*
She couldn’t stop the tears. Hands shaking, voice breaking—
*”You came… You came home…”*
And just like that, the world made sense again. The waiting, the loneliness, the empty windows—all gone. Because the one thing that mattered had happened.
She had waited. And he had come.