**”Where Are You, My Boy?…” — A Tale of an Elderly Spring**
Mary Whitmore fumbled with her frail, age-worn fingers as she reached into the postbox. Her hands trembled, joints creaking, but she managed to pull out the sole envelope—a greeting card. Its edges were worn, the cover adorned with fading flowers. *”Happy Mother’s Day,”* she read, squinting. Slowly, she opened it, her lips moving soundlessly, as if afraid to disturb the fragile warmth radiating from those brief lines.
*”Mum, sending love on your special day. Wishing you health and warmth. I’ll see you soon. Love, Andrew.”*
Her son. Her only boy. Her Andrew. Now grey-haired, grown, a father himself. But in her memory—forever a child, the one whose scarf she’d tie and whose school shirt she’d smooth down each morning.
Mary pressed the card to her chest and whispered, *”Soon… He’s coming soon…”*
As if following an old ritual, she settled onto the threadbare couch by the window. Through the thinning lace curtains, she could see the courtyard—unchanged, just as it had been twenty, thirty years ago. Only the trees stood taller now, the benches more crooked.
On her lap lay the photo album. His school uniform, graduation day, university, his young bride clutching a bouquet. His whole life had unfolded before her. And now—silence. Just the occasional card or hurried call—always *”swamped at work,”* *”definitely this weekend.”* Weekends came and went. Still, she waited.
Then she spotted her—a young woman sitting on a bench, staring blankly down the street. A man soon approached, speaking urgently, but she only shook her head, turning away. Then tears. He left. She stayed behind. Alone. Just like Mary.
*”All women wait,”* Mary murmured. *”Our whole lives. First fathers, then husbands, then sons. Rarely daughters. That’s just our lot.”*
Memories surfaced. Waiting for her husband to return from war, sleepless nights when Andrew was at summer camp, racing through frost to fetch medicine when he spiked a fever. Everything for him. Her whole self.
The table was set for his visit—cherry pie, his favourite jam, homemade lemonade, even the old-fashioned salad he loved as a boy. The ironed tablecloth. Plates arranged. But no one sat down.
Tears splashed onto the card. Suddenly, she jerked away from the window and cried out: *”I won’t sit alone! Not today! Just once—not alone!”*
She grabbed her shawl, flung on her coat, and marched outside. The girl still sat there, startled as Mary approached.
*”Forgive me,”* Mary whispered. *”I’m not mad. Only… I saw you and thought—what if you’re like me? What if you’re alone tonight? Come inside. There’s tea, cake. Just… company.”*
The girl blinked, flustered. *”I’m sorry, but… my boyfriend was meant to— Anyway. Thank you. That’s kind. But—”*
*”Of course,”* Mary smiled softly. *”I understand. I just… thought perhaps we needn’t be lonely tonight. Take care.”*
She climbed the stairs slowly, heart pounding like before an exam. The landing was dim, but a shadow slumped by her door—a man, unshaven, weary, as if from a long journey.
Hearing her steps, he stirred. Opened his eyes. And smiled. Then, just like a boy again, he whispered: *”Mum… Hello.”*
Her hands shook. Her voice, thin as glass, broke free: *”You’re here… My boy’s here.”*
And the world made sense again. The waiting, the loneliness, the hollow windows—gone. Because the only thing that mattered had happened. She’d waited. And he’d come home.
