**”Where Are You, My Son?” – A Story of an Elderly Spring**
Margaret Whitmore fumbled with the letterbox, her thin, age-worn hand trembling as she reached inside. The joints creaked faintly, but she managed to pull out the only item there—a postcard. The edges were worn, the cover adorned with flowers. *”Happy Mother’s Day,”* she read, her faded eyes straining. Slowly, she unfolded it, lips moving silently as if afraid to scare away the warmth radiating from those few brief words.
*”Mum, happy Mother’s Day. Wishing you health and comfort. I’ll come soon. Love, Andrew.”*
Her son. Her only boy. Her Andrew. Now grey-haired, long grown, a father himself. Yet in her memory, he remained forever the child for whom she’d straightened his tie and smoothed his uniform before school.
Margaret pressed the card to her chest and whispered, *”Soon… He’ll be here soon…”*
Once more, as if by ritual, she settled onto the worn sofa by the window. Through the faded lace curtains, the same courtyard stretched beyond—unchanged for twenty, thirty years. Only the trees stood taller now, and the benches leaned a little more unevenly.
On her lap lay an old photo album—his school days, graduation, university, his young bride clutching a bouquet. His entire life had unfolded before her eyes. Now? Silence. Only the occasional postcard or hurried call, always the same excuses—*”So busy at work,” “Things are mad,” “I’ll come next weekend.”* Weekends had come and gone. Still, she waited.
Her gaze drifted outside to a young woman sitting alone on a bench, staring sadly down the street. Moments later, a man approached. He spoke softly, pleading, but she turned away, shaking her head. Then came tears. He left; she remained. Alone. Just like her.
Margaret sighed under her breath. *”We always wait, don’t we? Our whole lives. First our fathers, then our husbands, then our sons… And now, sometimes, our daughters. A woman’s lot, I suppose.”*
Memories surfaced—nights pacing while her husband was at war, tossing and turning when Andrew was at summer camp. Running through snow to fetch medicine when his fever spiked. Everything for him. Every ounce of herself poured into him.
The table was set: a cherry pie, his favourite jam, a pitcher of homemade lemonade, even a salad with mayonnaise, just like when he was a boy. The cloth was ironed. Plates neatly arranged. Yet no one sat down.
Tears dripped onto the postcard. She turned from the window and suddenly cried out, *”I won’t sit here alone! Just once—I refuse to be alone!”*
She snatched her shawl, threw on her coat, and hurried outside. Approaching the girl still on the bench, she hesitated, sensing the startled look.
*”Forgive me,”* Margaret murmured. *”I’m not mad. Only—I saw you, and I thought… What if you’re like me? What if today, you’re alone too? Come inside. I’ve tea, and pie. Just for company.”*
The girl blinked, uncertain. *”Sorry, but… My boyfriend was supposed to… Thank you, though. It’s kind, but—”*
*”Of course,”* Margaret said softly, smiling. *”No matter. I just… thought we might not have to be lonely today. Wishing you all the best.”*
She climbed the steps wearily, heart pounding as if before an exam. The landing was dim, but a shadow stirred by her door. Squinting, her breath caught—there, slumped against the wall, unshaven and weary, a man stirred at the sound of footsteps.
He looked up and smiled. Then, quiet as a boy, whispered, *”Mum… Hullo.”*
Tears spilled free. Her hands shook, her voice fragile as china. *”You came… My boy finally came…”*
Suddenly, the world had meaning again. The waiting, the loneliness, the empty window—gone. Because the only thing that mattered had happened. She’d waited… and he’d come home.