mother’s day

“Forty. Too young to suffer with a dicky heart.” She slid my loaf of bread across the scanner.

It was too young, I agreed. Much, much too young. “But the doctors are pleased with her.” My relief was immense. I was worried the woman would think my interest was suspicious but she was happy to chat.

“Bev’s had a sad life, by all accounts. Partner’s a right old misery. Works nights. And they’ve two lads.” With her index finger she patted the side of her nose, the spidering of veins reminding me of corned beef. “One’s – shall we say – being detained at her Majesty’s pleasure.”

I reeled from the implications. She’d two sons. And a partner. Suddenly I was seized by an urge to shout, Ands he’d a daughter, too. Born one day in March, twenty-four-years-ago.

I’d been adopted, a lost childhood away. A girl, with the same dark curls and eyes, whose nerve had failed her every time she came into the store to see her.

And now, before I’d a proper chance to say hello, I might have to say goodbye. It was the wake-up call I needed.

“And the…” I swallowed before continuing, “other son?”

“Torren? Oh, he’s a good lad. As different from his brother as you’d hope to find. You might’ve seen him. Works at customer services.”

Hope shivered through me. So, I’d brothers. And Torren worked here!

One day, in time, I would be back. But today there was something else I must do.

Once through the checkout I rushed over to the flower stand and bought a tight posy of crocuses – unobtrusive, polite, understated.

With my hopes soaring, I stared at the dainty purple and yellow buds. I’d catch the bus to the hospital and this time, I wouldn’t wait to speak up…