When Thomas was only three, his mother died before his eyes. A roaring motorbike came barreling down the lane, and she shoved him away just in time, only to be flung into the path of the beast. Her red dress burst into flame, then everything went black and silent.
The doctors did all they could, and after a long, stunned stretch Thomas finally opened his eyes. Everyone feared the moment when he would call for his mum, but the boy kept quiet. He stayed silent for half a year, until one night he woke with a scream: Mum! The memory rushed back, and the image of that scarlet dress burned again in his mind.
By then Thomas had been placed in a childrens home in Manchester, and he never understood why hed been sent there. He developed a habit of standing by the big window that looked out onto the main road and the central avenue, his eyes fixed on the distance.
Why are you always standing there? grumbled Mrs. Thatcher, the elderly matron, as she swept the hall with practiced strokes.
Im waiting for my mother. Shell come for me, Thomas replied.
Ah, dear, Mrs. Thatcher sighed. Dont waste your time. Come, have a cup of tea.
So be it, he answered, then slipped back to the window, flinching whenever someone approached the home.
Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and Thomas never left his post. He waited for the grey day to burst into colour, for a woman in a red dress to appear, stretch out her arms and say, At last Ive found you, my son!
Mrs. Thatcher watched the boy with a tenderness she didnt feel for the other children. She, the doctors and school psychologists, tried to explain that waiting forever for a mother who would never return was unhealthy, that there were games, friends, studies to take his mind off the window. Thomas nodded, smiled politely, but as soon as they turned away he was back at his perch. Mrs. Thatcher lost count of how many times she saw his silhouette through the glass, how many farewells she waved as she left for her shift.
One afternoon, after a long day, Mrs. Thatcher turned and trudged home across the old railway bridge near Sheffield. Few people lingered there, but today a young woman stood on the bridge, staring down at the tracks. She made a sudden, almost imperceptible motion and Mrs. Thatcher sensed what she intended.
You daft thing, the older woman called, stepping closer.
What did you say? the stranger asked, her eyes dull with fatigue.
Daft! What are you thinking, you reckless soul? Do you know its a grave sin to deny yourself life? You didnt choose this, youre not the one who should end it.
And if I cant go on? the woman snapped, voice shaking. If Ive no strength left, no purpose?
Then come with me. I live just across the footbridge. We can talk there. Theres no point standing here.
Mrs. Thatcher slipped away quietly, holding her breath. Behind her, the womans footsteps faded, and the matron breathed a sigh of relief, glad shed arrived in time.
Whats your name, you fool? the woman demanded.
Ethel, she answered.
Ethel My daughter was called that. She died five years ago, sick and then a fire took her life. It left me a widow, childless, with no grandchildren or husband. Im called Thatcher now. Come in, this is my home. Not a palace, but its mine. Ill change and set a table, well have dinner and tea, and things will settle. Thank you, Ethel, the old woman said, smiling warmly.
Thank you, Aunt Thatcher, Ethel replied.
Ah, dear child, life on this earth is hard for a woman. So many tears, so much suffering. But throwing yourself into the abyss is never the answer.
Dont get the wrong idea, Ethel said, warming her hands over a steaming mug. Im strong, but this feels like madness. I cant make sense of it
Ethel grew up in a village in Yorkshire, not knowing grief until she was seven. Her parents adored her; she was their only child. Then everything fell apart. Her father left, taking with him a second family and children hed already started elsewhere. Her mother, unable to bear the blow, turned to drink and took out her anger on Ethel.
In revenge on her estranged husband, she began bringing strangers into the house, abandoning chores, and leaving everything to the young girl. Soon the husbands drinking companions stripped what little remained of the fathers estate.
Ethel took odd jobs for neighbours weeding gardens, helping with chores and was paid in food. She fed her erratic mother without ever receiving gratitude. She stopped expecting kind words, knowing a normal family with a mother would never materialise.
Her father never called, never asked how she lived. Some said he had moved abroad, and Ethel realised she would never see him again.
The humiliation and degradation Ethel endured were known only to her. Poverty kept her from friends, and local boys avoided the daughter of a drunken mother, leaving her in solitary misery. Her village was relatively welloff, and families like hers were rare, making her a pariah from a young age.
One night, when fifteenyearold Ethel lay in her cramped room, her mothers drunken companion burst in. By sheer luck she slipped out a window and escaped certain disaster.
She spent the predawn hours in an old, collapsing shed, then, once the house fell silent, crept to her room, gathered her documents, grabbed a few coins hidden in a small stash, packed some clothes and fled, never to return.
That evening her father, John, arrived to see his daughter. He was horrified by what he found, searched the village, but no one knew where Ethel was. He finally learned how his girl had survived all those years. He wept in his expensive car, cursing himself for returning so late.
John had been a longhaul truck driver. On one route he met a wealthy, single woman named Grace. She used his transport firm repeatedly, insisting John be the driver. He impressed her both in looks and character, and Grace did everything to win him over. Over a few years they had two sons, then Grace announced she would leave England.
Do you want to live with us? Come with me. If not, go back to your wife. I love you, John, and life will be hard without you, but I wont force you. Choose, she said.
John chose her. He regretted leaving his daughter, but he no longer wanted to split his life between two families. Ethels mother had worn him down with endless jealousy and drunken tirades.
One day, while Ethel was at school, John came home to find his wife with another man. That was the last straw. When Ethel returned home later, she saw only her drunken mother, who told her the father had abandoned them forever. Ethel refused to go back.
She moved to London, looking for work. Luck smiled when a kind, lonely widow, Mrs. Zinnia Hart, let her rent a tiny room, which Ethel paid three months in advance. When the lease ended, Zinnia asked the diligent tenant to look after her, offering free board.
For five years Ethel cared for her landlady; the last two years Zinnia was bedridden. When Zinnia passed, Ethel, moved by grief, discovered she had inherited a small flat on the outskirts of the city.
Later, Ethel met a young banker named Yuri Clarke. He was charming, steady, and she thought fate was finally smiling. Two happy years later, she caught him with another woman. He did not apologise, drove the lover away and then beat Ethel so badly she ended up in hospital.
She never managed to tell him she was pregnant. She lost the baby, and doctors warned she might never carry another child. She had no family, no home, and even the flat shed inherited was sold by Yuri, who bought a flashy car. Ethel, still in love, didnt protest.
When she left the hospital, she wandered aimlessly until she found herself on a railway bridge. There, Mrs. Thatcher, who had been listening without interrupting, said, Thats something, but you still have to live, understand? Youre young, you have everything aheadlove, happiness. Stay with me for a while; I work all day and only get home at night.
Ethel spent two weeks at the matrons house. A new police constable, Gregory Finch, came to introduce himself to the residents of the block. Mrs. Thatcher wasnt home, so he spoke with Ethel, promising to return when the lady was back. He kept his word, visiting often, and soon became a trusted friend to Ethel.
One day Gregory called Ethel. Do you know Ivan Saveliev? he asked.
Yes, thats my father, she answered.
Hes been looking for you for years.
With Gregorys help, her father returned, delighted that his daughter had been found. He bought her a decent flat, opened a solid savings account, secured her a respectable job, and promised to visit more often.
Ethel decided to check on Mrs. Thatcher, bringing a small gift and some tea. She arrived to find the matron bedridden with a high fever, weak and frail.
Looks like Ive taken a turn for the worse, dear! Mrs. Thatcher croaked. Im afraid I wont pull through.
No, Aunt Thatcher, Ive called an ambulance. Theyll be here soon, I promise. Do you trust me?
I do. Listen, I work at the home. Theres a boy there, Thomas. Hes just turned five. I want to leave my flat to him. Keep it safe for him, will you?
What boy is that? How will I know him?
Youll see. Hes the one who has been at that secondfloor window for two years, waiting for his mum in a red dress
The ambulance whisked Mrs. Thatcher away to the hospital, then to a convalescent home. Ethel paid for everythingtreatment and a holiday stay. When the matron finally returned to work, the window Thomas used to stare out of was empty; someone had adopted him.
Stories swirled that his mother had finally appeared. One morning, just as Thomas rose to his vigil, a silhouette in a red dress materialised on the road. He gasped, pressed his hand to his pounding heart, and the woman in the scarlet dress looked straight at him, waving.
Mum! he shouted, sprinting towards her, terrified she might vanish. She opened her arms, rushing to meet him.
Mum! Mother, I knew youd come! Ive waited for you, mam
Ethel wept, cradling the thin boy, determined that he would never again know such sorrow. Time passed. Ethel and Gregory lived in a large house, raising Thomas, who was now preparing for school and eagerly awaiting a younger brother. With them lived the evergrateful Mrs. Thatcher, who thanked Ethel and Gregory every day. Their quiet happiness lay in the love they gave each other, a simple, steady warmth that filled their home.
