EPILOGUE

She sat at the table in the kitchen, a cup of tea cradled in her hands. The window over the sink was open a crack, though the weather had been cool lately. She liked the smell of the ocean, a hint of salt and seaweed that filled the room.

Early morning was the hardest still. The loss could creep up on her even after all these years. She could go for days and weeks without thinking of him. But when it came back like it did today, she was crippled. She had called in sick to work because she knew the day would be a write-off: she would push papers around, try to look busy, but nothing would get done. Better to be home, where she could keep the tears to herself.

She sipped her tea and found it had gone cold. Tucking her hair behind her ear, she stood, pushing back the chair with her thighs, and went to the counter to put the kettle back on to boil. In the act of pouring the cold tea into the sink, she froze.

She heard the front door open. The distinct sound of the door creaking made her start. She had often thought she should get that fixed, oil it or whatever, but such little details seemed so unimportant somehow and she had let it go.

She turned to face the kitchen doorway. The hall ran straight to the kitchen from the front door. She heard soft footfalls approaching on the carpeted floor.

She knew she should reach for the phone on the counter-top, dial for help. The police could be there in an instant. There was an intruder in the house. She was alone. She should call the police.

But she didn’t. She stood cradling the cup in her hands, half full of ice-cold tea, waiting.

He stepped into the kitchen, his bare feet soundless on the tiles. He looked at her and smiled.

“Momma?”

The cup shattered on the tiles. Tea pooled in the cracks. She stared in disbelief. He was exactly as she had remembered: the unruly hair, the eyes that were so like her own, the sweet, crooked smile. It was all so perfect, a dream come to life. It was the dream she had every night: he came home.

“Hamish?” She could barely make herself speak the word, the only word that mattered to her: her son’s name.

“Hello, Momma. I’m home.” He stood in the doorway, looking uncertain.

It was impossible, but it didn’t matter. She rushed across the kitchen, her old yellow slippers smearing the spilled tea. She gathered the boy into her arms and crushed him close, savouring the smell of him, the weight of him. She plastered his face with kisses. It was impossible. Impossible! She didn’t care. He was back. Her Hamish had come home.

“Momma,” Hamish said in her ear.

“Yes, my beautiful boy? What is it?”

“Can you make me French toast?”