Olivia hated everyone. Especially her mother.
She was certain that once she grew up and escaped this place, shed track her down. No, she wasnt planning to throw herself into her arms and cry, *”Hello, Mummy dearest!”* She planned to watch first. Then take revenge. For all those years spent in the childrens home, while Olivia wept in that miserable place, her mother had been living it up somewhere. Olivia had no doubt about that.
Shed always been in care. As far back as she could remember. Shed been moved a few timesbecause she kept fighting. Didnt matter if it was a boy or a girl in front of her. They punished her, locked her in isolation, took away sweets, but she still hated the staff, hated the other kids, hated the whole world.
By fourteen, she stopped fighting. Not because shed grown fond of anyonejust because everyone was terrified of her. Olivia got bored. Shed wander to a far corner of the homes grounds and just sit there, dreaming of the day shed find her mother and make her pay.
One day, she heard a strange melody. Olivia listened. It wasnt like anything shed heard before. She loved musicalways froze when she heard something beautiful. But this tune it was haunting, almost mournful. She couldnt figure out what was making that sound.
She stood, pushed through the acacia bushes, andoh. It was their new caretaker. Shed already mocked him a few times. What on earth was he playing? She strained to see, leaned too farand tumbled straight into the shrubs.
The man stopped playing and turned. Olivia scrambled up, dusted herself off angrily, and turned to leave.
“Want me to teach you?” he asked.
She froze. *Her?* Could she really play like that?
She took a step toward him. The caretaker looked about fifty-five. Odd, working at his age.
Olivia came back every day. At first, he just showed her how to play the flutelittle wooden ones hed carved himself. Funny-looking, but graceful.
When she finally managed a proper tune, she hugged him without thinking. Thats when they first talked properly.
His name was Nigel Whitmore, and he lived in a small cottage on the homes grounds.
“Why?” Olivia asked. “No family? No home?”
“I had everything, Olivia. A home, family Ten years ago, I lost my Eleanor. Thought Id never survive itif not for my son, Simon.”
Then he remarrieda pretty woman, but greedy. “Didnt matter, as long as Simon liked her.”
Five years later, Simon died in a car crash. The flata nice three-bedder in central Londonhad been signed over to him years before.
“Next thing I knew, my daughter-in-law packed me a suitcase and showed me the door.”
“Why didnt you fight it?”
“What for, Olivia? Everyone I loved was gone. Just waiting my turn now. Want to be with them.”
For the first time, Olivia hated someone *more* than her motherthat wretched daughter-in-law.
When Nigel learned what festered in Olivias heart, he was horrified. How did she carry all that hate?
They talked often. Slowly, Olivia softened. She stopped cutting her hair like a boys, stopped throwing punches to prove a point.
One day, he asked, “Youll be leaving next year. Any plans?”
Olivia blinked. “No. Never thought about it. Too busy planning revenge.”
“Suppose you get it,” Nigel said. “You track her downsomehow, no idea how youd afford itthen what?”
She left without answering. Didnt come back for a week. Then
“I want to build things.”
They spent the next year prepping for construction college. University was too longmaybe later.
On her last day, they sat on their bench till evening. Olivia criedfirst time in years.
“Nigel, Ill come back. Just let me finish studying.”
“Lets make a deal. Im not going anywhere. You get your life sorted first*then* visit the old man.”
“Youre not *that* old.”
He gave her a flute as a goodbye gift.
—
Fifteen years passed. Olivia married latenever found someone who really *got* her. At thirty, she had a daughter, Emily, and divorced soon after. Her joy was in that little girl.
Now, she could afford anything. So she hired a private investigator to find her mother.
The truth came faster than expected.
Her mothera poor, lonely womanhad wanted a child for herself. Two months before the birth, she learned she was ill. Back then, cancer treatment was a gamble. Doctors gave her a year. So she made a choice: signed the adoption papers right there in the hospital.
Olivia found her grave. A grand headstone with an angel.
She often thought of Nigel. But when she returned years later, he was gone. New director, new staff.
On weekends, Olivia took Emily to the park. The girl, sharp as a tack, had a knack for rescuing the world. By six, shed mastered the art of convincing Olivia to buy treatssweets for every child, bread for the ducks, ice cream in sweltering heat.
One day: “Mum, please buy sausages, a loaf, and some juice.”
Olivia stared. “Dare I ask who for this time?”
Emily sighed. “Maybe better you dont know. Less stress.”
“Were not going anywhere until you tell me.”
“Its for a man. He hasnt got a home.”
Olivia nearly fainted.
“Mum, relax! Hes just an old man. No family. Doesnt even *ask*hes embarrassed. But he knows *all* the stories and poems. Youre not *really* stingy over sausages, are you?”
Speechless, Olivia bought everything. They headed to the park.
Emily perched on a bench. “Wait here. Hes by the pond.”
Olivia spotted a shabby old man surrounded by kids. At least Emily was in sight.
That evening, as Olivia read on the sofa, she heard *that melody* again.
Silence. Thenthere. The same tune.
She bolted to Emilys room. The girl looked up, startled.
“Mum! Did I wake you?”
“Emily. What was *that*?”
“Oh! That mans teaching me the flute. Im rubbish at the tricky bit, though.” She sighed.
Olivia took the flute with trembling hands. Played the whole melody. Then burst into tears.
Emily panicked. “Mum! Was it the music? I wont play it again”
Olivia shook her head. Left, then returned with another flutedarker with age.
“Emily, where does that man live?”
“By the pond. His things are behind the bushes.”
“Get your coat.”
They found him straight away. Emily called, “Grandad!”
He emerged, squinting. “Whats wrong, love? Shouldnt be out this late.”
“Nigel Whitmore,” Olivia said softly.
He flinched. Turned slowly. Stared.
“Olivia? Cant be.”
She hugged him tight. “It is. No more feeding mosquitoes. Youre coming home.”
“Home?”
“*My* home. If not for you, Id have nothing. So its yours too.”
All the way back, Nigel wiped his eyes. Bloody things wouldnt stop. If not for Olivias steadying arm, hed have tripped.
But one thing was certain nowhe wouldnt die alone. Not anymore.
