It has often been recalled, many years later, how Karen Whitfield had not set foot in her sons flat for a long spell. She simply could nother tears had long since dried, the sorrow turning into a dull, unending ache and a sense of hopelessness.
Simon Whitfield, her only child, was twentyeight. He had never complained of his health, had graduated from university, held a steady job, went to the gym, and was courting a girl. Two months before the tragedy he had gone to bed and never awoke.
Karens marriage had broken when Simon was six and she was thirty; her husband, George, had been unfaithful more than once, vanished when alimony was due, and left the boy to grow up without a father. Her own parents, and later Simons grandparents, had stepped in. Suitors drifted through her life, yet she never mustered the courage to marry again.
With a modest income she first rented a tiny stall inside a supermarket to sell spectacles and frames. An ophthalmologist by training, she eventually secured a loan of twenty thousand pounds, bought a proper shop, and turned it into a respectable Optical. The premises housed her consulting room, where she examined patients and fitted glasses.
The year before the accident she bought Simon a onebedroom flat on the same block, tinkered with a little refurbishment, and thought the house might finally become a home.
One dusty afternoon she lifted the sofa to sweep the floor, and from its depths the sons mobile phone fell out. She could not locate it at first, then placed it on the charger. Later, tears welling again, she scrolled through the pictures on the screenSimon at work, laughing with friends, embracing his girlfriend. She opened Viber and, at the top of the list, a message from her old university friend Dennis stared back, accompanied by a photograph of a young woman with a little boy. The child was a deadringer for her own Simon.
Remember how we spent New Years at Lucys when we were still at college? She had a friend; I met her with a toddlershe rents a flat opposite yours. The boy looks just like yours! Sent it for you, as a memory, the text read, dated a week before the tragedy. It meant Simon had known and never told his mother.
Denniss address was known to Karen. The next day, after work, she drove to the building. The boyTommyspotted her instantly, as if a piece of herself had been reflected in his eyes. He was chasing another child on a bicycle, pleading for a turn.
Keen on a bike? Karen asked.
No, I dont have one, he answered.
A young woman approached, perhaps twentysomething, heavy on bright makeup that dulled her features.
Who are you? she demanded.
I think Im his grandmother, Karen replied.
Im Emma, his mother, the woman said, introducing herself.
Karen invited them to a nearby café. Tommy ordered icecream, Karen a coffee, Emma a tea. Over the table Emma recounted how, six years earlier, she had fled a small village at seventeen, enrolled in a technical college to train as a seamstress, and spent the New Year holidays at the home of her friend Lucy. Lucys parents were away, and Lucy was close to Dennis, who had arrived with his friend Simon to celebrate. It was then that Emma and Simon had a brief affair. Simon left his phone, promised to call, and never did. When Emma discovered she was pregnant, she called him; he arrived angry, berated her, said proper women should think about contraception, handed her money for an abortion, and told her to disappear from his life. She never saw him again.
Emma never finished college, was asked to leave the dormitory with her baby, and could not return to her villageher mother was long gone, her father and brother drank. She now rents a modest room from a solitary elderly lady, looks after her son while Emma works, and has to hand over almost every penny she earns. No place in the local nursery is available, so she works in a private dumpling shop for meagre wages, but they manage to get by.
The following day Karen moved Emma and her son into Simons former flat. From that moment her life altered entirely. Tommy was placed in a decent private nursery. Karen found herself buying clothes for both Emma and her grandson, delighting in caring for him. He mirrored Simon in looks, gestures, even his stubborn streak.
She took Emma under her wing, teaching her how to apply makeup tastefully, dress properly, keep herself and the home tidy, cook, and manage daily chores. In short, she instructed her in everything a young mother should know.
One evening, the three of them were watching television; Tommy clutched his grandmothers arm, pressed his face to her cheek and whispered, Youre my favourite. In that instant Karen realized the emptiness that had haunted her for years had finally lifted. Grief no longer pressed down like a leaden weight; she felt she had returned to a life where joy could still find room, all thanks to that small boyher grandson.
Two years later Karen and Emma escorted Tommy to his first day of primary school. Emma remained in Karens employ, now her indispensable assistant. Emma had taken a boyfriend, serious about a lasting relationship, and Karen harboured no objectionslife must go on.
It seemed, too, that Karen herself might soon walk down the aisle. An old, trusted friend was urging her toward marriage. Why not? She was still attractive, independent, with a graceful figure, a gentle temperament, and at fiftyfour she felt ready once more.
