The rain hammered down, turning the world a harsher shade of grey. The black iron gate rattled in the gusty wind. Cold water shimmered on the flagstone path. In the midst of it all, an old mother stood, draped in a sodden grey coat, her hands clinging to the front of her dress, as if bracing herself for another heartbreak.
Her son didnt embrace her. He didnt kiss her on the forehead. He didnt invite her inside. Instead, he shoved a heavy hessian sack into her arms, so abruptly she nearly stumbled.
Take the flour and go, Mum.
That was all. No kindness. No tenderness. No meeting of her eyes. Only that harsh voice a man uses when hes desperate to cover up his pain before anyone can spy it.
The old woman peered up at him, rain dripping from her hair. For a moment, her face folded, not from the weight of the sack, but from the distance she felt in her son. Because mothers always sense when their sons are pushing them away to shield something far worse than anger.
Behind him, sheltering under the porchs dim light, a young woman stood, arms crossed, her face unreadable, her presence as sharp as broken glass. The son glanced at her once, then stepped back from his mother quickly, as though another second might make him say more than he should.
The old woman nodded her head. She always nodded. Even when it stung. Even when his words bruised her. Even now, under this cold, relentless rain, when all she longed for was her boys old gaze before life had hardened him.
So she turned and walked away by herself, cradling the sack as the rain drenched through her sleeves and rolled off her chin. She held back her tears until the front door closed behind her.
The flat was cramped and gloomy. A battered wooden table. A narrow bed. A window lashed with raindrops. The kind of place where silence clings to you.
She heaved the sack onto the table and paused, breathing deeply, trying to still her trembling hands. Then she unfastened the knotted rope.
No flour tumbled out.
She froze.
Inside the rough sack, there was only a white envelope. Just one. On the front, in her son’s handwriting, was a single word:
Mum.
Her breath caught in her throat. With hands shaking, as though unwrapping something living, she slid the envelope free and opened it.
Pounds. An untidy bundle of cashfar more than she had seen in years. Nestled beneath, a folded note.
She could scarcely keep her hands steady enough to unfold it. The first line hit her like a blow:
I’m sorry, Mum.
She pressed a trembling hand to her lips. Rain pattered at the window. The room swayed. She read on.
I couldn’t say it in front of her. I told you it was flour because she watches everything. Please don’t come back for me. Please don’t ask where it came from. Leave before sundown.
Her eyes blurred with tears. This wasnt her son casting her aside. This was him trying to keep her safe. She unfolded the letter further, her hands shaking.
If I stay, shell take it all. If I run, youll be her first target. So Im sending you away before I do something reckless.
A broken gasp escaped her. Then came the final line, and she felt the blood drain from her face.
By the time you read this, Ill be gone or shell already know.
Her hand flew to her mouth. She turned to the rain-blurred window
And there he was.
Still at the gate. Alone. Drenched. Motionless.
Not a heartless son, but a frightened boy locked in a grown mans frame.
He raised one shaking hand, wiping away tears he didnt want anyone to see.
Then, from behind him, the young woman stepped out into the downpour.
In her hand
was a gun.