Evelyn [antikvár]

I recognized her immediately. How could I not? She was, after all, my mother. It was 1967 and I had made my way from Manchester to Glasgow to see her, for the first time in thirteen years. The journey seemed interminable and, as the train approached Glasgow, my nerves began to get the better of me. Fear, joy, and dread were doing battle. My travelling companions in the second-class compartment were three Church of England ministers. As I struggled not to cry, I prayed they wouldn't notice my distress. I needn't have worried; when I did cry, they ignored me. As the train slowed, I considered for a moment not getting off. I gathered my belongings slowly and waited for the ministers to leave. I wanted to compose myself. My mind was full of questions. What would I say to her? Had I really forgiven her? Would I accept her explanation? Would she offer any? I was eight when my mother visited me in the industrial school, and that was the last time I'd seen her. I stepped down onto a long dirty platform, disoriented by the throngs of people and the noise. Standing still, I searched the crowd until I spotted her. A small, slightly overweight, middle-aged woman. I knew it was her. She saw me too and waved tentatively. I waved back and walked towards her. We embraced, tightly, until I pulled away.