Waiting for Her by Rob Molan, cold tea

I didn’t get a good send-off when I left home this morning.

‘Helen, your mother and I are not happy about you going to London.’ She was sitting beside him looking downcast. ‘You know our views on the matter and we’re disappointed you are disregarding them.’ He gave me a withering look as he spoke.

However, they both know that stubborn is my middle name.

‘I’ve booked my ticket and packed an overnight bag,’ I told them. ‘So, I’m going.’

Now, I’m sitting by a window in the coach station overlooking our meeting point outside the Post Office across the road. She doesn’t know what I look like and I want to give her the once-over when she arrives before crossing the street.

I look up at the clock. She should be here in a few minutes. The butterflies in my tummy are getting worse. There is so much I want to ask her and many things we need to discuss. It feels a bit overwhelming and I need to get my act together, otherwise she’ll think I’m a blabbering idiot.

I don’t want to disappoint her and hope she doesn’t think that I’ve overdressed with the burgundy trouser suit I’ve put on. I’ve toned down my makeup and my new page boy hairstyle is much tidier than my old cut.

That must be her. She said she’d be wearing a short, red coat. A woman wearing one has stopped by the post box. Her blonde hair is scraped back tightly into a pony tail at the back, tightening the skin on her face, and she is sucking on a vape. Her stony face throws a death stare in my direction before turning to watch the passers-by.

My skin starts to crawl. This is a big mistake.

‘Last call for the 15.00 hours coach to Manchester,’ says the announcer over the loudspeaker.

I jump up, grab my bag and race towards the departure gate.

I won’t have anything in common with that woman and wouldn’t give her a second look if she crossed my path anywhere else. I don’t want to know why she gave me up for adoption all those years ago or why she didn’t reply to the letters I sent her when I was younger after tracking down her address. If she wants to meet me now, she must have an ulterior motive. I already have a mum (and a dad) and don’t need another one. I’d rather remain as the person I was brought up to be and not have to face being the person I might have been.

About the author

  

Rob lives in Edinburgh and started writing short stories during lockdown. To date, he's had several tales published by CafeLit and others in various anthologies. He likes to experiment with different genres and styles of writing. 

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