“His name isn’t Julian.”
My mother stared at me.
For a second, neither of us moved.
Then she gave a small, confused laugh.
“What are you talking about?”
I kept looking at the window.
The road outside was empty now.
“Mum, what was the name he gave you when you met him?”
“Julian.”
“And his surname?”
She hesitated.
“Mercer.”
My stomach tightened.
“No.”
“What?”
“That’s not his name.”
My mother’s face changed.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
The happiness drained from it by degrees, as if someone were slowly turning down a light.
“Ivy, you’re frightening me.”
“I don’t want to frighten you.”
“Then tell me what you’re talking about.”
I sat down opposite her.
Two years earlier, I’d worked four nights on a hospice unit.
It wasn’t the kind of place people imagined.
There was laughter.
There were arguments about television channels.
There were families bringing in biscuits and forgetting to take the tin home.
And there were patients who knew exactly what was happening to them.
One of them was a woman called Margaret Bell.
Seventy-four.
Lung cancer.
Eleven days.
She wasn’t frightened of dying.
She was frightened of leaving someone behind.
That someone was a man she called Daniel.
Every night, she’d point to the photograph on her locker.
“That’s my Daniel.”
I’d seen that photograph so many times I could have drawn it.
Margaret and a man sitting on a wooden bench.
Two paper coffee cups between them.
Autumn trees behind them.
And the man wore a dark green coat.
Exactly like the one I’d seen tonight.
My mother reached for my hand.
“Who is Margaret?”
“A patient.”
“From where?”
“The hospice.”
“And what does she have to do with Julian?”
I swallowed.
“Everything.”
My mother pulled her hand back.
I could see the question forming before she asked it.
“Was he her husband?”
“No.”
“Her brother?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
I looked at her.
“He was the man she was waiting for.”
My mother frowned.
“Ivy, people wait for lots of people.”
“She waited for him every night.”
I could still hear Margaret’s voice.
Not weak.
Not even particularly sad.
Just certain.
“He’ll come tomorrow.”
He never did.
Not once while I was there.
I had asked one of the nurses about him.
She’d shrugged.
“Family drama. Don’t get involved.”
But Margaret kept talking about him.
She told me they’d met when she was fifty-two.
She told me he’d made her feel young again.
She told me he used to bring her coffee and sit beside her for hours.
And she told me one other thing.
Something that hadn’t made sense at the time.
“He doesn’t like people knowing about me.”
I stared at my mother.
“He told you the same thing, didn’t he?”
She didn’t answer.
“Mum.”
Her eyes dropped to the floor.
“He said his work was private.”
My chest tightened.
“What else?”
“He said he didn’t want people talking.”
“What people?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did he ever take you anywhere?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Restaurants. The cinema. That little place outside town.”
“His house?”
“No.”
“Did you meet any of his friends?”
“No.”
“Family?”
“No.”
I stood up.
My mother watched me.
“Why are you asking me all these questions?”
“Because Margaret was asking them too.”
“What?”
“She didn’t know where he lived.”
My mother went completely still.
“She said he was always careful.”
I walked to the kitchen.
“Where’s your phone?”
“Why?”
“Please.”
She handed it to me.
I opened the messages.
There were months of them.
Good morning.
Thinking of you.
Can’t wait for Wednesday.
Sleep well.
Little hearts.
Nothing suspicious.
Nothing obvious.
Then I noticed something.
Every photograph my mother had sent him showed the same thing.
Her face.
Her garden.
The front room.
The restaurant.
Never the street.
Never her house number.
Never me.
I looked at her.
“Did you ever send him a photograph of me?”
“No.”
“Did he ever ask?”
She hesitated.
“Once.”
“What did he say?”
“He wanted to see the daughter who had raised such a strong mother.”
I felt cold.
“What did you send?”
“Nothing.”
“Good.”
My mother looked hurt.
“You’re making him sound dangerous.”
“I don’t know what he is.”
“Then why are you doing this?”
“Because I’ve seen him before.”
She shook her head.
“You’ve seen someone who looks like him.”
“No.”
“You met him for one hour.”
“I watched him for four nights.”
“You said that.”
“I watched him sit beside Margaret’s bed.”
My mother’s eyes widened.
“He came to see her?”
“No.”
She blinked.
“What?”
“He never came inside.”
I remembered it suddenly.
A detail I’d forgotten for two years.
Margaret had once asked me to close her curtains.
I’d walked past the window and seen a dark green coat outside.
A man standing near the car park.
He’d looked up at the hospice.
I hadn’t thought anything of it.
Margaret had.
Because when I returned to her room, she was crying.
“Is he there?”
I’d asked who.
She pointed toward the window.
“My Daniel.”
I told her there was nobody there.
She smiled sadly.
“He won’t come in.”
I hadn’t understood.
Until tonight.
I looked at my mother.
“He was outside the hospice.”
Her lips parted.
“But if he was there…”
“He didn’t come inside.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
My mother stood abruptly.
“I want you to leave this alone.”
“Mum—”
“No.”
Her voice cracked.
“You’ve spent your whole life worrying about me.”
“Because you’re my mother.”
“And I’ve spent my whole life worrying about you.”
She walked to the kitchen counter.
“I finally have something that’s mine.”
I softened.
“I know.”
“He makes me happy.”
“I know.”
“And you’re telling me I’m supposed to throw it away because you think you’ve seen him somewhere?”
“I’m telling you to find out who he really is.”
She turned.
“What if you’re wrong?”
That stopped me.
Because she was right.
What if I was?
What if grief, exhaustion and four nights in a hospice had burned one face into my memory?
What if I’d mistaken a stranger for someone I’d seen years ago?
I sat down again.
“I want to be wrong.”
My mother looked at me.
“So do I.”
She picked up her phone.
“I’ll call him.”
“No.”
She frowned.
“Why not?”
“Because if he knows what I know, he’ll know you’re suspicious.”
“And what exactly do you know?”
I looked at the photograph of him on her screen.
“His name isn’t Julian.”
She stared at the picture.
“What was his name in the hospice?”
I hesitated.
“I don’t know.”
“But Margaret did.”
“Yes.”
“Then find out.”
My heart started beating faster.
The hospice still kept old patient records.
I knew that.
And somewhere in those records was Margaret Bell.
Her admission.
Her notes.
Her emergency contact.
And possibly the name of the man she called Daniel.
I reached for my coat.
My mother grabbed my wrist.
“It’s nearly midnight.”
“I know.”
“Where are you going?”
“To the hospice.”
She stared at me.
“You can’t just walk into a hospice at midnight.”
“I know someone who can let me in.”
“Who?”
I didn’t answer.
Because another memory had just surfaced.
One I hadn’t thought about in years.
Margaret hadn’t only had a photograph on her locker.
She had something else.
A little envelope taped behind it.
I’d seen it on my fourth night.
She’d caught me looking.
“That’s for my Daniel.”
I’d asked what was inside.
She’d smiled.
“Something he needs.”
I had never opened it.
I had never asked again.
Until tonight.
I grabbed my keys.
My mother followed me to the door.
“Ivy.”
I turned.
“If you’re right…”
She couldn’t finish.
“If you’re right, what?”
She looked down at her phone.
At the last message Julian had sent her.
Tomorrow, don’t tell Ivy I’m coming over. I want it to be a surprise.
My blood went cold.
“Mum.”
“What?”
“When did he send that?”
“About twenty minutes ago.”
I stared at the screen.
Twenty minutes ago.
He had sent it while he was still sitting in her house.
Which meant he had known exactly when I would leave.
Exactly when I would look away.
Exactly when my mother would be alone.
Then another message appeared.
From Julian.
And whatever Ivy tells you tonight, please don’t believe her.
My mother looked at me.
I looked at her.
Neither of us spoke.
Then the phone rang.
Unknown number.
My mother answered.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
Just breathing.
Then a man’s voice came through.
Calm.
Soft.
Almost amused.
“Mrs. Harper?”
My mother froze.
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry to call so late.”
I stepped closer.
The man’s voice continued.
“I forgot to tell you something tonight.”
My mother’s hand began to shake.
“What?”
A pause.
Then:
“Your daughter already knows me.”
The line went dead.
I looked at my mother.
She looked at me.
And suddenly I understood.
He hadn’t been surprised to see me at the door.
He’d been expecting me.
The entire evening had been a test.
And somehow, without knowing it, we’d just failed it.