It was dark. It was winter. But perhaps not too late.
A mother, no longer a young woman, had come to visit her son.
She had not seen him for twenty years. On Christmas Day 1989 he walked out on her in anger and never came back. She had not seen him since. Nor had she met his son, her own grandson, now ten years old. She had tried to communicate by letters and cards and presents at Christmas, but they had all passed without acknowledgement.
She rang the bell. The door was opened. Before her now stood a man in early middle-age she did not at once recognise. Their eyes met.
"Hi!", she said wistfully, then paused, and allowed the level of hope in her to rise.
"Go away!" he sneered.
There was nothing to add. And nothing to fight for. An end of sorts.
Without pity.
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