Simon, her husband, left their house in Moreland Road early one morning twelve years ago. He wrote her a letter and put it on the kitchen table. And then he left. For twelve years she didn’t hear from him. No letters, no birthday cards for Jason. Then, last week, there was a phone call. ‘Why did you go?’ she asked Simon again and again. He wanted to meet her. ‘No,’ she said, but she wanted to say yes.
Jason’s mum turned away from the window. ‘Jason, what about your homework?’ she said. ‘Why are you looking at old photos?’
‘I want to find all the ones I’ve got of Maria. I want to take them with me to London, you know, when I go to art school.’ He smiled at a funny photo of Maria, aged eleven.
‘It’s a bit early to think about all that, Jason,’ his mum said. ‘You’re not going until the autumn. And you don’t know if you’re going to get a place at the art school.’
‘I will, I’m sure I will. When I went to visit them two weeks ago they said, “We think your work’s very good. We really like your ideas.”’