Echoes of Birthdays — an excerpt

PROLOGUE

The First Visit

April 15, 1993

I WAS FIVE when I first saw my mother. Not the way other children see their mothers — in photographs or through foster parents’ stories of the woman who left me in that alley. No, I saw her the way I would always see her: impossible, beautiful, and mine alone.

It was my birthday, though I hadn’t expected much celebration. The Kendricks were kind enough foster parents, but they had four other children to mind. I sat alone upstairs, pushing my only gift — a used blue Matchbox car — back and forth across the worn wood floor, making engine sounds with my lips as I imagined grand adventures.

Then she was there, standing by my window. The late afternoon light seemed to shine through her at odd angles, but I was too young to understand why that should be strange. She wore a crisp military uniform I wouldn’t recognize as the dress blues of the admiralty until years later, gold embroidery with a Crown, crossed swords and two stars on her shoulders, and a tiny gleaming, star-studded emblem on her collar. Her silvered hair was pulled back severely, but her eyes — my eyes, though I didn’t know it then — were soft and filled with tears.

“Hello,” I said because the Kendricks had taught me to be polite.

She startled, a hand flying to her mouth. “Can you see me?”

I remember thinking, what an odd question that was. “Of course. Should I shut my eyes? Are we playing Hide and Seek?”

“No,” she whispered, kneeling beside me. “No, darling. Can you … can you take my hand?”

I reached out without hesitation, the way only a child can. Her hand felt like morning whisp — almost there, almost solid, like trying to hold a memory. But I could feel it, and that seemed to make her cry harder.

“Are you sad?” I asked, concerned by her tears.

“No, oh gosh, no,” she said in that crisp lilt of a naval professional. “I am so … happy … I’ve waited so long to finally meet you.” She paused, as if considering something. “And I didn’t know if you could see me this early.”

“Then why are you crying?”

“Because sometimes happiness is so big it spills over.”

I nodded, accepting this with a child’s simple wisdom. “Would you like to play cars? This one goes very fast. It was my birthday present. It’s a Mini.” I demonstrated with appropriate sound effects.

She laughed — a bright, clear happiness that had reached deep inside me. “I would love to.”

We played together in that small room, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across the wooden floor. She asked about my life, my school, and my friends in a way that seemed more than adult politeness. When I told her about getting pushed in the playground, she taught me how to stand so I wouldn’t fall next time. When I mentioned struggling with reading, she showed me a trick for breaking down words that would later impress my teachers.

I didn’t ask who she was.

“I have to go soon,” she said as the shadows lengthened.

“Will you come back?”

“Yes, on your birthdays, sometimes,” she said. “I can’t promise to be there; I just don’t know.”

“Only birthdays?”

“Only birthdays.” She reached out, her hand brushing my cheek like morning fog. “But that makes them special, doesn’t it? We’ve had … ,” and she’d seemed to catch herself, “We will have many together.”

I nodded, though my throat felt tight.

“But,” she said simply. “No one will believe you if you tell them about today.”

“That’s okay,” I said.

She touched my shoulder, and I felt fuzzy and warm as she said, “Some things are just for us to know.” Her smile then — proud and sad and loving all at once — would stay with me through years of birthdays to come. “You’re going to be amazing,” she whispered, and then she was gone.

Mrs. Kendrick found me still sitting there at dinner time, playing quietly with my car.

“Were you talking to someone up here, James?” she asked, kind but concerned.

“Just playing,” I said, remembering what the lady in the uniform had said. Some things were just for us to know.

It would be years before I understood what had happened that day. Years of birthdays, some with her, some without. Years of learning to hold conversations that no one else could hear. Years of wondering if I was mad.

But sitting there on my bedroom floor, five years old and holding a tiny blue Mini, all I knew was that my mother had finally found me. And that somehow, somewhere, she would always find me again.

CHAPTER ONE

The Commander’s Game

April 15, 1997

I ALMOST DIDN’T go to the arcade that day. The other kids from Greenwood Home had teased me about my scores again, how I could barely get past the first wave of aliens before my pocketful of 10p ran out. But it was my birthday — nine years old — and Mrs. Harrison had slipped me a pound after breakfast, her eyes soft with pity.

“Treat yourself, James,” she’d said. “Everyone deserves something special on their birthday.”

The arcade itself was really just three machines crammed into the corner of Mr. Patel’s chip shop, but the neon signs in the window made it feel like somewhere else entirely. Somewhere beyond the grey London afternoon and the smell of vinegar and fish. The Area 51 cabinet hummed in the corner, cycling enticingly through scenes of impossible battles against alien invaders.

I had one coin left. One chance. I’d watched the older kids play enough to know the theory — how to dodge, when to reload, where the power-ups appeared. But my hands always shook too much, my reactions too slow, my aim too uncertain.

Between one heartbeat and the next, she was there, standing beside me in full combat gear that seemed to gather shadows around it. Her insignia must have been an officer, but I didn’t know what rank that was then. It caught the flickering light from the screen, and dark streaks marked her face like war paint. She looked so exhausted, like my foster parents, after long, long days at work. Somehow, it made her seem much older than two years before, but her eyes were laser-bright and focused.

“You missed my eighth birthday,” I whispered, hoping none of the kids would hear me talking to myself, feeding my last coin into the slot.

“I know, sweetheart. I’m sorry.” Her voice was rough like she’d been shouting orders. “Sometimes … sometimes the battles choose their own timing.”

The game started, and I grabbed the blaster, already tensing for inevitable failure. But she stepped close behind me, and I felt a whisper of memory, not quite touching, as her hands settled over mine on the weapon.

“Relax your grip,” she murmured. “Let the target come to you. Don’t chase it.” Her fingers guided mine, showing me how to lead the shots, how to anticipate movement patterns. “See? They’re predictable once you understand their programming. Just like real combat — superior technology often means predictable responses.”

Under her guidance, my score began to climb. The klaxon kept chirping my victories. A few kids drifted over to watch, then more. Through wave after wave, she taught me with touches as faint as starlight — when to take cover, how to manage resources, and why sometimes retreat was the better part of victory.

“They’re using standard attack formations,” she whispered, her breath almost rustling my hair. “Just like the Imperium. They never expect you to think differently, to change the rules of engagement.”

My hands had stopped shaking. The blaster felt natural now, an extension of intention rather than an awkward tool. As I cleared another level, the growing crowd gasped, my score climbing into territory usually reserved for the older kids’ initials.

“That’s it,” she said softly. “You see it now, don’t you? The patterns in chaos? The mathematics of combat?”

I did see it. Every motion, every decision flowing into the next like a dance we’d choreographed together. The final boss appeared, and I felt her smile against my shoulder.

“Show them, James. Show them how a Whitehall fights.”

The crowd erupted as the screen flashed “NEW HIGH SCORE.” Someone clapped me on the back. Mr. Patel emerged from behind his counter to see what the commotion was about. Hands shaking now with triumph instead of fear, I entered my initials: JTW.

I turned to share the moment with her, but she had stepped back. Her uniform seemed to absorb the arcade’s neon glow, and her eyes held secrets I wouldn’t understand for years to come. She snapped a crisp salute, pride radiating from her stance.

“Happy Birthday, soldier,” she said, leaving me surrounded by admirers who couldn’t understand why their congratulations felt hollow compared to that phantom salute.

I never went back to the arcade. The next time Mrs. Harrison offered me a coin, I asked for astronomy magazines instead. Because I’d learned something that day beyond high scores and attack patterns. I’d learned that the real battles, the ones that mattered, were being fought in the space between stars.

Years later, when I first looked through my telescope at the patterns of light wheeling overhead, I remembered her hands guiding mine, teaching me to see the order in chaos, the strategy in stars. Some lessons, it turns out, are just for us to know.