Seb stared at the woman who, when he’d first met her, had struck him dumb. Once again he wanted to cry out, but once again he didn’t. He just stood and watched as the two of them climbed into a car and, like the other mothers and children, set off on their journey home. A moment later they were gone.

Seb stood there dazed. Why hadn’t she told him? He’d never felt sadder or happier in his life. He must win both their hearts, because he would sacrifice anything, everything, to be with them.

The crowd dispersed as the last few children were reunited with their mothers, until finally Seb was left standing on his own, still clutching the bunch of red roses. He crossed another road and entered another door in the hope of finding someone who could tell him where they lived.

He walked down a long corridor, past classrooms on either side that were decorated with pupils’ drawings and paintings. Just before he reached a door on which a sign announced Dr. Rosemary Wolfe, Headmistress, he stopped to admire a child’s painting of her mother. It could have been painted by Jessica twenty years ago. The same confident brushwork, the same originality. It was no different this time. Her work was in a different class from anything else on display. He recalled walking down another corridor when he was ten years old, experiencing exactly the same emotion—admiration, and a desire to know the artist.

“Can I help you?” said a stern-sounding voice.

Seb swung around to see a tall, smartly dressed woman bearing down on him. She reminded him of his aunt Grace.

“I was just admiring the paintings,” he said, somewhat feebly, hoping his exaggerated English accent would throw her off guard. Although she didn’t look like the kind of woman who was easily thrown off guard.

“And this one,” Seb added, pointing to My Mom, “is exceptional.”

“I agree,” she said, “but then Jessica has a rare talent … are you feeling all right?” she asked as Seb’s cheeks drained of their color and he staggered forward, quickly steadying himself against the wall.

“I’m fine, just fine,” he said, recovering his composure. “Jessica, you say?”

“Yes, Jessica Brewer. She’s the most accomplished artist we’ve seen at Jefferson Elementary since I’ve been headmistress, and she doesn’t even realize how talented she is.”

“How like Jessica.”

“Are you a friend of the family?”

“No, I knew her mother when she studied in England.”

“If you tell me your name, I’ll let her know you—”

“I’d rather not, headmistress, but I do have an unusual request.” The stern look reappeared. “I’d like to buy this picture and take it back to England, to remind me of both the mother and her daughter.”