Estella Townsend had spent most of her later years in quiet solitude. Her home was immaculate, the curtains always drawn, and her laughter had long faded. On her coffee table rested a single silver ring — a gift from her son, Neil, on his last birthday before he died. Each night, she would trace the engraved initials E.T. and whisper to the empty room, “Why did you take him and not me?”
Neil had been her world — bright, kind, endlessly curious. A promising young scientist, he inherited his father’s spark and passion for discovery. While Estella dedicated her life to his happiness, he devoted his to knowledge and innovation. She used to tease him that atoms were his real friends, but he would simply smile and promise to make her proud.
Everything changed with a single phone call.
It was a normal morning, the kind where Estella hummed while making breakfast. Then her phone rang.
“Am I speaking to Mrs. Townsend?” a man asked.
“Yes, who is this?” she replied, drying her hands.
“This is from your son’s research team, ma’am. There’s been an accident. We regret to inform you that your son—”
She interrupted sharply. “That’s not funny. I just spoke to Neil. He’s fine.”
But it wasn’t a joke. “Mrs. Townsend, your son passed away this morning. His service is scheduled for Wednesday.”
The phone slipped from her trembling hands. Her knees buckled. Her world dissolved into silence.
The next time she saw him, Neil lay pale and still in a coffin. Her scream echoed through the church as she gripped his hand. “Why him? Take me instead!” she cried.
Weeks blurred into months. Friends and neighbors offered sympathy, but each gesture only fueled her anger. “He’s not gone! He’s coming back!” she would shout.
Eventually, denial burned out, leaving only grief. She stopped answering calls, stopped leaving her home. Her companions were Neil’s notebooks and the silver ring.
For ten years, she existed like a ghost. Then, one cold winter evening, the doorbell rang.
Startled, Estella wrapped herself in a sweater and opened the door. A young woman stood there, nervous, clutching her purse.
“Is this Neil Townsend’s home?” she asked softly.
Estella’s chest tightened. “It was. Who are you?”
“My name’s Emily. I need to see him,” the girl said, her voice trembling.
“He’s gone. My son is dead,” Estella snapped, slamming the door.
Emily lingered briefly, then disappeared into the night. Estella sank to her knees, whispering, “Why now?”
She thought she would never see the girl again. But fate had other plans.
