A MOTHER'S MEMORY

Füsun Hanım could not sleep that night. There was no reason for it; her body was tired, the apartment was quiet, the bed comfortable. But her eyes stayed open. She stared at the ceiling for a long time. Then she got up, put on her dressing gown and went to the kitchen. She made tea. While she waited, she looked out of the window. Istanbul was sleeping — street lamps, empty roads, an ambulance siren in the distance. She took her tea and went to the sitting room. She sat down. She held the cup in both hands. "My son," she said, quietly. Without making a sound, moving only her lips. As though Murat were there. Then she closed her eyes and remembered. Murat was five years old. He had just started primary school. That day, when he came home from school, he was silent; none of the usual ch