The child with the long hair. It is him. The moment I caught sight of him I knew he was mine. He had his back turned to me, bending over the flat grey stones he had been gathering along the seashore, but a mother know such things. He has grown, of course. He is no longer the baby that he was. But that lock of strawberry hair that always curled just so, under his ear, it’s still there. The way he holds his arms so close to his body, fists clenched, crouching over his stones, it is just the same and I know in my heart he is mine.

Oh, I have searched so long for him. The woman who he turns his face to, calling out to her, Mama, Mama; she would never know how my heart feels, to see my child again. I have waited so patiently and endured so many bitter tears for this moment of reunion; so why do I hesitate now?

I have sweeties for him. Gummy bears. He likes the red ones. After the memorial service this morning I went out and bought some because I knew, I knew, deep in the deepest part of my heart, that my boy was not really dead. I have never accepted it. I have prayed so hard that he might be delivered back to me. I have never given up faith. Even when all my staunchest allies and supporters gradually fell by the wayside, one by one, I never gave up believing. I never let him go. And now I am vindicated, because he is here. They will all see that I was right. I will have my child again, hold him in my arms again, touch the soft skin of his hands and smell the scent of his hair while he sleeps.Ah, how I have dreamed for that, longed for that.

So why do I hesitate now? He turns, like an animal sensing he is watched. I have the dark sunglasses on, the ones I always wear so I may scrutinise other undetected. It’s a habit that I’ve got into; it’s been necessary. But he knows I am watching him. His unafraid eyes look directly into mine. He is secure within the boundaries of his own safe little world. His mama has marked out her territory in the usual way; the beach bags and the wind-breaker, the damp towels lining the sand, the children’s playthings, buckets and spades and plastic starfish surround the periphery like guards on patrol around the central watch-tower where she sits, under the beach umbrella.

She has another baby in there. I can see that now. A newborn, judging by the size of the basket it’s in. She’s talking to it, singing a little, softly, laughing, touching the baby’s face, and I see my boy get up to go and join her. ‘Helados! Helados!’ The man with the bright yellow ice-cream box passes near them and I can see her shaking her head, smiling, as the child pulls on her arm. Later, she seems to be saying; I’ll get you one later, and I watch my son clap his hands in anticipation, do a little jig.

The pang of jealousy that shoots through me right then, it feels like the sharp end of a sword. It feels as if this woman –this unknown woman, who has stolen my baby – she would kill me with her happiness. But it is all over for her. She will see. I will have him back and then she will know what it is to suffer as I have suffered. She will know what it is to be bereft of a child. How could a woman do such a thing to another woman? She cannot know, she cannot, what she has done to me. How she has caused me to become twisted in such knots. I can scarcely breathe for thinking about it. I can scarcely force my feet nearer to the place where her bastion lies, the place I shall soon enter to take back what is mine. And I shall, too, because her attention is unevenly divided between the two of them. She lowers her face so gently into the basket, whispering sweet nothings while he, his mind back on his mountain of stones, is forgotten. In a minute he will venture a little further down along the shore to find another stone, and then another one. I know, I have been watching what he’s been doing. Each foray takes him a little further away from the safety of her watch-tower. Each little trip for stones bring him closer to his real mama, back to me. And I am feeling calmer, now.Much calmer than I ever thought I would be, considering what it is I’m planning to do. I have found courage from somewhere; the courage of a mother. Clearly, there is no way this woman will ever admit to what she’s done, nor will she give him willingly back. No, if justice is to be served, there is only one way forward. I just have to wait here a little bit longer and soon, very soon, my child will be back within my reach.