Author's Note: Hello! For those of you who have been reading Of Pan and Iris, I want to assure you that I have working on the next chapter. But, since I was bored I decided to post this oneshot which was my first ever written Peter Pan story, even before I joined this site. Needless to say, I am very fond of it and I hope you enjoy!

Through the Glass

"Long ago," he said, "I thought like you that my mother would always keep the window open for me, so, I stayed away for moons and moons and moons and then flew back; but the window was barred for Mother had forgotten all about me and there was another boy sleeping in my bed."

--J. M. Barrie, Peter Pan

Twilight was falling upon the tidy, fenced lined houses of one of the upscale neighbourhoods of London. A cool wind blew through the autumn night, rustling the leaves of a large maple tree. A few were plucked from their branches and floated lazily to the cobbled street below. Their fiery colors blazed golden yellow in the light of a nearby streetlamp.

In the very center of the large tree, crouched a boy of about thirteen dressed in a costume of leaves and vines. His toes gripped the sturdy branch underneath him as he listened intently for the sounds of approaching passersby. His blue eyes darted up and down the street that was now entirely lit by streetlamps, but not a soul was in sight.

To the people of this world, the boy was known only as a heroic storybook character who had adventures and defeated villainous pirates. To the inhabitants of a magical island, he was known as Peter Pan.

A tiny light hovered impatiently around his head. It was his fairy, Tinker Bell, who made a sound like a tiny tinkling bell.

When will we go look for her?

Peter smiled. He knew she was bored with waiting in a tree for much of the day and not being allowed to fly around, but if he wanted to find his mother, it was best if he didn't cause any unwanted excitement beforehand.

His mother. Even he couldn't believe that he had gone searching for his mother.

He, Peter Pan, who had run away the day he was born to prevent his mother from making him grow up (this was not entirely true, he had been much older than a day old, but it sounded wonderfully brave and daring and that was what Peter liked) and now he sat, high in a tree in the very neighbourhood where she lived.

But he needed to know. He needed to know if she still remembered him and longed for him to return, after all these years.

An impatient jingle stirred him from his thoughts and he glanced at his fairy.

You didn't answer my question!

"Oh, right…sorry," he said quickly. Peter looked up at the sky and saw that the stars had come out. He glanced up and down the street once more and saw that it was quiet and deserted.

He glanced at Tink and said, "I guess we can go now."

Jumping lightly from his perch, Peter flew off into the navy blue sky that was dotted with crystal clear stars. A soft breeze blew across his face, ruffling his golden brown hair. Tinker Bell zigzagged ahead of him, jingling merrily as she flew though the night.

Peter looked down and saw rows upon rows of the expensive houses of London's upper class citizens. Their windows were lit and shone brightly in the dark, allowing him to easily find the one that he was searching for.

Heart hammering nervously in his chest, he descended into a slow and graceful dive to the houses below, until he could make out the rooftops more clearly and even see into some of the windows.

Peter slowed and flew level to the tall upper windows of the houses. He glanced quickly inside and darted away before anyone spied him as he flew past.

Then he saw it. He remembered it as if it were only yesterday: his old bedroom window.

It was tall with heavy maroon coloured drapes that had been pushed aside, allowing a soft golden light to spill out into the darkness.

Peter slowed and stopped near the window, hovering in mid air and realized what his mind knew all to well, but his heart did not.

The window was closed. His mother had forgotten about him.

Refusing to believe such a thing, Peter clenched his teeth and grabbed hold of the handle, pulling with all his might.

It didn't open. The window was locked.

No! Peter cried in his head. She can't have forgotten about me! She can't! She's my mother! Why did she lock the window?

Because she thought you were gone forever, said a voice in his head.

Well, I'm not gone! I came back! I wanted to see my home again. I thought she would always keep it open for me! Peter yelled in his thoughts.

He went to grab the handle again, but paused and looked into the room beyond.

A small table lamp provided the only light in the room. To the left was a bed in which lay a boy of about eight years old. A woman knelt beside him and it appeared that she was reading him a bedtime story. She was a very beautiful woman. Her hair was dark brown and was pulled back into a tight bun. She had clear, rosy skin and large light blue eyes, the same shade as Peter's.

He had never seen anyone so beautiful.

Peter tore his gaze away from the woman who was his mother and turned to look at the boy. He was a very ordinary looking boy with brown hair like his mother. He was pouring over the book that she was reading him, totally engrossed in the story, while she smiled lovingly at her son. Her only son.

Hatred rose in Peter's chest. This boy had taken his place. He had filled the hole in his mother's heart that Peter left in it so long ago.

His mother loved this new boy and had forgotten about her other boy, her lost boy who did not want to grow up.

Peter nearly began to cry at this revelation, but he bit his lip and blinked furiously. He clenched his teeth and took hold of the handle once more. He pulled as hard as he could, using all of his strength, but to no avail. The window remained shut and locked.

He stopped and knew it was hopeless. The home he had once had was now only a part of his past. He could never come back because his mother had forgotten about him, had tossed him aside and had found another to take his place. She had never considered the fact that her first son might have wanted to have a taste his old home again. That he might have missed her and had longed to feel loved again. But, no, she had cast him away when he had not returned and now he was only alive in her memories.

Peter scowled at the boy who had taken his place and hissed, "That's my mother, you know! She is mine and you can't have her! I'm her son and she is my mother, not yours!"

Then, he glanced at his mother to see her close the book and kiss her son on the forehead. Peter's heart skipped a beat and a lump formed in his throat as he witnessed the touching moment. Had she ever done that to him? He couldn't remember. It had been so long.

Peter flew closer to the window so that his nose was almost touching the glass. He stared at his mother as she moved around the room, his room.

He wished the window would open. He wished that he could fly into the room and into her arms, just for a few minutes. A few minutes to remember, remember his past and the one who had loved him.

Peter rested his hand on the glass, feeling its cool, smooth surface beneath his fingertips.

"I'm here, Mother," he whispered. "I came back and I'm alright! Please, don't you remember me? You haven't forgotten about me, have you? Don't you see that I've come back?"

She did not turn around as he had expected. She turned only to brush a few strands of hair away from the face of her sleeping child.

Peter took his hand off of the glass. His mother had truly forgotten about him. Why else had she closed the window? She didn't think that he would come back, but he had and this made the anger rise in his chest once more.

All of his beliefs about mothers had come true. Mothers replaced their "lost" children with new ones. New ones to love and cherish, ones that would grow up.

"If you have forgotten about me," he said through gritted teeth. "Then I shall forget about you!"

He turned away from the window and said, "C'mon, Tinker Bell, let's go home to our real home!"

Tinker Bell had been silent for the past few minutes watching Peter and looking into the room. She looked slowly up at him and said, Oh, Peter, I'm sorry.

Either he did not hear her or he chose not to. Peter cast a glance back at the window and whispered, "Good-bye, Mother. I shall never come back. I live far away now, on an island where I will never grow up and no one can make me!"

With the speed of a bullet shot from a gun, Peter rocketed into the air. He flew as high and as fast as possible to get away from his mother who loved another boy now.

When he was hovering high above the rooftops of London, Peter muttered to himself, "I have no need for a mother, anyway! Mothers are very overrated persons!"

With that, Peter Pan flew into the dark sky, searching for the second star on the right and straight on till morning.

From then on, to speak of mothers was forbidden to the Lost Boys. Peter declared the subject as a silly thing to discuss, although in reality, he did not want to be reminded of the mother who had forgotten him.

Peter never forgave his mother for locking the window. But, when he returned to London, he found another window that was not locked, but left open as if awaiting his arrival.

Whenever there was talk of mothers, Peter would look at his hands and flex his fingers. Once those fingers had tugged and tugged at a cold brass handle, rapped at a window pane, had pried in vain at a lock. Just once, lonely for home, Peter had flown home from Neverland and had found the bedroom window shut. He had never forgiven his mother for closing it.

--from Peter Pan in Scarlet

By Geraldine McCaughrean