Mother
Merope, Mrs. Cole said her name was. Merope Riddle
Tom tries to picture her face when he lies in bed at night, wondering if her hair was dark (like his) or if her eyes were big (like his) or if her fingers were long and graceful (like his), or if he gets it all from his father. He knows she's dead – Mrs. Cole told him so from the time he was old enough to ask – but he still dreams of her, some nights. He thinks of her as a beautiful woman coming down Vauxhall Road in a horse-drawn carriage (never mind that the rich folk these days take their Sunday rides in cars, but he thinks that the carriage would suit her, somehow) and stopping by the orphanage on accident. He would be outside, sitting on the stone steps with a book, and she would call him over to ask for directions and somehow, she would just know, by looking or feeling or just from some strange, ethereal force, that he was her son.
She would take him away then, back to the enormous manor where his father (who is sometimes a professor, or an actor, or a painter or a doctor or a soldier) is waiting for them. The manor is beautiful, with big gardens that stretch as far as the eye can see and a library full of books and a kitchen filled with everything he could ever want to eat, and there are no other screaming, whining brats to crowd or shove or steal or take his parent's attention away from him. His parents would hold him in their arms and never let him go; they would love him, love him, love him and Tom would finally be home.
He lies in bed some nights and whispers her name out into the darkness of his room, like the mere sounding of her name (Merope Merope Mother Mother Merope) will awaken some terrified young man in the dark outside the orphanage; sounding an alarm inside that will tell Tom Riddle, Senior, "Your son needs you – go to him."
My father will come for me, Tom tells himself before burrowing further into his lumpy bedcovers for warmth. And if he doesn't, then Tom will have to come for him.