Next year, Peter did not come. I waited ever so patiently, sitting alert on my bed for any signs of him, but he just didn't show up. He might have forgotten about his promise to me. He might not even remember me anymore. After all, he's just a kid. The years rolled by, and no matter how much I fought it, I had grown up. Of course, I didn't want to, but what could I do? It was painful for me, fighting a constant battle inside me. I waited for Peter. He still didn't come. But, silly me, I refused to believe he was just a dream, just a product of my childhood imagination. He was real. But I had not seen him for more than ten years.
Soon, I got married. I had two beautiful daughters, to whom I willingly told the story of my adventures with Peter Pan. I did not skip any moment. But, kids these days as they are, they just laughed and told me I was being ridiculous. I played along, telling them that Peter was just a story handed down to me by my own mother. But it hurt so much, denying him in front of my children.
During my kids' winter break, we went back to my old house in London. The nursery smelled of old people, but it still had its homely feel. I slept there alone, because my husband was working late somewhere. My kids were not even interested in sleeping in the nursery. Memories flooded my mind, and in that moment, I felt blissful in the dose of the happy times I had when I was young.
The things that happened next shook me out of my bliss. A young boy, clad in skeleton leaves, flew in from the open window. Before I knew it, tears were quietly sliding down my cheeks. Peter Pan. Still a young boy, while I am almost an old woman. He did not see me, which struck me as odd. I did not dare move. He was not accompanied by a fairy now, so there was next to no light. Near the fireplace, he sat down and wept. I heard him whispering, "Where are you? I said I'd come back for you…" My heart broke when I realized he was talking about me. I watched him, not trying to comfort him in any way, because I was too afraid. I was a grown woman, and I sort of forgot about him already, but I still felt heartsick. I felt like a traitor. When I was young, I wanted to be his girlfriend. Now, I wanted to be his mother. But I couldn't; the idea was bad.
After a few moments, he got up and left. My mind was screaming, "Why didn't you see me? I'm right here!" But all in vain, because he was gone. He left me again. But that encounter made me refreshed. At least, he remembered his promise. He was well and young. Alive and kicking. While I was slowly withering, growing old with children who didn't believe my stories.
But they were my children, still. And I love them more than anything. More than Peter.
Slowly, Peter faded from my thoughts. Call me selfish, but I was not a little kid anymore. I had my time with him. I had been happy, content, and fulfilled. Long after I'm dead, he'd continue living, playing and forgetting things. But he never forget about me. Somehow, I'd be happy dying with that in my mind.
Peter Pan grew smaller and smaller in my life, until he was just another inconspicuous little particle of dust in the toy box from long ago. I grew frail and old, but still wishing, that a little girl would open that box again.
Then Peter would have a mother again.