Thank You, Mum, for the Gift
Emily stepped out of her house and gazed at the transformed garden. Overnight, snow had blanketed the ground. Fluffy flakes drifted silently onto the few remaining yellow leaves clinging to the trees and shrubs, onto the pavement and parked cars.
She held out her palm. A few snowflakes landed and melted instantly. Taking a few steps, Emily listened to the soft crunch beneath her boots—a reminder that Christmas was near, with its scent of oranges, the glittering tree adorned with baubles, and the quiet hope of magic.
Inside the shop, she picked up oranges, milk, and biscuits for tea. As she reached the till, her mother called.
“Emily, could you come over today?”
“Yes, Mum. Is everything all right?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I’d like you to meet someone. Come for lunch.” There was an eager note in her mother’s voice.
“Have you decided to set me up with another of your friend’s sons, then?” Emily asked, a touch disappointed.
“It’s a surprise. You’ll see,” her mother said mysteriously before hanging up.
Curious. Emily hadn’t heard her mother sound so lively in ages. After Daniel left, she had gone to her mum in tears, sobbing her heart out. Her mother had comforted her—until she ruined it by saying she’d warned her. She wasn’t wrong, but that didn’t make it hurt less. They’d argued, and since then, Emily had avoided visiting, only calling when the pain grew too heavy to bear alone.
Leaving the queue, she chose a small cake from the bakery section. It wouldn’t do to arrive empty-handed.
At home, she wondered what surprise awaited her. Just in case, she washed her hair, curled the ends lightly, touched up her mascara and lipstick, then slipped into a charcoal-grey skirt and a peach-coloured jumper. She smiled at her reflection. Whatever her mother had planned, she’d face it looking her best.
“Daniel will regret this,” Emily thought as she pulled on her boots and coat.
Her mother opened the door, and Emily froze in surprise. Her mother’s eyes sparkled, her cheeks were rosy, and—most strikingly—a stylish haircut had taken years off her face.
“Mum, you look wonderful,” Emily said, handing over the cake.
“Thank you.” Her mother smiled shyly. “Come in, love.” She disappeared into the kitchen with the cake.
“Definitely invited someone over,” Emily muttered. She tidied her curls in the hallway mirror, smoothed her skirt, and stepped into the living room.
A sturdy man in his fifties rose from the sofa, dressed in trousers and a navy jumper, his receding hairline giving way to a strong forehead and a broad nose. Crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes suggested either a cheerful disposition or years of squinting in the sun. He studied Emily with equal interest. She greeted him warily.
“Emily, this is Geoffrey Whitmore, my childhood friend.” Her mother slipped an arm around her waist, eyes pleading for approval.
“Ah, so he’s from the countryside,” Emily said flatly, shooting her mother a look.
“Lunch is ready—the soup will get cold.” Her mother withdrew and hurried to the kitchen.
Emily took her usual seat at the table, back to the fridge by the window. “Is he going to sit in Dad’s place?” she wondered. Geoffrey sat opposite. There was no other option. Her mother settled between them, facing the stove—just as they’d always done when her father was alive.
“So, you wanted me to meet him? Didn’t expect this from you. No wonder you’ve been dressing up,” Emily said sharply.
“Why must you be like this?” her mother chided.
“Missed being shouted at, did you? Wasn’t Dad enough? Where’s the whisky, then? Didn’t you bring any?” She glared at Geoffrey.
“Geoffrey doesn’t drink. He’s—” Her mother faltered, glancing guiltily at him.
He covered her hand with his rough palm. “Leave it, Margaret.”
“Now you’re pretending to be teetotal, but once you move in, you’ll show your true colours. Mum, are you seriously getting married? Is this your surprise? Geoffrey, did your wife throw you out, so you thought you’d latch onto my mother?”
The words spilled out before Emily could stop them. Her mother’s eyes welled up, her lips trembling. Geoffrey stared at his cooling soup.
“Finished?” Her mother’s voice was uncharacteristically sharp. “What have I ever known? Your father’s rages, his fists. You’d hide at the neighbours’ when he came home drunk. We’d walk the streets at night until he passed out. I stole coins from his pockets while he slept, told him pickpockets got them—just to buy you shoes or a dress. You don’t know anything…” She broke off, choking back a sob.
Emily had never seen her like this. Always timid, shrinking, eyes darting nervously—she’d never stood up for herself. Once, when her father sneered that she wasn’t fit to be a doormat, she’d said nothing. Now she was defending this stranger.
“I should’ve told you years ago.” Her mother took a deep breath. “He’s your father. Geoffrey Whitmore—he’s your father.”
“What?” Emily recoiled, pressing against the fridge. She stared between them.
“Yes. We loved each other since school. Then he left for the army. Small village—everyone knew everything. I told my mother straight away when I found out I was pregnant. She screamed, hit me with a towel. Then she brought home a man from the next village to fix the fence. He was visiting his grandmother. She told me not to waste the chance.”
“One night, after the pub, he walked me home. Mum came out and said he couldn’t just court me and leave. He said he was serious. And that’s how I married John. We moved to the city. Then you were born. I never loved him. Maybe he guessed you weren’t his—that’s why he drank, why he hit me. I wrote to Geoffrey in the army, told him I’d married. He never knew about you.”
“I avoided the village, too ashamed to face him. Last summer, remember when I visited your uncle? That’s when I saw Geoffrey again. Later, he came to me. Said he didn’t blame me, understood I had no choice. I’d only ever loved him. I’m going to live with him now. The flat’s yours—no more renting. I’m only forty-nine. I want to make things right.”
Emily listened, struggling to absorb this new truth. Her father had been no saint, but he’d been there—unlike some of her friends’ fathers. Yet accepting this other man as her father? Impossible. She stood and walked out.
“Emily!” her mother called.
“Let her be. She’ll come round,” Geoffrey’s quiet voice followed.
“Some protector,” Emily thought bitterly, slamming the door.
Snow fell steadily, stirring memories. Once, she and her mother had fled the house during one of her father’s rages. Winter then, too. Through lit windows, she’d seen families watching telly, cosy and safe. How she’d envied them.
“Mum gave up on herself, dressed like an old woman, lived in misery. And she’s still young. Maybe Geoffrey does love her. And what did I do? Ranted like a shrew,” Emily scolded herself. “And me? When Daniel suggested moving in, did I listen to Mum’s warnings? No. Two years together, and he never married me, just walked away.”
For days, she wrestled with guilt. She’d been cruel. Eyes brimming, she’d have to apologise properly.
Her mother opened the door, hands flying to her cheeks. They embraced. Suitcases stood packed in the hall.
“We’re leaving. I’m going to Geoffrey’s village,” her mother said brightly.
“What about your job?”
“They’ve a post office, a dairy nearby. We’ll manage,” Geoffrey said, smiling.
“Visit us. You’ll see his farm. I used to worry about gossip, but people forget,” her mother said, leaning into Geoffrey.
Emily helped her move, then took the flat herself. For months, she’d avoided staying with her mother, hoping Daniel would return. But at Christmas, she visited. The farmhouse was warm, the tree real and thick—just as she’d dreamed as a child.
Then, one spring morning, Geoffrey called from her mother’s phone. His voice was tight. “She’s gone. A blood clot…”
A heart condition? Emily hadn’t known. “Mum, why did you go? You shouldn’t have been working like that!”
She took leave and caught the first bus to the village. Inside the house, a coffin rested on a bench. Emily staggered forward—and didn’t recognise the woman inside. She whirled on Geoffrey.
“You did this! You brought her here!”
“Hush, love.” Aunt Val, her uncle’s wifeShe looked at Paul—his kindness, the way the corners of his eyes crinkled just like Geoffrey’s—and knew her mother had given her one last, precious gift.
