I Will Always Be With You, Mum: A Heartfelt Story You Can Truly Believe

Author Walton MerrittReading 6 minViews 3

I will always be with you, mum. A story you just might believe.

Grandma Edith struggled to sit still as the evening approached. Her neighbour, Margareta solitary woman nudging fiftyhad whispered a tale so astonishing her head was spinning. Margaret had even invited her over later, promising to show her something remarkable.

It had all begun with a simple morning chat. Margaret had popped in on her way to the shops:

“Fancy anything from Sainsburys, Edith? Im after some bits and pieces for a pie, maybe a few other odds and ends.”

Edith looked Margaret up and down with a warm smile. “Youre a good woman, Margaret. Always thoughtful, always kind. I still remember you as a gangly schoolgirl, you know. Shame things didnt work out with a family of your own. Still, you keep your chin upnever whinge or mope like some, eh?”

Margaret gave a wry smile. “Whats the point in complaining, Edith? Ive got a man I care about, even if we cant be together right now. And if youd like, Ill tell you why this evening. Actually, theres more to itbut only for you. I trust you not to spread it round the estate. Whod believe it anyway?” she chuckled.

“Come on, what can I fetch for you? Ill pop over for a cuppa after, tell you all about my life. Think you might stop pitying me for once.”

Edith didnt really need anything, but she asked Margaret for a loaf of bread and some toffees for tea. Her curiosity was well and truly litjust what was Margaret going to reveal?

Margaret soon returned with bread and sweets. Edith brewed a fragrant pot of tea, settled in and gave her full attention.

“Edith, you remember what I went through twenty years back? I was pushing thirty, seeing a good man, planning to marry him. I didnt love him, not really, but he was solid, gentle. And I was desperate not to be alone any longer, to have a homechildren, you know.

We put in for a council flat. He moved in with me. I fell pregnant. But when the baby came, at eight months, she only lived two days. I thought Id drown in misery. We split upthere was nothing keeping us together. After a couple of months, I began coaxing myself back to life.

And then it happened.”

Margaret eyed Edith, anxious but sure.

“I dont even know how to explain this. Id bought everything for the babys roomcot, bedding, toys, all ready long before she arrived. People say its unlucky, but I never believed those old tales.

Then, one night, I woke to the sound of a baby crying. Thought I was cracking up, hearing things from grief. But there it was again, clear as day. I went to the cot andthere she wasa tiny, living girl.

I picked her up. It was like Id never known happiness till that moment. She looked at me with these huge eyes, then shut them and drifted off to sleep.

Night after night she came to me.

I even bought baby formula and a bottle, but she hardly fed at all. If she cried, Id pick her up and shed just smile, close her eyes and doze off.”

Edith listened, entranced, clutching her teacup. “But, Margarethow is that possible?”

Margarets cheeks flushed with excitement. “I thought it impossible, too! But it kept happening. She doesnt live in this world; over there, shes got another mum and dad. Still, most nights she visits me. Stays a whilejust long enough.”

“Once,” Margarets voice trembled, “she even said, I will always be with you, mummy. Were joined by a thread no one could ever break.”

“Sometimes I wonder if its just a dream. But she brings me little gifts from that worldthough they fade away, melt like frost in the morning, before long.”

“You mean it?” Edith gulped her tea, her throat dry as dust.

Margaret nodded. “Thats why I want you to come tonight. See for yourself, so Ill know Im not losing my marbles.”

As dusk swallowed the street, Edith made her way to Margarets flat. They sat together in the gathering dark, silence humming between them.

The place was quiet as the gravejust Margaret and Edith. They were nearly ready for bed themselves when an unearthly, gentle glow began to fill the corner of the room. The air shimmered, and suddenly there she wasa beautiful young woman, aglow with soft light.

“Hello, mummy! Ive had such a wonderful day and wanted to share it with you. This is for you,” she said, and laid a bouquet of wildflowers gently on the table.

“Ohhello there,” the girl noticed Edith with a cheerful grin. “I nearly forgotyou wanted to meet me, didnt you? Im Abigail.”

Just as quickly as shed arrived, Abigail bade them goodbye and faded away, dissipating softly into the night air.

Edith sat, lost for words, silent and still, astonished beyond measure. When she finally found her voice, she whispered, “Well, Margaret, I suppose there really is more to this world than we know. Your daughters a marvelgot your pretty eyes, too.”

“Im happy for you, Margaret. Turns out, youre luckier than mostmaybe the luckiest in the world.”

She dabbed her eyes, breathless with gratitude. “Youve opened my eyes. Theres more to life than we seeit goes on, everywhere. Im not frightened of meeting my end anymore.”

“Bless you, Margaret!”

The flowers on the table paled and faded, vanishing entirely before long.

Margaret, having seen Edith out, beamed quietly to herself. Tomorrow promised a new, magical day. Shed see Williamthe man she truly loved. And he loved her; she felt it in every fibre of her being.

How could she explain it? Such things were past telling.

And one day, she knew, shed introduce themher two most precious loved ones: Abigail and William.

A Grandson’s Request: An English Family Story “Gran, I’ve got a big favour to ask—I really need some money.” A lot of money. It was evening when Paul came to see her, and it was clear he was nervous. Normally, he’d pop round to see Mrs. Lily Thompson twice a week. If she needed anything from the shops or wanted help with the bins, he was always there. He’d fixed her old sofa once, too—good as new. He was always so calm and reliable. But now, he was on edge. Lily Thompson always worried—you never know what’s going on these days! “Paul, may I ask what you need the money for? And how much is ‘a lot’?” Lily tensed inwardly. Paul was her eldest grandson. A good and kind lad. He’d finished school last year, working now and studying part-time. His parents had never mentioned anything worrying about him. So why did he need so much money? “I can’t say right now, Gran, but I promise I’ll pay you back—in instalments, if that’s alright,” Paul hesitated. “You know I only have my pension to get by… How much do you need?” “Two thousand pounds.” “Why not ask your parents?” Lily asked, already knowing what Paul would say. Her son-in-law was strict and believed Paul should handle his own affairs for his age, and not get involved in things he shouldn’t. “They won’t help.” Was he in some kind of trouble? Would things get worse if she lent him the money? But if she refused, would Paul suffer more? Lily looked at him anxiously. “Gran, it’s nothing bad, honestly,” Paul picked up on her worry. “I promise to pay you back in three months. Don’t you trust me?” Maybe she should give him the money. Even if he couldn’t pay it back. There had to be someone he could rely on in the world. She did have emergency savings. Perhaps this *was* the emergency. Paul had come to her. No need to think about her funeral just yet—if it came to that, they’d take care of it. The living mattered most. She needed to trust her family. They say if you lend money, you should be prepared not to see it again. Young people are such a mystery these days. But Paul had never let her down. “Alright, I’ll lend you the money for three months as you asked. But would it be better for your parents to know?” “Gran, you know how much I love you. I always keep my promises. But if you can’t, I’ll try for a loan from the bank—I do have a job.” The next morning, Lily went to the bank, withdrew the money, and handed it to Paul. He beamed, kissed her, and said, “Thank you, Gran. You’re the best. I’ll pay you back—I promise.” And with that, he was off. Lily made herself a cup of tea and reflected. How many times in her life had she been desperate for money and found someone to help? Now everyone was out for themselves. Tough times, indeed. A week later, Paul came by in high spirits. “Gran, here’s the first payment—I got some money upfront. Could I bring someone with me when I visit tomorrow?” “Of course, pop in. I’ll bake your favourite poppy seed cake,” Lily smiled. Maybe she’d finally get to the bottom of this. She wanted to be sure Paul was alright. The next evening, Paul arrived with a slim, shy girl. “Gran, this is Ellie—my girlfriend. Ellie, this is my wonderful Gran, Mrs. Lily Thompson.” Ellie smiled sweetly. “Hello, Mrs. Thompson. Thank you ever so much!” “Come in, dear, it’s lovely to meet you,” Lily breathed a sigh of relief—she liked her straight away. They all sat down for tea and cake. “Gran,” Paul began, “I couldn’t say before. Ellie was terribly worried—her mum had a sudden health crisis, and they had no one to help. Ellie’s quite superstitious and made me promise not to say anything. But it’s okay now—her mum had the operation and the prognosis is good,” he said, squeezing Ellie’s hand. “Thank you so much. You’re so kind. I’m ever so grateful,” Ellie said, dabbing at her eyes. “There now, it’s all over, Ellie,” Paul stood up. “Gran, we’d best be off—getting late.” “Goodnight, dears—look after one another,” Lily called, giving them her blessing as they left. Her grandson was growing up—a good lad. She’d been right to trust him. It wasn’t just about the money. It brought them closer. Two months later, Paul repaid every penny and told her, “You won’t believe it, Gran—the doctor said we’d made it just in time. If you hadn’t helped, things could have turned out badly. Thank you, Gran. I didn’t know what to do for Ellie, and now I know—there’ll always be someone to help in tough moments. I’d do anything for you. You’re simply the best!” Lily mussed his hair like she had when he was a boy. “Off you go, and bring Ellie to visit—I’ll be delighted.” “Of course,” Paul hugged her. As Lily closed the door behind them, she recalled something her own gran used to say: “Always help your own—here in England, that’s how it’s done. If you’re there for your family, they’ll stand by you, too. Never forget it.”

Key in Hand Rain drummed against the flat’s window in a steady rhythm, like a metronome counting down the time. Michael perched on the edge of a battered single bed, hunched over, as if trying to shrink himself from fate’s notice. His large, once-strong hands—hands that once managed heavy equipment—now lay powerless on his knees. His fingers would clench every so often, as if trying desperately to grasp something intangible. He did not simply stare at the wall; he studied the faded wallpaper as though it were a map of lost hope, tracing routes from the NHS GP to the private diagnostics clinic. His eyes were washed out, like an old black-and-white film stuck on a single frame. Yet another doctor. Yet another condescending, “Well, at your age, what do you expect, Mr Harris?” He wasn’t angry; anger took energy, which he lacked. Only exhaustion remained. The pain in his back was more than a symptom—it had become his landscape, the background to every move and every thought, the white noise of helplessness drowning out everything else. He followed all the advice: took the tablets, applied the creams, endured physio on a cold NHS couch, feeling like a broken part on the scrapyard of life. And all the while, he waited. Passively, almost with religious faith, he waited for some life-raft—a government scheme, a miracle physician, a brilliant professor—to finally throw him that rescue rope, save him from this quicksand. He looked out at the horizon of his life and saw only grey rain through the pane. Where once his will had been sharp—solving any problem at the factory or at home—it had dissolved down to one daily task: endure, and hope for rescue. Family… once present, had faded away. Time slipped by too quickly. First his daughter—clever Katie—left for London and a brighter future. He couldn’t fault her; he wanted the best for her. “Dad, I’ll help, when I’m settled,” she promised by phone. Although, that wasn’t the point. Then his wife left—not to the shops, but forever. Rachel was taken quickly—merciless cancer, discovered too late. Michael was left not only with a ruined back, but with the silent reproach of still being here, half-walking, half-lying, while she, his rock, his spark, his Rachel, faded to nothing in three months. He nursed her as best he could, until her cough turned to a rattling, and the shine in her eye quietly vanished. The last words she spoke, gripping his hand: “Stay strong, Mike…” But he wasn’t strong. He broke, finally. Katie rang, suggesting he move in with her, try her startup life in her rented flat. But why would she need him underfoot, a burden in an unfamiliar home? She wasn’t coming back, either. Now it was only Rachel’s younger sister—Valerie—who visited, once a week, regular as clockwork. She brought soup in Tupperware, pasta, mince, and a new box of paracetamol. “How are you, Mike?” she’d ask, shaking off her coat. He’d nod: “Alright.” They’d sit in silence as she tidied his bedsit, as if order in things might restore order to his life. Then she’d leave, trailing the scent of perfume and the quiet, physical feeling of someone repaying a debt. He was grateful. And so painfully alone. His loneliness wasn’t just physical—it was a cell, built of helplessness, grief and a simmering anger at the unfair world. One especially bleak evening, his gaze drifted across the threadbare carpet and landed on his front-door key. He must have dropped it, struggling in from the clinic last time. Just a key—nothing special. A piece of metal. But he found himself staring, really seeing it, as if for the first time. It waited. He remembered his granddad—vividly, as though someone flicked a light on in a dark memory. Granddad Peter John, with his empty sleeve tucked into his belt, would sit on a stool and manage to tie his laces with one hand and a broken fork. Not rushing, carefully, with quiet triumph when he managed it. “Watch and learn, Mikey!” he’d say, eyes shining with victory over circumstance. “Tools are always at hand, lad. Sometimes they look like junk to everyone else. You just have to spot your ally in a pile of rubbish.” As a boy, Michael thought that was just an old man putting a brave face on things. Granddad was a hero—heroes can do anything. But Michael wasn’t a hero; fighting bad luck and back pain left no room for clever tricks with cutlery. Yet now, looking at the key, the memory felt less like a fairy tale and more like a quiet rebuke. Granddad didn’t wait for help; he grabbed what was there. A broken fork—and won, not over pain or loss, but helplessness. What had Michael chosen? Only waiting, bitter and passive, at the doorstep of other people’s goodwill. The thought made his heart race. Now, the key—this chunk of metal ringing with echoes of granddad’s words—was a wordless command. He stood, groaning, ashamed even though the room was empty. He shuffled over, pushed himself up, joints crackling. Picked up the key. Tried to straighten—his back screamed in protest. He froze, teeth clenched, waiting for the wave to pass. But instead of giving up, he tottered to the wall. He pressed the blunt end of the key to the wallpaper at the point of pain in his back, applying slow pressure, body weight behind it. Not to fix it—but just to meet pain with pain, reality brushing up against reality. He found a spot where this rough negotiation brought a touch of dull relief, as if something inside finally eased open a fraction. He tried again, moving the key a little each time. Each motion slow, attentive, exploratory—a negotiation, not a cure. His tool was not a fancy medical gadget, but this battered key. He felt foolish. A key’s no miracle. But the next night he tried again. And the next. He mapped the spots where pressure brought not more pain, but odd relief, as though spreading apart the old, tight vise grip. Soon, he used the door-frame to gently stretch. A glass of water by the bed reminded him to drink—just drink. Free. Michael stopped waiting, hands folded. He used what he had: a key, a door-frame, the living-room floor for feather-light stretches, his own will. He started a notebook—not about pain, but “key victories.” “Stood at the stove five minutes longer today.” Three empty baked bean tins on the sill became his mini-allotment. Filled with soil from the communal garden, each sprouting a few onion sets. Not a real garden—just three tins of life, and a new responsibility. A month on, seeing new scans, the GP raised her eyebrows. “Some change, Mr Harris. Have you been doing anything?” “Yes,” Michael said, simply. “Making use of what’s to hand.” He didn’t mention his key. The doc wouldn’t get it. But Michael knew. Salvation hadn’t arrived on a rescue boat. It had lain on the floor, unremarkable, while he stared at the wall, still waiting for a light to be switched on. One Wednesday, Valerie paused on the doorstep. On the windowsill, in those tins, lush spring onions thrived. The flat smelled not of damp and medicated creams but something altogether fresher, hopeful. “You… what’s this?” she managed, seeing him, upright by the window. “Garden,” he replied, simply. After a moment: “Fancy some for your soup? Homegrown.” That evening, she stayed for tea, and he—without complaints of his health—talked about the stairs in the block, how he now tackled one flight extra each day. No Dr. Dolittle arrived bearing a magic potion. Rescue hid itself in a key, a door-frame, an old tin, an ordinary flight of stairs. It couldn’t undo pain, loss, age. But it put tools back in his hands—not to win the whole war, just for small battles, each day. And sometimes, when you stop waiting for a golden ladder from the sky and spot the ordinary concrete steps under your feet, you find that climbing—slowly, carefully, one step at a time—is life itself. And on the sill, in three battered tins, grew the greenest, proudest onions—his own, extraordinary, English garden.