I Shouted Out the Window: “Mum, Why Are You Up So Early? You’ll Catch Your Death!” — She Turned, Waved Her Shovel in Greeting, and Called Back: “Doing My Best for You Lazybones.” — The Next Day, My Mum Was Gone… I Still Can’t Walk Past Our Old Garden Without Tears… Every Time I See That Footpath, My Heart Clenches Like Someone’s Grabbing It. It Was Me Who Took That Photo on January Second… I Was Just Passing By, Noticed Her Footprints in the Snow—And Stopped. I Snapped a Picture, Not Even Sure Why. Now, That Photo Is All I Have Left of Those Days… We Celebrated New Year’s Just Like Always, All Together. Mum Was Up Early on the 31st, and I Woke to the Smell of Frying Burgers and Her Voice from the Kitchen: “Darling, Get Up! Come Help Me Finish the Salads, or Your Dad Will Eat All the Ingredients Again While We’re Not Looking!” I Came Downstairs Still in My Pyjamas, Hair a Mess. She Was at the Stove in Her Favourite Peach-Print Apron—the One I Gave Her Back in School—Smiling, Cheeks Rosy from the Oven. “Mum, At Least Let Me Have My Coffee First,” I Groaned. “Coffee After! First, Chop the Veg—Small, the Way I Like. Not Like Last Time—Those Huge Cubes!” We Chopped and Chatted About Everything. She Reminisced About Her Childhood New Years—No Fancy Salads, Just Herring in a Fur Coat and the Oranges Her Dad Sneaked Home from Work. Then Dad Came In With the Tree—Absolutely Huge, Nearly Touching the Ceiling. “Alright Ladies, Accept This Beauty!” He Boomed. “Dad, Did You Bring Down the Whole Forest?” I Gasped. Mum Just Shook Her Head with a Smile: “It’s Lovely, But Where Will We Put It? Last Year’s Was Smaller.” Still, She Helped Decorate. My Little Sister and I Hung the Lights While Mum Dug Out the Old Glass Ornaments, Including a Tiny Angel She Said She’d Bought for My First New Year’s. “Remember This One?” She Asked Quietly. “I Do, Mum,” I Lied. Really, I Didn’t, But She Glowed from My Nod. My Brother Arrived Later, Loud as Ever—Arms Full of Presents and Bubbly. “Mum, I’ve Got Proper Champagne This Year! None of Last Year’s Cheap Stuff.” “Just Don’t Drink It All at Once,” She Laughed, Hugging Him. At Midnight, We All Went Out to the Garden. Dad and My Brother Set Off Fireworks, My Sister Screamed in Delight, and Mum Hugged Me Tight. “Look, Love, Isn’t It Beautiful? We’ve Got Such a Good Life…” I Hugged Her Back. “The Best Life, Mum.” We Drank Bubbly Straight from the Bottle, Laughed When a Rocket Nearly Hit the Neighbour’s Shed. A Bit Tipsy, Mum Danced in Her Wellies to “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing”, and Dad Swept Her Up in His Arms. We Laughed Until We Cried. On New Year’s Day We Laid About; Mum Cooked Again—Now Dumplings and Aspic. “Mum, Enough, We’re Bursting!” I Complained. “Nonsense, You’ll Finish It Off. It’s New Year’s, It Lasts a Week,” She Brushed Me Off. January Second, She Was Up Early as Always. I Heard the Door Bang, Saw Her in the Garden With the Shovel—Clearing the Path in Her Old Parka and Scarf. She Did It So Carefully: A Narrow, Neat Path from the Gate to the Porch, Sweeping Snow Just the Way She Liked. I Shouted: “Mum, Why So Early? You’ll Catch a Chill!” She Looked Back, Waved Her Shovel: “Or Would You Lot Rather Trudge Through Drifts TIll Spring? Put the Kettle On, Will You?” I Grinned and Headed to the Kitchen. She Came Back in Half an Hour, Cheeks Glowing, Eyes Bright. “All Done, It Looks Lovely, Doesn’t It?” “Lovely, Mum. Thank You.” That Was the Last Time I Heard Her Cheerful Voice. On the Morning of the Third, She Whispered: “Girls, I’m Getting a Sharp Pain in My Chest. Not Bad, Just Annoying.” I Panicked: “Mum, Let’s Call an Ambulance?” “Oh Stop, Love. Just Overdid It, That’s All. I’ll Lie Down A Bit, It’ll Pass.” She Lay on the Sofa, My Sister and I Sitting With Her. Dad Went for Medicine. She Still Joked: “Don’t Look So Gloomy—I’ll Outlive the Lot of You.” But Then Her Face Went Pale. She Clutched Her Chest. “Oh… I Don’t Feel Well…” We Called the Paramedics. I Held Her Hand. Whispered: “Mummy, Hold On, They’re Coming, It’ll Be Alright…” She Looked at Me and Murmured: “Sweetheart… I Love You All So Much… I Don’t Want to Say Goodbye.” The Ambulance Came Quick, But… Nothing Could Be Done. Massive Heart Attack. It Happened So Fast. I Sat on the Hall Floor, Wailing. Couldn’t Believe It. Yesterday She Was Dancing, Laughing—Today She Was Gone. Barely Steady, I Went Out to the Garden. Soft Snow. Her Footprints, So Small and Neat, Were Still There—from the Gate to the Porch and Back. I Stood and Stared for the Longest Time. Asked God How It Was Possible: Yesterday, She Walked Here, Left Her Prints—Now She Was Gone. The Tracks Were There, but She Wasn’t. Maybe She Really Did Step Out That Last Time Just to Leave Us a Clear Path—So We Could Walk On After Her. I Didn’t Clear the Tracks, and Asked Everyone Else Not To. Let them Stay Until the Snow Takes Them Naturally. That Was the Last Thing Mum Did for Us—Looking After Us Even When She Was Gone. A Week Later, Heavy Snow Fell. I Keep That Photo with Her Last Footprints. Every January Third, I Look at It—and Then at the Now-Empty Path by Our House. It Hurts So Much Knowing Her Last Steps Are Still Somewhere Under That Snow. Those Are the Steps I Still Try to Follow…

Author Emily TaylorReading 7 minViews 1

I shouted out of the window, Mum, what are you doing up so early? Youll catch your death! She turned, her face glowing in the pale dawn, waving her spade in greeting, Doing it for you, you lazy lot! she called back, her voice muffled by her thick woolly scarf. The next day, Mum was gone.

Now when I walk past our garden, my chest tightens as if an invisible hand clutches at my heart. Each time I see that narrow garden path, something inside me twists and aches. It was me who took that photograph on the second of Januaryjust walking by, catching sight of those careful footprints pressed deep into the snow. I took the photo without really knowing why, and now its all I have left from those days.

Wed celebrated New Year as always, the whole family together. Mum was up early on the thirty-first, bustling around. The smell of frying sausages drifted up to my bedroom, mixing with the clatter and her cheerful voice. Come on, love, up you get! You can help with the salads before your dad eats all the ingredients! I trundled downstairs, hair wild, still in my pyjamas. There she was, at the stove in her favourite apronwhite, with yellow peaches onone Id given her ages ago on a Mothers Day. Bright cheeks, laughter, so alive.

Mum, just let me have a cup of tea first, will you? I whinged.
Tea later! Chop up the veg first, the way I likenone of your chunky nonsense! She tossed me the bowl with a cackle.

We cut and chatted about nothing and everything. She told stories about New Years in her own childhoodno fancy salads, just jacket potatoes and tangerines smuggled home by her dad from the market.

Dad came in after, dragging an enormous Christmas tree behind him, nearly brushing the ceiling. Right, ladies, admire this beauty! he puffed, grinning with pride.
Have you felled the whole forest, Dad? I gasped, half-joking, while Mum shrugged, Lovely, dear, but where will it go? The last one only just fit.

Still, she helped us deck it out. My little sister, Nancy, and I strung up the old battered fairy lights while Mum rooted in the loft for childhood baubles. I remember her gently holding up a tiny glass angel and whispering, I bought this for your first Christmas, do you remember?
Of course, Mum, I lied, nodding. Her eyes glistened at that.

My brother, Charlie, barrelled in near eveningbags, presents, bottles clinking. Got the posh champagne this year, Mum, none of that vinegary rubbish! he boasted.
Lets just hope you all behave yourselves, Mum laughed, hugging him tight.

At midnight we spilled into the frosty garden. Dad and Charlie set off fireworks, Nancy shrieked with giddy delight, and Mum snuggled me under her arm. Look, love. Isnt it beautiful? she whispered.
It really is, Mum. Were lucky, I murmured.

We passed the champagne around, hiccuping with laughter when a firework veered into next doors garden shed. Mum, tipsy and rosy, started twirling to God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen in her fuzzy boots, Dad sweeping her up into his arms. Tears of laughter spilled everywhere.

On the first of January, we lazed around the house all day. Mum cooked againnow dumplings and jellied beef.
Mum, surely thats enough Were round as puddings! I protested.
Oh, nonsense, she brushed me off. New Years a week-long celebration!

The second of January dawned quietly. I heard the door bang and looked outthere was Mum, shovelling snow in her ancient puffer coat, a flowery headscarf on. She always cleared the walk just right: from the gate to the step in a perfectly straight line, heaping neat mounds against the house.
Mum! Why so early? Youll freeze! I called from the window.
She paused, waved her spade. If I leave it for you lot, well have dirty boots til Easter! Go on, put the kettle on for me.
I smiled and turned for the kitchen. Half an hour later, she came incheeks glowing, eyes bright.
All done. Nice, isnt it? she said, sinking into her chair.
Lovely, I told her, and she squeezed my hand.

That was the last time I heard her voice strong and cheerful.

On the third of January, early, she woke and whispered, Girls theres a sharp pain in my chest. Not bad, just odd.
Fear jabbed at me. Mum, lets ring the ambulance?
Oh, dont be silly, love. Ive just overdone it a bit, thats all. Let me lie down, itll pass.
She laid on the settee, me and Nancy sitting by her side. Dad dashed to the chemist for remedies. Mum teased, No need for those facesIll outlive the lot of you!
Then suddenly, her face went pale, her hand at her chest.
Oh I feel so awful

We called for help. I gripped her hand, quietly pleading, Stay with me, Mum, please, dont go, helps coming
She looked at me, barely breathing, and said, Love I adore you all. I wish I didnt have to say goodbye.
The paramedics came so quickly, but there was nothing to be done. A massive heart attackgone in minutes.

I sat on the hall floor, howling, not believing. Only a day before, she was spinning in the snow, dancing under fireworks. Now
Dazed, I stumbled into the garden. The snow was holding back, the air strangely still. And there, leading from the gate to the door, were her footstepssmall, tidy, perfect. Just as she always left them.
I stood for an age, staring, asking into the numb air, How can it be? Yesterday she walked here, left these tracks, and nowonly marks in the snow. Her, gone.
Maybe it was true, maybe not: that she went out that morning just once more, to leave us a path. For us, without her.

I didnt let anyone cover the tracks. I asked everyone not to. Leave them, I said, until the snow takes them itself.

That was the last thing Mum did for us. Her simple caring was there, woven into ordinary thingseven when she was already gone.

By the next week, the snow came thick and fierce.
I keep the photo of her last footprints. Every third of January I sit with it, gazing at the empty path outside, heartsore, knowing that under all that snow, shes left her last trail.
The same trail I still follow, year after yearSome winters, the garden stays empty and I hurry past, afraid to look. On braver days, I linger at the window and watch as snow softens everythingfences, trees, even sorrow. Eventually, the melt begins, leaving behind a faint line in the muck where her footsteps lay. But that line, somehow, always finds me. I see her boots in every careful indentation. I hear her laughter in the hush before dawn.

I understand now what I didnt then: love isnt loud or showy, but found in short, straight paths through snow, in the scent of sausages, in the squeeze of a hand, in the warmth lingering after the kettles boiled. Shes here in every ordinary thing, just beneath the surfacequiet, steady, endlessly returning, even when the world feels empty.

And so I step outside one chilly January morning, cup of tea in hand, and press my own feet beside herstrail to door, and back againleaving new prints where the old ones fade. Its the only way I know to answer her, and to go on.

Midnight Express The doors of the night bus folded like concertinas, sending waves of warm air billowing into the cool London night. Five rowdy lads tumbled aboard, scuffing their muddy trainers on every surface they could find: steps, poles, and the unlucky ankles of fellow passengers. No one among the disparate group of lone night travellers—united by this single late-night route—dared challenge the boisterous, tipsy group, their eyes wild as they loudly debated the many places and occasions for their supposed amorous exploits. Everyone tried to out-shout the others, boasting about whom, where, and what for, their raucous laughter punctuated by toasts and the clinking of bottles. They turned the back of the bus into an off-license drinks counter, bashing bottle bottoms together after each burst of laughter. The engine grumbled, the doors hissed, the concertina snapped straight, and the old Routemaster pulled away from the station-like stop. Aside from the newcomers, there were about ten souls in the dim carriage, including the conductor—a weary woman whose spectacles looked old enough to have seen the Blitz. “Tickets, lads,” she intoned, voice braced for trouble, clutching her roll of tickets. “Got a travelcard,” belched one. “Me too!” “Same here!” The last, barely eighteen—peach fuzz, awkward movements, uncertain eyes—put on the loudest show, confident in the safety of numbers. “Let’s see them, then,” said the woman, unimpressed. “Show us yours first!” jeered the broadest, spitting beer foam as he spoke. “I’m the conductor,” she replied flatly. “And I’m an electrician! So should I get free leccy then?” retorted the lad with the bottomless beer bottle, sticky beer running down his jacket, its stale waft filling the bus. “Either pay up or get off,” she countered. As if cued, the bus stopped; the rest of the passengers silently filed out at the next stop. “We told you, we’ve got travelcards,” insisted the youngest, chest puffed. “Take us back to the depot, Val,” the conductor called to the unseen driver. “Yeah, Val, take us to the depot,” the lads mocked, feigning tears. The doors clattered shut and the bus reversed course. The boys laughed for ten seconds, but as the Routemaster picked up speed, one finally noticed, half-sober, “How did the bus turn in the road if it’s electric and runs on wires?” The others shrugged—it didn’t matter. The bus went faster, overtaking cars, its bulbs fading to black. Only the flickering streetlights and neon signs cut through the gloom inside. The conductor sat still, gaze fixed ahead, and the stops vanished. “Oi! Where are you taking us?” one called out. Silence. “Driver! Stop! Let us off!” Their voices faltered, panic overtaking bravado. The conductor didn’t move. They left the city, slipping onto a rural lane; the only light ahead flickered in the driver’s cabin. Their phones showed no signal, no internet. Desperate, one lad stood over the conductor, spitting threats. “You know where I work? If I’m not at my desk tomorrow, your pension’s gone!” The headlights died. “Please, let us out—I need to revise for A-Levels!” the awkward youth squeaked. The bus tore through the night, engine howling. The bravado was gone; memories stirred of hostage survival guides, desperate hands tried smashing windows with beer bottles or prying open doors, but nothing worked. Finally, someone offered cash. “Here, keep the change! Just take us back! Please!” But the conductor sat frozen, unmoved by pleas, guilt trips or tears. The bus hurtled on, until it reached a huge, dark lake. “Where are we?” the lads whispered. “They’re going to drown us,” sobbed the youngest. “Serge, you know how to drive a bus? Think we can rush them?” someone mumbled hopefully, but Serge just shook his head. At last, the front door opened, and the conductor stepped onto the verge. In the moonlight, she rummaged in the driver’s cabin—returning with a long object. “That’s it—this is it—they’ll shoot us… dump us in the lake…” Even the electrician was speechless, eyes puffy with tears. Suddenly, the lights flared. The conductor strode in, thunked down a mop and a bucket at their trembling feet, and smiled: “When you’re done washing the walls, I’ll give you cloths for the seats and floors. Then you’ll go home. Any objections?” The five shook their heads in unison. Night stretched on. Two fetched water, one swapped out cloths, two emptied buckets into some mysterious barrel—this bus had clearly made this run before. They finished at dawn; the Routemaster gleamed, glass sparkling. The lads, sober and subdued, worked quietly, in step. When it was finished, the conductor clipped their tickets and the bus rolled back to the city. The midnight rebels were dropped at stops along the way, and the old double-decker set off again—to greet the new day and new passengers.