“Mum, It’s Us, Your Sons… Mum…” She Looked at Them Anna and Robert Had Spent Their Entire Lives Struggling in Poverty. Once Full of Hope, Anna Watched Her Dreams Fade as Hardship and Addiction Took Over. With Three Sons Born in Quick Succession and Little Income, Despair Consumed the Family. After Years of Sacrifice, Both Parents Fell into the Grip of Alcohol, Forgetting Their Children as the Village Watched Helplessly. When a Neighbor Suggested the Boys Were Better Off in an Orphanage, Anna and Robert Relinquished Them. Years Passed—The Brothers Grew Up, Found Jobs, and Stuck Together, Always Haunted by the Parents Who Abandoned Them. One Day, They Returned to Find Their Mother, Staring Blankly, Until Recognition Dawns and Tears Flow. Can They Forgive the Past?

Author Emily TaylorReading 4 min

Mum, its us, your children Mum She glanced at them.

Emma and George had spent their lives on the edge of poverty, where even a cup of proper tea felt like a luxury. Emma had long abandoned hope for a bright, comfortable existence. Once upon a far more optimistic time, shed been young and in love, daydreaming about a future filled with sunshine and daffodils. But as the fates would have it, life didnt play out as shed imagined. George worked relentlessly, but his meagre pay packet barely stretched. As luck (or unluck) would have it, Emma fell pregnantand then kept falling, producing three sons in quick succession. Emma hadnt worked in years. Georges wages alone didnt exactly inspire confidence. The boys grew faster than weeds and wore out their shoes just as quickly.

Every penny went on groceriestoast and beans more often than not. And let’s not forget gas, electricity, and the thousand invisible costs of British life. After a dozen long years lived like this, the family looked more battered than the local football team after a losing streak. George took to drink, bringing his whole wages home, but returning each night sozzled. Emma lost her patienceand respectfor him amidst it all. One night, George staggered in, clutching half a bottle of cheap gin. Emma, exasperated, snatched it awayand in that most British of if you cant beat them, join them moments, drank it herself. From then on, she took to drinking as well.

Surprisingly, after a while, everything seemed a bit less grim. Her troubles faded; she even caught herself giggling, which was startling. Soon, she found herself waiting for George to come home, not for his smile but for the bottle. So, they started drinking together by the fire, united at last in their mutual misery.

Emma forgot about her boys. The neighbours, scandalised and whispering over their hedges, shook their heads at how quickly a person could be undone by drink. Eventually, the boys wandered the village, practically begging for bits of toast or scraps left on plates. One day, a neighbourwhom no one dared crossdeclared:

Emma, youd be better off putting those lads in care than starving them at home. How long do you think you can just drink your troubles away and ignore them?

Emma remembered those words all too well. They echoed endlessly, even when she tried to lose them in her next glass. She sometimes thought it would be easier if the children were simply not there, tripping over her slippers and her regrets. Before long, Emma and George did the unthinkable: they handed the boys over to the council. So, the three went off to a group home, sobbing for the mum and dad who never came for them. Emma and George had all but erased their own sons from memory.

Years ticked by. One by one, the boys left care. Each got a dingy one-bedroom flat courtesy of the council. Still, at least there was a roof overhead, even if it leaked. They all found jobssome more tolerable than others. They had only each other and never talked about their parents, but deep down, each wanted answers.

One blustery afternoon, they gathered up their courage (and their clapped-out Ford) and drove to their old street. On the way, they saw their mum tottering home, clutching a bag from the off-license. She shuffled right past, not recognising her own sons.

Mum, its us, your children Mum

She looked at them, eyes vacantthen suddenly, something flickered.

Tears streamed down her face. She pleaded for their forgiveness. But how could such a thing be forgiven? The boys stood there, unsure whether to hug her or hurry away. In the end, though, they agreedfamily is family, however batteredand forgave her, British reserve and all.

After Abandoning Her Twin Babies at Birth, Mum Returned 20 Years Later—But She Wasn’t Prepared for the Truth She’d Find On the night the twins were born, his world split in two. It wasn’t their cries that frightened him, but her silence—a heavy, oppressive hush, filled with emptiness. Their mother watched from across the room, her eyes distant, as if the babies were strangers from a life that no longer belonged to her. “I can’t…” she whispered. “I can’t be a mother.” There was no dramatic exit. No harsh words. Just a signature, a closed door, and a void that would never truly heal. She said she felt too small for such a huge responsibility, suffocated and unable to breathe. And so she left—leaving behind two newborns and a father who had no idea how to raise them alone. In the early months, their dad stood more than he slept. He learned to change nappies with shaking hands, warm bottles at midnight, and sing gentle lullabies to soothe their cries. No manuals, no help—just love. A love that grew as they did. He was both mother and father to them. Comfort, shield, and answer. He witnessed their first words, first steps, and first heartbreaks. He was there when they were ill, when they cried for something they couldn’t name. He never spoke ill of her—not ever. All he ever told them was: “Sometimes, people leave because they simply don’t know how to stay.” The twins grew up strong and united—two siblings who understood the world could be unfair, but that true love never abandons. Over 20 years later, on an ordinary afternoon, someone knocked at the door. It was her. Older. Frailer. Lines of guilt on her face. She said she wanted to know them, claimed she’d thought of them every day, that she regretted leaving, that she had been young and frightened. Their father stood in the doorway, his arms open but his heart tight—not for himself, but for them. The twins listened in silence, regarding her like a story told too late. No hatred in their eyes, no desire for revenge—just a grown-up, painful quiet. “We already have a mum,” one of them said gently. “Her name is Sacrifice, and she answers to Dad,” the other added. They didn’t feel the need to reclaim what they’d never had—because they hadn’t grown up unloved. They were raised wholly, completely, and truly loved. And perhaps, for the first time, she understood: some departures cannot be undone. And true love doesn’t come from giving birth… But from staying. A father who stays is worth a thousand promises. 👇 Tell us in the comments: what does “a true parent” mean to you? 🔁 Share for anyone who grew up with just one parent… yet with everything.

There’s Still Work to Be Done at Home… Granny Val opened the creaking garden gate with great effort, hobbled to the front door, struggled with the old rusty lock for a while, entered her cold, unheated cottage, and sat down on a chair by the chilly fireplace. The house smelled empty and unlived-in. She’d only been gone three months, yet already the ceilings were shrouded in cobwebs, the ancient chair groaned mournfully, the wind rattled down the chimney—the house seemed to greet her grumpily: Where have you been, mistress? Who did you leave me to? How will we get through the winter now? “Just a moment, my dear house, let me catch my breath… I’ll fire up the stove, we’ll soon be warm again…” Only a year ago, Granny Val was bustling about the old house: whitening the walls, touching up paint, fetching water. Her small, sprightly figure bowed before the icons, tended the kitchen, and darted through the garden, somehow finding time to plant, weed, and water. The house, in turn, seemed to rejoice with its mistress—floorboards creaked cheerily under her light, hurried footsteps, doors and windows flew open at the gentle touch of her weary hands, and the oven diligently baked fluffy pies. They were good together, Val and her beloved old house. Widowed young, she raised three children, educated them all, and sent them off into the world: one son now a ship’s captain overseas, the other a colonel in the military, both far away and rarely able to visit. Only her youngest daughter, Tamara, stayed behind in the village as chief agronomist—always at work, popping in to see her mother on Sundays with pies to cheer her heart, but gone for the rest of the week. Her main comfort was granddaughter Sweetie (or, as the neighbours called her, “Our Svetlana”): tall and beautiful, with huge grey eyes, a golden mane of hair, and a delicate presence that stopped the local lads in their tracks. A clever girl too—agricultural college in the city, returned to work in the village as an economist, married the local vet, and, thanks to a scheme for young families, moved into a new, solid brick house. Though her new home was modern, it lacked the blooming garden of Granny Val’s beloved cottage. Svetlana, though a country girl, had always been shielded from hard work by her grandmother, and with the birth of her son, Vasya, tending the garden fell by the wayside. She begged Granny Val to come live with her in the new house—no more fire to light, everything modern and easy. At eighty, Granny Val’s health began to fail—her once quick legs grew heavy; weary from a lifetime of work, and she finally gave in. Yet after a few short months, she heard, “Gran, I do love you! But you’re always sitting—you worked all your life, but here you just rest. I want to run a bigger household, and I need help…” “But my legs… They don’t work anymore, pet—I’m getting old…” “Hm… You got old just as soon as you moved in with me, it seems…” Soon, Granny Val—having “failed” her granddaughter—was returned to her own home, heartbroken she couldn’t be the support she wished to be. Her steps grew slower, the journey from bed to table a challenge, and church now too far to reach. Father Boris, longtime family priest and once her partner in all parish duties, stopped by and quickly sized up the cold cottage, the threadbare cardigan, the battered shoes. He rolled up his sleeves, cleared out the stove, fetched extra wood, got the fire going, and set the kettle to boil. He helped Granny address envelopes for her monthly letters to her sons—her trembling hand writing large, shaky letters: “I’m living very well, dear son. I have everything, thank God!” The blots on the page betrayed the truth—those stains were salty tears. Neighbour Anna took Granny Val under her wing, a helpful hand only twenty years younger. Father Boris made sure to visit, provide confession and communion, and on holidays Anna’s husband, old sailor Uncle Pete, would bring Granny to services on his motorbike. Life slowly settled again. But tragedy struck—Svetlana, her cherished granddaughter, grew gravely ill. What she thought was a stomach problem turned out to be lung cancer; within six months, she was gone. Her husband took to sleeping by her grave, relying on bottles for comfort. Four-year-old Vasya was left homeless, dirty, unloved. Tamara took in her nephew Vasyenka, but her work kept her too busy. With nowhere else to turn, Vasya was put on the list for council care. The local home was reputable enough—a caring headmaster, proper food, children sent home on weekends. But it wasn’t family, and Tamara’s job kept her out late. Then on a rainy Saturday, Granny Val turned up at her daughter’s with Uncle Pete at the helm. “I’ll take Vasya home with me.” “Mum, you can hardly walk, how will you manage?” “While I live, I won’t send Vasya to a home,” Val replied—and that was final. The usually gentle Val’s firmness stopped Tamara in her tracks, and Vasya’s things were quickly packed. Neighbours tutted: “She needs help herself, yet brings a child into that cold cottage—what is Tamara thinking?” Father Boris visited with dread—would he find a hungry, dirty child and Granny faint with exertion? But in the warm kitchen, he found Vasya clean and happy, listening to nursery stories from a battered record player. Granny Val was bustling around the kitchen as though her legs had never failed—beating eggs, kneading dough, cheerfully preparing tarts for their tea. “Father dear! I tried making your Alexandra some cakes—wait a bit, I’ll send a warm treat home for you!” When he got home, Father Boris recounted the miracle to his wife. Alexandra pulled out an old family diary and read aloud the story of Vera Yegorovna, her great-grandmother, who recovered from her own deathbed rather than leave her new great-grandchild uncared for, saying with a wry smile, “It’s not time for me to go yet—I’ve still got work to do at home!” She lived another ten years, helping to raise her great-granddaughter. And Father Boris smiled at his wife—knowing, as all old houses and loving hearts do, that there’s still work to be done at home.

My husband has always said I’m not feminine enough. At first, he’d just mention it in passing—suggesting I should wear more makeup, put on dresses, or try to be “softer.” But I’ve never been like that. I’ve always been practical, straightforward, not particularly vain. I get things done, I solve problems—I’ve always just done what needs to be done. He knew me like this. I never pretended to be someone else. Over time, his comments became more frequent. He started comparing me to women we saw on social media, to our friends’ wives, to colleagues. He’d say I looked more like a mate than a wife. Sometimes I argued back, but mostly I just listened and carried on. I never thought it was all that serious—I put it down to just normal differences in a relationship. But the day I buried my father, all of that stopped seeming unimportant. I was in shock. I wasn’t sleeping, I wasn’t eating, I couldn’t think about anything except getting through the funeral. I threw on the first black clothes I found, didn’t put on any makeup, did nothing with my hair except what was absolutely necessary. I simply didn’t have the strength. Before we left the house, my husband looked at me and said: “Is that really how you’re going? Can’t you try to make a bit more effort?” At first, I didn’t understand. I told him I didn’t care how I looked; I’d just lost my father. He replied: “Yes, but still… people will talk. You look a mess.” I felt something strange in my chest, like someone had crushed me from the inside. At the wake, he was with the others. He greeted people, expressed condolences, kept a serious face. But with me he was distant. He hardly hugged me. Didn’t ask how I was. At one point, as we passed the mirror in the living room, he quietly told me I should “pull myself together a bit,” that my father wouldn’t want to see me like this. After the funeral, back at home, I asked him if that was really the only thing he noticed that day. Did he not see how broken I was? He told me not to exaggerate, that he was just giving his opinion, that a woman shouldn’t let herself go “even in moments like this.” Since then, I look at him differently. But I can’t leave him. I feel like I can’t live without him. ❓ What would you say to this woman if she were sitting in front of you?