Saturday, finally a day to myself. I was enjoying a well-deserved lie-in, making up for the hectic week. All was peaceful until the shrill sound of the doorbell cut through my dreams. Who on earth would be calling at this hour?
Still bleary-eyed, I pulled on a dressing gown and opened the front door, only to find an elderly woman Id never seen before. She looked frightened, clutching her handbag as if it were a lifeline.
Who are you here to see? I asked, a bit thrown off by her sudden appearance.
My son do you not recognise your own mother? she replied, her voice trembling.
Mum? Please, come in I stammered, barely believing what I was seeing.
The memories flashed back. I remembered the painful day I was taken from her and placed in foster care. For years, I waited for her to visit, to bring me home. Eventually, the pain dulled. I finished school, went on to university, then opened my own business. When people asked about my parents, I said they were gone. I learnt to rely on myself and built a life that gave no hint of the orphanage I’d come fromsuccessful, confident, independent.
My mother barely remembers the day she lost her parental rights. In her youth, she drank heavily, losing herself in the haze of alcohol and bad choices. Prison followed, and it was only inside those lonely walls she thought of menot from love, but from pity.
When she had her second son, something changed. For him, her mothers instinct kicked in powerfully. She wouldve done anything for her youngest. I was forgotten, pushed aside, but for the younger boy, she did all she couldwanting only his happiness.
He grew up much as she had. Social services knew him well, and at fifteen he faced his first suspended sentence. More brushes with the law followed, and soon enough, prison. My mother, having been behind bars herself, was desperate to keep him out, knowing the cost. After hearing I had made a good life for myself, she sought me out immediately.
Now here she was, crying at my dining table, reaching out to touch me, insisting shed prayed every day for my wellbeing. Part of me believed her, but there was a nagging sense to keep my distance. Still, despite my caution, I found her a flat, gave her some moneythree hundred pounds to get startedand assured her she could rely on me if she was sincere. Secretly, I watched, trying to learn if shed come with genuine intentions.
As Christmas approached, I visited the children’s home where I grew up, as I often did. Id bring toys, books, and groceries for the kids there. An older care worker stopped me in the corridor.
Your mums been searching for your address, she said.
Yes, I know. Thank you for helping her, I replied.
Just be careful. Shes only after money for your younger brother. She doesnt love you, never did.
Theres another brother? I asked, floored.
Yes. Ask her yourself, she said.
It felt like someone had placed a stone in my throatI could hardly breathe. Was my mother going to betray me yet again? Unable to resist, I confronted her and tried to learn the whole story. Caught off guard, she hesitatedunwilling to confess about my younger brother, worried I wouldnt want to help him.
Days later, I was viciously attacked. Beaten black and blue by thugs. When the police caught them, they admitted my mother hired them. Shed wanted me deadto claim my inheritance and give everything to her youngest, so he’d have an easier life.
In court, she wept and pleaded for forgiveness, expressing remorse. But I had made up my mind.
Ive lived without a mother before, and I will do so again. Some lessons reappear in life, and for me, the hardest lesson of all is this: true family isnt always given by blood, but forged in trust.
