A man was enjoying his day off and sleeping soundly, when suddenly the doorbell rang. Who could be visiting so early? Upon opening the door, he found an elderly woman he didn’t recognise—she was frightened. “Who are you here to see?” he asked. “Son, don’t you recognise your mother?” “Mum? Come in… you!” he stammered. He remembered the day his mother was taken from him. He had waited for years in the orphanage, hoping she would come and bring him home. Eventually the pain faded. He graduated from school, attended university, and started his own business. When asked about his parents, he always said they had died. Independent and successful, no one would have guessed he was raised in care. The woman could not recall when she lost custody of her child. In her youth she drank heavily, and her mind would shut off during her binges. She spent time in prison, where she thought of her son—not with love, but because she felt sorry for him. When her second son was born, maternal instincts awoke. She would do anything for this child—putting him first, forgetting the elder son entirely. Her younger son grew up just like her—moving through care homes, and at 15 receiving his first suspended sentence, then another, and eventually prison. Now, desperate to save him from jail, she searches for her successful older son. She sits in his home, crying and clinging to him, telling him tales of searching, praying for his health, and hoping every day to see him again. He believes her, but something inside him warns him to keep his distance. Despite his reservations, he rents her a flat, gives her money, and promises support—while watching closely to judge her true intentions. Before Christmas, he visits the children’s home where he grew up, regularly donating toys and food. An elderly carer approaches him. “Your mother was asking for your address.” “Thank you for helping her,” he replies. “But be careful. She wants you only for money, to help her younger son. She never loved you—don’t trust her!” “Do I have a brother?” “Yes. Ask her yourself.” His throat tightens; it’s hard to breathe. He cannot believe his mother may betray him again. Pushing through his emotions, he seeks out the truth. The woman faces his questioning, reluctant to admit the existence of the younger brother for fear he would refuse to help. Days later, the man is attacked—beaten severely. When police catch the assailants, they confess—his mother had hired them, hoping to kill her elder son and inherit his wealth to give her younger son an easy life. In court, she feigns remorse and begs for forgiveness, but he has made up his mind. “I lived without a mother before, and I’ll keep living without one now!” he whispers through tears.

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 4 minViews 1

The man was enjoying a rare day off and snoring away quite contentedly, only to be jolted awake by the doorbell. Who on earth would come calling at this ungodly hour? Bleary-eyed, he shuffled to the door and was greeted by an elderly woman he didnt recognise. She looked about as nervous as a mouse at a cat parade.

Excuse me who are you here for? he asked, doing his best not to yawn mid-sentence.

Son, dont you know your own mother? she replied, eyes growing wet.

Mum? Is that you? he managed to stammer, feeling a bit like hed stepped into an especially dramatic episode of EastEnders.

He remembered all too well the day his mother was taken from him. Hed waited for years, hoping shed turn up at the orphanage and whisk him away home. Eventually, the ache faded. He finished school, went to university, and set up his own business. When people asked about his parents, hed simply say theyd passed away. Hed learnt to go it alone and never rely on anyone else. He had become the very picture of an independent Englishmanconfident, self-sufficient and rather well-off, with not a single hint hed grown up in care.

His mother barely remembered the day she lost her parental rights. Her youth was rather heavy on the gin and light on responsibility, her brain, frankly, checked out for most of it. Shed even spent time in prison and mulled over her eldest son there. Not out of lovejust a dash of guilt.

When her second son, William, arrived, maternal feelings suddenly appeared, surprisingly persistent. Shed have gone to the ends of the earth for little William, while the older ladwell, he hardly crossed her mind.

William followed in his mothers less-than-glorious footsteps, clocking up time in foster homes and, by age fifteen, netting his first suspended sentence. The second followed swiftly, and soon imprisonment. His mother, veteran of the system, tried desperately to keep him out of jail, haunted by her own memories. Upon realising her eldest was thriving, she wasted no time tracking him down.

And now she sat in his living room, sobbing and reaching out, spinning tales of searching for him, praying for his health, and banking on a reunion every single day. He listened, half believing, yet something inside nudged him to keep his distance. Still, he paid for her rent, handed over some quid, and assured her help would be forthcoming. He quietly resolved to keep an eye out and see if shed truly changed her spots.

Just before Christmas, he made a trip to the childrens home hed grown up in. He often dropped off toys and snacks, wanting the staff to know he hadnt forgotten. The head carer, Mrs. Higgins, tottered over.

Your mums been asking around for your address, she said.

Yes, thank you for helping her out, he replied, trying not to look too uneasy.

Be careful. Shes only after money to save William from more trouble. She doesnt love youshe never has.

Wait, I have a brother?

Yes, but youd best ask her yourself.

A lump crawled up his throat, and breathing became a sudden chore. It was hard to accept his mum might betray him again. Swallowing his pride, he marched to her flat to find out the truth. She looked absolutely petrified, refusing to mention the younger sibling, worrying it would scupper her chances of help.

Days later, disaster struck. He was viciously attacked and left battered. When the culprits were caught, they confessed his own mother had hired them. Shed planned to bump him off and snag his inheritance, hoping it would give William the carefree life shed imagined.

At the trial she wept and begged forgiveness, but hed already made up his mind.

Ive done alright without a mum before, and Ill manage again! he whispered, tears slipping down his cheeks, quietly vowing to never let history repeat itself.

Leonard Refused to Believe Little Emma Was His Daughter—His Wife Sheila Worked at the Local Shop and Was Rumored to Have Secret Meetings with Other Men. Leonard Rejected the Petite Girl, but Only Grandad Helped Her, Leaving His Countryside Cottage as an Inheritance Only Grandad Truly Loved Little Emma In her childhood, frail, tiny Emma often fell ill. “No one so slight in either of our families,” Leonard would scoff. “That child is barely knee-high.” Gradually, even her mother’s love grew cold. But one person adored Emma: Grandad Matthew. His cottage stood at the village’s edge, by the woods. A retired ranger, Matthew knew every trail and herb. People whispered he was odd, but they still came for his healing teas. After losing his wife, Matthew’s greatest solace was Emma. More and more, she stayed with Grandad, learning about nature and cures. She dreamed of becoming a nurse, but her mother claimed she couldn’t afford Emma’s education. “I’m not destitute,” Grandad reassured her. “If need be, I’ll even sell the cow.” He Left Emma a Home and His Blessing Emma’s mother rarely visited, but when her son got into trouble gambling, she turned up begging for money. “You never come unless you want something,” Matthew scolded, refusing to help and insisting his priority was Emma’s future. Furious, Sheila stormed out, declaring she had neither father nor daughter any longer. When Emma got into nursing college, only Grandad supported her. He promised her the house and a happy destiny, urging her to keep the cottage alive, believing her fate awaited her there. Matthew’s Prophecy Came True One autumn, after Matthew passed away, Emma worked as a nurse but spent weekends at the cottage. During a snowstorm, she sheltered a stranded stranger named Sam who came to her door. After helping with his car, she welcomed him inside for tea. Soon, the two became inseparable. Emma never wanted a wedding; only love mattered, and Sam soon agreed. When their first son was born, everyone marvelled at the robust boy. “What’s his name?” they asked. Emma replied with a smile, “He’ll be Matthew, after a truly good man.”

I’m 38 and for years I thought I was the problem—convinced I was a bad mum, a bad wife, somehow fundamentally flawed because, no matter how much I held everything together, deep down I felt I had nothing left to give. My daily routine started at 5am: cooking breakfasts, sorting uniforms and packed lunches, getting the kids ready for school, tidying the house, and heading to work where I smiled through meetings, hit targets, stayed organised—no one there ever guessed a thing. At home, I juggled lunch, chores, bath time, dinner, homework questions, sibling squabbles, hugs and mending tears, always present, always in control. From the outside, my life looked normal—even good: family, career, health. There was no obvious tragedy to explain the emptiness I felt. But inside, I was hollow. Not constantly sad, but exhausted in a way sleep couldn’t fix. My body ached, noise grated on my nerves, and I started thinking thoughts I was ashamed to admit: maybe my kids would be better off without me; maybe I just wasn’t cut out for motherhood. I never missed a responsibility, never lost control, so no one—not even my husband—noticed. Whenever I mentioned being tired, I’d hear, ‘Every mum gets tired,’ or, ‘You just need more motivation,’ until I stopped talking about it. Some nights I sat alone in the bathroom, not crying, just staring at the wall, counting the minutes before I had to go back and be the one who copes with everything. The thought of leaving crept in quietly—not a dramatic urge, just a cold idea: disappear for a while, stop being needed. Not because I didn’t love my children, but because I didn’t feel I had anything left to give. The day I finally broke wasn’t spectacular; it was an ordinary Tuesday, when my child asked for a simple favour and I couldn’t respond. I sat on the kitchen floor, unable to move. My son looked at me, frightened: ‘Mum, are you okay?’ And I couldn’t answer. No one came to help or save me. I just couldn’t pretend any longer. Only when my strength ran out did I seek help—from a therapist who finally said what I’d never heard: ‘You’re not a bad mother.’ And explained what was happening to me. I realised no one had noticed because I never stopped functioning; as long as a woman keeps doing everything, the world assumes she can go on. No one asks after the one who never falls. Recovery wasn’t quick or magical, but slow, awkward, guilt-ridden—learning to ask for help, to say no, to accept that rest doesn’t make you a bad mum. I still care for my children and keep my job, but I don’t pretend to be perfect anymore, I no longer let a mistake define me, and I understand now: wanting to run away didn’t mean I was a bad mother—I was simply exhausted.