The morning greeted me with silence. Normally, my mum, Eleanor, would wake me with a soft voice before breakfast, but that day, she was gone. I opened my eyes and realised—she’d left. For good. The wardrobe gaped empty, her worn-out wellies weren’t by the door, and her bed was neatly folded in the corner. On the kitchen table lay a note, lonely as her heart. I froze, staring at it, and everything inside me shattered.
Standing outside the care home in some forgotten village near Manchester, I clenched my fists to stop the shaking. Through the grimy window, I saw her—my mother, aged, hunched, standing alone by the pane. Once, I’d chosen a new life with my wife, pushing her away for a fleeting happiness. Now, the guilt of my betrayal ate at me. How could I have done that to the woman who gave me life?
Dad left when I was just a kid. He walked out without a backward glance, leaving Mum alone. She was only thirty, beautiful, full of life, but she chose me instead of remarrying. Suitors came, promising comfort—but only if she gave me up. She turned them all down without hesitation. Her choice was me. Eleanor worked as a baker at a local shop, pulling double shifts to pay for our tiny flat and my schooling. Her hands were always red and swollen from kneading dough, never resting. But she never complained. Not once.
I remember her coming home from the night shift, putting the kettle on, and pulling out a warm roll. Sometimes, when pay was late, she’d watch me eat before finishing the crumbs. Too young to understand, I didn’t see she was scared I’d go hungry. Her love was endless, selfless. She was my whole world. *”I’ll never remarry,”* she’d say, *”so no one can ever hurt you.”* And I believed with a mum like her, I needed no one else.
My childhood was happy despite the struggles. Mum went without sleep, food, yet always smiled. Then the bakery shut down, arthritis seized her fingers. Every move was agony, but no one would hire her worn-out, aching hands. I was finishing school, working odd jobs at a corner shop—stocking shelves, manning the till. Paid in food and spare change, I saved for her meds. Knew how proud she was of my grades, so I studied harder. Got into university in Manchester with top marks. We moved, hoping for a fresh start.
In the city, things looked up. I worked cafés, warehouses—just enough for rent and small joys. We got a room in halls, and I tried to make her life brighter: took her to plays, bought her dresses, showed her the sights. She smiled, but I saw the pain in her hands never left. Then I met *her*—the girl who turned everything upside down.
Her name was Olivia. Met her in second year. Wild, bold, from money—she felt like a dream. Friends envied me for landing someone like her. We got swept up, and soon, she wanted us to move in. I wasn’t ready, but she gave an ultimatum: *”Together or nothing.”* I caved. Her posh parents wouldn’t have me—son of a working-class baker—so it had to be our tiny room.
I never introduced them. Ashamed. My mum, worn by years of labour, next to Olivia’s polished, manicured mother. I knew it was cruel but couldn’t stop myself. Finally, I sat Mum down, dreading my own words. I was going to kick her out.
*”Mum, I’ve met someone. We’re moving in together,”* I mumbled, avoiding her eyes.
*”Oh, love, I’m so happy for you! When do I meet her?”* Her voice trembled with joy.
*”Not now. Where will you live?”*
She hesitated. I saw her face darken.
*”I’ll… go back to the village. Stay with Aunt Margaret.”*
*”For how long? Will she even take you?”* I pushed, though I knew Aunt Marg was bitter, alone—no way she’d welcome Mum.
*”Don’t worry, love. She’ll be glad of the company. You save your money, eat proper, take care of your girl.”*
I saw the hurt in her eyes, but Olivia had blinded me. I sent Mum away, knowing she had nothing. I went to bed, and by morning, she was gone. Left a note:
*”Thomas, don’t fret over me. Didn’t even notice when you grew up. I know you’re ashamed—I don’t blame you. Tell your girl you’ve no mother; it’ll be easier. Be happy, son. If you need me, I’m at Aunt Marg’s.”*
Tears burned. I knew she was out there, sick, homeless, but Olivia was moving in. We married, and under her influence, I didn’t invite Mum. Told everyone she’d died. Years passed, life swallowed me, and I never looked for her.
When our daughter was born, I understood parenthood. I confessed to Olivia. She lashed out:
*”What, you’ll drag her here now? What if she brings God knows what? Think of our child!”*
*”She’s her grandmother. I need to know she’s alright.”*
I started searching. Aunt Marg had died right after we left—Mum was never there. No one in the village had seen her. Desperate, I went to the river where we’d built a birdhouse as kids. Inside, I found an old letter:
*”Thomas, if you’re reading this, you looked for me. I’m at ‘Bright Dawn’ care home, near your uni. I’ve seen you—you were happy. Didn’t want to ruin it.”*
I raced there, stunned she’d been so close. The staff said she’d been found begging on the streets that winter. *My mum*—begging? I couldn’t believe it. In her room was a frail woman in rags. She barely recognised me.
*”Mum… It’s me,”* I choked, falling to my knees.
She stroked my head, crying, *”You found me. I waited.”*
*”Come home. You’ve a granddaughter.”*
*”A granddaughter?”* Her eyes lit up.
At home, Olivia screamed, *”Who’s this? You said your mum died in a crash!”*
I slapped her. Filed for divorce. She threatened to take our daughter, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t forgive myself. But while we argued, Mum slipped away again.
I ran outside, heart pounding. A crowd, a crumpled car, Mum on the tarmac… My guilt crushed me. No love’s stronger than a mother’s. She chose me—I betrayed her. Now I live with that pain, every breath a reminder.
Cherish your mums. Love fades, but a mother’s forever. If you’ve got yours, you’re luckier than most. Hold onto her—before it’s too late.
