Dear diary,
It happened just like I always feared. Over tea, my mother looked at me with those blue eyes eyes the same pale shade I inherited but never learned to wield. Ive made my decision, she said, voice brisk as always. Ill be signing the flat over to William. You dont mind, do you, darling?
I paused mid-stir, the spoon clinking quietly against the saucer. To William? Hes three.
So hell grow up secure. Ill move in with you. Theres more than enough space in your flat, since youre on your own.
Mum stood in the hallway, coat still on, clutching her battered old handbag, official papers peeking out. She wore her usual selection of Bluebell Woods, the scent shes worn for two decades from the chemist on High Street. That fragrance always unfolded with a storm cloud of anxiety over our tiny Victoria Road flat. Heavy, sweet, cloaking everything in the small lounge.
I got up quietly, moved to the kitchen. I set the kettle to boil. My hands went through the motions cups, teaspoon, sugar tin but in my head only one word thudded: sign.
Tea? I asked evenly.
Yes, thank you, love. Mum finally shrugged off her coat and draped it across the back of a chair. She perched on the sofa, casting an appraising glance around. Bit chilly in here. Are the radiators working?
Theyre fine.
It just feels cold. Ours are warm on Queens Road. David always chases the letting agents if somethings wrong.
I put her cup on the table. Sat across from her. Studied that face I know too well: the crows feet by her eyes, the lips set in a stubborn line. Sixty-eight. Hair carefully curled, her new blue cardigan David had bought it, boasting over the phone, I got Mum a present; she was over the moon.
Everythings ready for tomorrow, Mum continued, stirring her tea. Ten in the morning, at the solicitors. David arranged it all, clever boy.
And did you ask about my share?
She looked up, surprise flickering. What share? Youre my daughter, it stays in the family, just in Williams name. Hell need it one day.
Mum, I own half on the deeds. Its half mine.
Mum made a face, blowing on her tea. But youre not living there. David and Emma and the lad need space. And Ill move in with you, so thats sorted. It wont put you out, will it?
I glanced at the old picture on the wall still in its gaudy nineties frame. All of us: Dad, Mum, me and David. Im eleven there, David eight. I stood to the far edge, almost cropped out. David centre, sitting on Mums lap, grinning, even though hes nearly too big. Dads gaze is turned away. And me, arms straight, face serious, just apart.
You didnt ask me, I repeated quietly.
She rolled her eyes, her cup hitting the saucer with a sharp ping. Theres nothing to ask. Im your mother. I know whats right.
You always did, Mum.
Exactly! She smiled, certain Id seen sense at last. David was thrilled. Said I was wise. Not every mother looks out for her children like I do.
I stood, rinsed my cup and poured out the dregs. My hands traced the window. Outside, a November dusk pressed in; streetlamps already burning, heaps of sodden leaves against the curb. Somewhere, a council worker in a fluorescent vest was pushing a broom listlessly along the path.
Ill think about it, I said, eyes on the darkness beyond the glass.
Theres nothing to think about, love. Tomorrow. Ill write the solicitors address down for you.
I said, Ill think about it.
And that was that. Mum gathered her bags, wrapped herself in the old smart coat I remember from school plays. Youre making me sad, Elaine. You never did make things easy. Not like David. Then she was gone, the door shut tight, and I waited at the window until the lift rumbled away. Only then did I move. Curled up on the sofa, not even bothering to change, staring up at the hairline crack snaking across the ceiling toward the light fitting. I know every twist, every turning the shape of a hundred tired evenings. Always counting cracks, never sheep.
My phone buzzed. Mary: How are you? Pop into The Hearth, Ive made oat biscuits for you.
I texted back: Thank you. Ill come by tomorrow. Left the phone on my chest and closed my eyes.
A memory bobbed up: I was eight, Davids birthday. The guests were gone, the table a mess. One big slice of cake left, with a pink icing rose. I eyed it hungrily and Mum lifted it onto a plate. Straight to David.
For you, son. Its your birthday.
What about Elaine? David asked through a mouthful.
Elaines a big girl. Shell share next time. Right, Elaine?
I nodded, went to my room, lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Dad came in later, sat beside me, stroked my hair.
Dont mind her, he said softly. Your mum loves David. Hes the youngest.
I dont mind, I replied.
Dad just sighed. He left. I stayed, counting invisible marks on the ceiling. Back then it was smooth as snow. But I still counted something; my own heartbeats, maybe.
Next morning my head ached. Hot shower, into my work dress. Out by half-seven on the walk to WarmHome Ltd twenty minutes. I liked the walk, especially in autumn: the cold bite of air, leaves crunching, everyone heads-down, wrapped up, thinking their own thoughts.
The office smelled of coffee and paper. Nina, the office manager, was busy at her desk. Morning, love. You look pale.
Im fine. Just tired.
Vitamins, thats what you need. Ive been taking those multivitamin tablets. Swear by them.
I smiled, woke my computer, let my brain fill with spreadsheets and invoices. Safe, soothing, one finger-tap after another.
At lunch I skipped the canteen, taking my coat and wandering a couple of streets to the park. The fountain was dry and full of rotten leaves now, but my bench under the horse chestnut was empty. I unwrapped my sandwich but just held it, watching the bare trees.
Phone rang. David. I ignored it. Minutes later, his text followed: Elaine what are you playing at? Mums fuming. Call her.
I deleted the message, took a bite of my sandwich. The bread was stiff, ham tasteless. I chewed, staring at the empty fountain and remembered being twelve: Mum sent me out for bread in the rain. David feverish, Mum at his bedside, cold compress at the ready. I dashed out in a downpour, clutching the loaf inside my coat so it wouldnt get wet. Mum took it with a brisk nod, attention already back on her precious boy. Change your wet things, Elaine, and keep quiet your brothers sleeping.
I shuffled to my room, peeled off soaking clothes, curled into a blanket. The shivers became a fever. Later that night, Mum dropped a thermometer under my tongue. Thirty-eight. Itll pass, cup of tea and some orange jam.
I went to school the next morning, still burning up, head down all day. Back home, Mum cooked soup but took my bowl away. Thats for David; you stick to bread and butter. I ate my crust, drank tap water, went to my room.
I drifted back to the office for the last moments of lunch. Nina peered at me: You sure youre alright?
Absolutely.
That evening when I got back, the phone rang again. This time I answered.
Elaine, whats this about? Mums beside herself, you wont sign anything
I didnt say no. I said Id think about it.
Theres nothing to think about. We dont need the place really; youve moved out. Itll help William! Hes your nephew too, remember?
I do remember. But Im not signing.
Every sentence edged Davids voice higher with frustration. You never could be generous with me, could you? Always grudging, always jealous. Because Mum loves me more!
I left the phone on the table, his rant echoing from the speaker. I got myself a glass of water, hands shaking. I looked at them. Forty-three years old. Thin fingers, short nails, never a ring.
When I went back, only his message awaited: Lets talk when youve calmed down. But come to the solicitor tomorrow anyway.
I tucked myself up on the sofa as it rained outside, watching the droplets chart new rivers on the window. I stared until my eyes burned, then shut them, but sleep didnt come. Only reel after reel of memories, flickering old film.
I was sixteen the year the letter came from London, from the university. Id passed the exams, been offered a grant and a place in halls. I ran to the kitchen swinging the letter.
Mum! I got in! London! Theyve accepted me!
She turned from the porridge. Let me see.
She read, lips moving. Then handed it back, shaking her head.
No.
What do you mean?
Youre not going anywhere. What am I supposed to do with David? Your dad works all hours; David needs me. Hes got exams. I need your help. Youre a girl girls do fine here. Time enough to marry, time enough for children. Why London?
But, Mum please its all I want.
I said no. And dont tell your father. Hell back me up. I know him.
I stood in the kitchen, letter limp in my hand. She went back to the hob. Later, I burned the letter over the sink, watching the ashes swirl away.
The next night, Mum announced at dinner, Elaines staying put. Shell do business at the college, train as an accountant. Right decision.
Dad looked at me. I nodded. He finished his food, turned on the telly.
David piped up, Will you help me with my maths, Elaine? Big test tomorrow.
Course I will, I said.
That night, I stumbled over the stool in the dark, clipped my shin. I bit my fist to keep from yelling, leaned against the wall till the pain faded, then drank water and hobbled to bed. Next morning my shin was purple and swollen. Mum told me to put a plaster on.
I woke to a grey skies. Washed my face in the icy water, stared at the woman in the mirror: pale, eyes shadowed, hair askew. I smoothed it back, painted a smile over my lips, and went out into the drizzle.
Work was the same blur of numbers and idle chat. At break I wandered to the park again and flicked through photos on my phone. Theres the family on the wall me pushed to the side. Theres David, school blazer, first day in September. David fishing with Dad. Me, always off to one edge or missing altogether. Snapped by Elaine in the caption.
A missed call from Mum. Then her message: Solicitor waited. We didnt turn up. Davids very upset. Rearranged for Friday. Will you come?
I deleted the text and returned to my desk.
That evening as I opened the main door I heard voices. At the top of the stairs, David and Emma. Davids cheeks were red, arms folded, Emma downcast, trailing behind.
About time! David blurted. Weve been waiting ages.
What for?
We need to talk. Inside?
I held the door, mute. He stormed into the lounge, knees spread wide on the sofas edge. Emma hovered by the coat stand.
Tea? I asked.
No, lets get to it, David waved me down. Sit.
I took the wooden chair; Emma shrank into the armchair.
Look, Elaine, David started, leaning forward. Mums not getting any younger. She needs a quiet life. Your place is plenty big for her. The flats roomy; she wont bother you.
I never said she would.
Great. So youll sign over your share, put it in Williams name. Everyones happy.
Its not Williams, not yet.
Oh, for Gods sake! Youre not living there!
But I still own half. Thats the law.
He laughed, angry. The law. But its family! We dont split family in half!
I looked him over: red-faced, gesturing, belly heavy above his belt. Hes forty, still scraping by as a builder on and off, still living with Mum, wife doing the chores, Mum paying the bills.
You working nowadays? I asked suddenly.
He froze.
Whats that got to do with anything?
Just curious.
I was at a site yesterday. Its none of your business.
And the bills?
Mum pays. Its her place.
Ive paid half the council tax for fifteen years.
He said nothing. Emma looked at me, then away.
So what? He finally blurted. You live alone, youve got money. We have a child, its more expensive for us.
Thats why you want it in Williams name?
Whats wrong with that? Grandson should have something from his gran.
But Granny gives her half. Youd need my consent for mine.
Youre awful, Elaine! Tight-fisted! You were always jealous. Mums always said so.
Whats Mum said?
That youre cold. That you dont care for anyone. Thats why youll never get married whod want you!
He spat each word like a pebble. Emma retreated further. I sat still, staring at this brother of mine fist clenched, face twisted.
Leave, I said, voice trembling but clear.
What?
Get out. Both of you.
Youre throwing out your brother? Your own family?
Now. Go.
He gaped, then spun on his heel. Emma scurried after, head low. I sat, unmoving, the echoes of their footsteps fading. I drank a glass of water, my hands steady now, everything inside me cold, vast.
When David brought his first wife home bright, loud Angela Mum welcomed her right in. Live with us; David cant manage alone. Angela moved into my old tiny room, I was put on the camp bed in the lounge. Just for now, love. Till they get sorted for their own place. Three months later, I moved out to a rented room across town, but kept up my payments on the family flat to help with bills. Mum never said thank you, just expected it.
Angela left after a year, David wept on the phone. Its all her she wanted her own place, wanted me to leave Mum. But its comfortable here! Mum cooks, Mum washes, its home.
I soothed him with tea. Eventually, a new girl arrived quiet Emma, unassuming, approved by Mum. William was born, Emma faded further into the background. I visited rarely; birthdays, Christmas, carrying gifts, listening to their chatter about Williams cleverness, Davids new construction gig. Mum fussed, Emma tidied, I withdrew.
My life. A flat on Victoria Road. Job at WarmHome. Evenings with a book. Meeting Mary at The Spring. And that, really, was it.
That night, sleep eluded me. Davids accusations looped in my head. Jealous, cold, greedy.
Perhaps I was jealous. Of being loved openly. Of being forgiven every time. He could always be weak; I was only allowed strong.
Bang on the door the next morning. Mum, arms full of carrier bags, the fragrance of apple cake trailing in. Baked your favourite, love.
She moved straight into the kitchen, set out tea and cake. That same warm crust she always baked it for Davids birthdays, for holidays. I mostly had the leftovers.
Well? Mum said. You were rather harsh with David. Emma told me you sent him packing. Why?
He was rude.
Hes a darling really, just passionate. The flat means a lot for Williams future.
I know.
Good then. Youll sign?
I set my tea down, stared at her, her face set and sure she hadnt the faintest doubt about my answer.
No, Mum.
She stared. What do you mean?
I wont sign.
She stopped moving, cup poised. You must be joking.
Im not.
But why? Youre my child! Im no girl, Ive nowhere to go!
Youre not old, Mum. You have your pension. You could manage alone if you wanted.
Alone? By myself in that flat? With David, Emma, and a child?
Thats your choice. You made it. I didnt.
Were family! Its about whats best for all! Why dont you ever… Why does everything go to him? Your love, your attention, now even my share?
Her hands trembled, the tea spilling onto the cloth. Youre abandoning me?
I wont let you decide about my property without my consent.
Its not property! Its our home!
A home I never really lived in. I was always a guest.
Whereve you got that idea?
Mum, I leaned forward, Do you know how many times youve actually told me you love me?
She said nothing.
Not once. Not in forty-three years. Ive heard you tell David every day.
But you know I love you, she protested.
No, Mum. I dont.
She stood, face working. You ungrateful girl. I fed you, clothed you, didnt I?
You raised David. You just put up with me.
How dare you.
Its the truth. You know its true.
She grabbed her bags and strode out. Youll regret this, Elaine. When youre all alone youll see familys all that matters, and youve lost yours.
Door slammed. I tidied the kitchen, cleaned dishes till the water ran cold, then sat by the window. The city lights flickered on, street full of strangers hurrying home, warmth and noise. Mine only silence.
I remembered once, years back, bringing a boyfriend home. He was a programmer, we met at the office. I brought him for tea, Mum made an effort, David never looked up from his phone. Mum only asked about Davids work, nada for my guest. As we left, boyfriend gave my hand a gentle squeeze. Your mums… different. He never came round again.
I stopped bringing anyone home after that. Lads told me I was closed off, didnt know what I wanted. Maybe I didnt. I learned to let people go.
After work, I stopped by The Hearth. Mary bustled at the counter, her blue apron flour-dusted. There you are! I thought youd gone under. Hows life?
I shrugged. She leaned closer. Family business again?
Yeah. My mother.
Mary, wise to all my half-told stories, sighed. Do you owe her anything, really?
I should, shouldnt I? The guilt felt bone-deep.
She trained you to feel guilty. Makes her life easier.
I said nothing, but her tart words struck true. My mum was the same. Always owed her for birth, for raising me, for everything. But nothing in return. Convenient, isnt it?
Shes still my mother, Mary.
And? Motherhoods no saints medal. Love and respect are earned. Your mum ever treat you with respect?
I shook my head.
Then you owe her nothing.
I didnt say more. Just let Mary, as forthright as ever, hold my hand. First time in years you put yourself first. Good on you.
I walked home eating her biscuits, the city sharp with rain and leaves. Home was cold, lonely but all mine.
That evening David called; the tone, soft, attempting warmth. Look, Elaine, lets not quarrel. Were adults. Sorry for before. Heres a compromise you dont have to sign it all away, just do a transfer to William, a sort of joint thing, like a gift. You love your nephew, dont you?
No, David. No papers. No more discussion.
A brittle silence. You realise youre making a child homeless?
Hes not homeless. Hes still got a flat, nothings changed.
But its not his
Its yours and mine. Mum and mine.
Oh, for Were family! We should share!
Funny, that. Ive spent my life being second best. Youve always come first. I cant do it anymore.
You dont know what its like! Im working every day for my family!
Youre living off Mum. And Mums living off me.
He snapped, swore, hung up. I left my phone in the bathroom out of reach.
That night, I dreamt I was little again, lost at the edge while everyone celebrated David. I tried to speak but no one listened, no one even saw I was there.
Morning brought a patient text from Mary: Maybe time for a little therapy? Honestly it helped me.
Maybe, I replied. Maybe.
Work passed in its safe blur. I returned to the same park for lunch, phone pressed but not eating. An unknown number lit up: Its Emma. Could I come speak with you? About David and your mum.
I hesitated, then replied: Come at seven. On your own.
She showed up, on time, faded blue coat pulled tight. We exchanged pleasantries, but she burst into tears over her tea.
Davids furious. Hes pressuring your mum, saying if she wont sign, she can go, she shivered. Im scared. William hears the shouting.
Why dont you work? I asked.
He doesnt let me. Says a proper wife stays in, like his mother did.
She worked, Emma. Until retirement.
Emma looked startled. Did she?
I nodded. Then: So, will you sign?
No. I have the right to say no. And Im saying it.
She nodded, quiet. I wish I could, Elaine. Im so frightened. But maybe I will, one day.
When she left, I realised Id once been Emma: so quiet, so eager to please.
That night, Mum messaged: Hes shouting. Come over. Please. I wrote back, Mum, thats between you and David. Her reply: Youre heartless. Im your mother.
I turned the phone off and left it.
Next morning: more distressed texts from Mum. He says I must go if I wont sign Where will I go? I pocketed my phone and left for work.
Days blurred with silence. Mum and David both stopped calling. I worked, shopped, texted Mary. Lived, but didnt quite breathe.
A week on, Saturday morning the bell. Mum on the step, rain-wet, clutching documents.
Can I stay a little? Just until I find somewhere.
I made tea. She sipped, voice trembling. David shoved me, Elaine. When I said I wouldnt sign. He called me useless. He said hed only kept me for the house. I see now, he doesnt love me, only needs me.
She put her face in her hands and sobbed. I gave her a glass of water.
Can I stay? she whispered. For now.
Yes, I said, if its just for a while.
She nodded, silent, grateful.
Later, she whispered, Im sorry. I was never fair to you, Elaine. I barely saw you. I only ever had eyes for David.
She wept. I watched. Perhaps I should have hugged her, but I just sat, letting the silence settle. For once, it didnt feel hostile just real.
That night, she cried again, and I stood in the doorway, silent. Will you ever forgive me? she asked. I paused. I dont know, Mum. Not yet.
Fair enough, she said softly.
The days passed, tentative peace in the flat. We lived as two separate people. Then, quietly: I found a bedsit on Churchill Avenue. Cheap enough. Ill move in next week.
Thank you for putting me up, she said quietly.
Nobody else would, she added, so quietly I almost didnt hear.
I dont hate you, Mum, I said. But I just feel… empty.
Right, she replied quietly.
One night, late, David banged at the door, staggering, drunk.
Wheres Mum? he slurred.
Sleeping.
Wake her.
I blocked the way. Leave, David, or Ill call the police.
He sneered, but the threat sobered him a little. Mum emerged, trembling.
Come home, Mum. Forget this nonsense, come home and Ill forgive you.
But she shook her head. No. Im not coming. Not like this.
He swore, stomped out, slamming doors.
I wrapped Mum in a hug, for the first time in years. She leant against me, sobbing quietly. I was wrong. About everything.
You made mistakes. We all do.
She left that week, bags packed neatly, old coat on, face composed.
Ill call, she promised.
Will you? I asked.
She smiled sadly, When I need to.
She closed the door softly behind her.
Now its just me, the flat silent again. Alone, but lighter somehow. I keep waiting for tears, for regret, but mostly theres only relief and that old familiar loneliness. Maybe, finally, I can breathe.
