The morning met me with silence. Usually, Susan, my mum, would wake me with a gentle voice before breakfast, but this day, she was gone. I opened my eyes and realised—she had left. For good. The wardrobe gaped empty, her old boots no longer stood by the door, and her bed was neatly folded in the corner. A solitary note lay on the kitchen table, as lonely as her heart. I froze, staring at it, and something inside me shattered.
Standing at the doors of a care home in a godforsaken village near Manchester, I clenched my fists to stop the trembling. Through the grimy window, I saw her—my mother, aged, hunched, standing alone by the pane. Once, I had chosen a new life with my wife, pushing her away, my only family, for fleeting happiness. Now, the guilt of my betrayal gnawed at me. How could I have done this to the woman who gave me life?
My father left when I was just a boy. He walked away without a backward glance, leaving Mum alone. She was only thirty, beautiful, full of life, yet instead of seeking another family, she chose me. Men courted her, promised comfort—on one condition: to abandon her son. She refused them all without hesitation. Her choice was me. Susan worked as a pastry chef at a local bakery, taking double shifts just to pay for our tiny flat and my schooling. Her hands were always red and swollen from kneading dough, never resting. Yet she never complained. Not once.
I remember her coming home from the late shift, boiling the kettle and pulling out a warm bun for me. On months when pay was late, she’d watch me eat before finishing the crumbs. Too young to understand, I didn’t realise she feared I’d go hungry. Her love was boundless, sacrificial. She was my whole world. “I’ll never remarry,” she’d say, “so no one can ever hurt you.” And I believed her—with her, I needed no one else.
My childhood was happy despite the hardship. Mum barely slept, barely ate, yet she always smiled. Everything changed when the bakery closed and arthritis crippled her fingers. Every movement was agony, but no one would hire her, worn down by pain. I was finishing school then, working odd jobs at a corner shop—stocking shelves, hauling crates, manning the till. They paid in loose change and groceries, but I saved every penny for her medicine. I knew how proud she was of my grades, so I studied harder than anyone. When I earned a scholarship to a top university in Manchester, we moved, hoping for a fresh start.
In the city, things improved. I worked part-time at a café and a warehouse, earning enough for food and small joys. We had a tiny room in student housing, and I tried to brighten Mum’s life—taking her to plays, buying her dresses, showing her the city. She smiled, but I saw the pain in her hands never left. Then I met *her*—the girl who turned my world upside down.
Her name was Emily. Vibrant, bold, from a wealthy family, she felt like a dream I couldn’t reach. Friends envied me for landing her. Our whirlwind romance swept me away, and soon she insisted we live together. I wasn’t ready, but she gave an ultimatum: move in or split. I gave in. Her parents disapproved of me—“the baker’s boy”—so we couldn’t stay with them. That left our cramped room in halls.
I never introduced Emily to Mum. I was ashamed—my mother, worn by years of toil, next to Emily’s polished, manicured mother. Cowardly, I avoided it. Then came the awful talk. I was going to send her away.
“Mum, I’ve met someone. We’re moving in together,” I began, avoiding her gaze.
“Darling, I’m so happy for you! When will I meet her?” Her voice trembled with joy.
“Not yet. Where will *you* go?”
She hesitated. I watched her face darken.
“I… I’ll go back to the village. Stay with Aunt Margaret,” she whispered.
“But how long can you stay? For free?” I pressed, though I knew Aunt Margaret—bitter and alone—would never take her.
“Don’t worry, love. She’ll be glad for the company. You save your money, eat well, take care of your girl.”
The hurt in her eyes was unmistakable, but my love for Emily blinded me. I sent Mum away, knowing she had nothing—no money, no health. I went to sleep, and by morning, she was gone. A note lay in her place:
*“Patrick, don’t worry for me. I barely noticed how grown you’ve become. I know you’re ashamed of me, and I don’t blame you. Tell your girl you’ve no mother—it’ll be easier. Be happy, son. If you need me, I’ll be at Aunt Margaret’s.”*
Tears burned. I knew she was out there, sick and homeless, but Emily moved in that same day. We married, and I—under her influence—excluded Mum from the wedding. I told everyone she’d drowned in an accident. Years passed, life swallowed me, and I never searched for her.
When our daughter was born, I understood parenthood. I confessed to Emily. She exploded:
“Now you’ll drag her here? What if she’s riddled with illness? Think of our child!”
“She’s her *grandmother*. I need to know she’s safe.”
I began searching. Aunt Margaret had died shortly after we’d left—Mum couldn’t have stayed there. No one in the village had seen her. Desperate, I went to the river where we’d once built a birdhouse. Inside, I found an old letter:
*“Patrick, if you’re reading this, you looked for me. I’m at ‘Bright Horizon Care Home,’ near your old university. I’ve seen you—you were happy. I didn’t want to intrude.”*
I raced back, disbelieving she’d been so close. The home told me she’d been found begging on the streets one winter. My *mother*—begging? I couldn’t bear it. In her room, a frail woman in threadbare clothes sat hunched. She didn’t recognise me at first.
“Mum… it’s me,” I choked out, falling to my knees.
She stroked my hair, crying:
“My boy, you found me. I waited.”
“Come home. You have a granddaughter.”
“A granddaughter?” Her eyes lit up.
At home, Emily screamed:
“Who is this? You said your mother *died*!”
I slapped her. Told her we were done. She threatened to keep our daughter from me, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t live with my betrayal. Yet while I argued with her, Mum slipped away again.
I ran outside, my heart pounding. A crowd, a screech of tyres—Mum lay on the tarmac. My guilt crushed me. No love is stronger than a mother’s. She chose me, and I betrayed her. Now I live with this pain, every breath a reminder of my sin.
Cherish your mothers. Love and marriages fade, but a mother is forever. If you still have yours, you’re blessed. Hold her tight—before it’s too late.
