My mother, Margaret, had once been the companion of a married man, and from that union I was born. As far back as my earliest memories, we never had a permanent roof over our heads; we drifted from one rented room to another across the streets of London.
When I was five, Margaret fell in love with another gentleman, Edward Hartwell, and he set a condition: he would take her only if she came to him alone. Without a second thought she handed me over to my biological father, Thomas Whitaker, delivering the necessary papers into his hands. She knocked on his flats door, heard the click of the lock, and fled, leaving me standing on the doorstep.
Thomas opened the door, stared in astonishment at the small boy before him, and instantly recognised his son. He ushered me inside. His wife, Elizabeth, received me kindly, as did their childrenAnne and young William. Thomas initially intended to place me in a workhouse, but Elizabeth, a saintly woman, insisted that I was blameless and should stay.
For a time I waited, hopeful, for Margaret to return and fetch me. When she did not, I began to call Elizabeth Mum. Thomas never showed affection to any of his offspring, least of all to me; he regarded me as an unwelcome mouth, yet he kept me fed, just as he did the rest of the household. He was a tyrant, and when he came home we would lock ourselves together in the nursery, hoping to avoid his glare. Elizabeth could not escape his domineering nature; he would never surrender the children to her out of principle. She endured his rages for years, learning to sidestep his fury and, when necessary, to temper his temper, shielding us from his shouting. The house fell silent; we learned his schedule and never gave him cause for irritation. We asked for nothing, while Mum showered us with love and tenderness as if we were her own.
A doctor from Manchester once confided a trick that sharpens ones sight, and when Thomas finally left again for a new lover, we all breathed a sigh of relief. By then we were nearly grown. Anne and William were finishing school; I, being their contemporary, was preparing for the OLevels. The three of us helped each other, tutoring one another in the subjects that troubled us. Each dreamed of entering a respectable university. Though Thomas was never gentle, he promised to fund our studies and kept his word. We each gained the qualifications we had long desired.
Soon after, Thomas passed away, leaving a considerable inheritance. His final lover received nothingshe had not managed to bind herself to him before his death. The Whitaker estate, the family firm, and the bank accounts fell to us, his rightful heirs.
We pressed on with the business, and eventually the opportunity arose to open a branch abroad. It was decided that I should lead that venture. I suggested that we take our mother, Margaret, with us; after all, she deserved a warm country for her later years. My sister and brother supported the plan.
When the day of departure arrived, my mind was suddenly flooded with the image of my true mother. Her face, frozen in my childhood recollections, emerged clearly. She had tracked me down, having learned that I was leaving:
Son, I am your real mother! Have you forgotten me? Youve grown into a man. I have missed you terribly and worried about how you live. Let us finally be together!
I was taken aback by her audacity. Of course I remember you, I replied. I recall you fleeing the door, leaving me a helpless child. You are not my mother. My mother now travels with me, and I have no wish to know you. I turned away and walked out, feeling no regret.
The woman who truly raised me was Margaret, the one who dared to claim her husbands child as her own and nurtured me with love and kindness. She sat by my bedside when I was ill, stood beside me when my first heart was broken, soothed me after quarrels with friends, taught me, forgave my mischief, endured my teenage tantrums, and never reminded me that I was not her blood. To her I was a son; to me she was a mother, and no other could replace her.
We eventually left for a new land together. There I met my future wife, Eleanor; Margaret approved of her and they grew close. My mother did not hinder my personal life; instead, she forged her own happiness, marrying a gentle gentleman named Arthur. She earned the peace she deserved. Today Margaret travels often, visiting her children and grandchildren, her eyes bright with joy. I look upon her smiling face and feel grateful that she remains in my lifeshe is my guardian angel.
