I stood by the window in my mother’s hospital room, the air thick with the scent of rubber and something stale. Behind the curtain, she lay restless, murmuring names in her sleep—my brother’s, my father’s—but never mine.
“Again,” I whispered. Memories surfaced of childhood, when Mum would laugh with friends, boasting how she’d secured a council flat with a pregnancy certificate. “Six square metres per person,” she’d say, counting them off: “Dad, me, little Tommy, and… this.” Her finger jabbed my nose. I’d smile, desperate for warmth, for love—anything to make her see me.
At eight, I broke my leg roller-skating. A bad fall, surgery, months in plaster. When the insurance payout came, Mum cheered down the phone: “Worth every penny! We’ve bought the loveliest cabinet—a proper heirloom!” That’s when I knew: even my pain had a price. “You’re not a child, you’re a bonus!” they’d joke. So I stopped seeking their eyes.
I married young and left. “One less mouth to feed—Tommy can have the room!” No card, no well-wishes, just silence. With every hurt, my heart shrank, until only a hollow cold remained. I stopped calling. Not out of pride, but the quiet truth: I’d never been there at all.
Now, in the hospital’s hush, Mum stirred. “Certificate… where?” Her voice was thin. I flinched. That word again.
“Here,” I said.
“Where’s my housing order?” Her hands clawed the sheets, searching—not for me, but for paper. Her gaze slid through me like glass before she turned away.
Outside, a streetlamp cut the dark. I pressed my forehead to the cold pane and whispered, “Universe, tell me I’m real. That I exist.” No answer came. Then I remembered words once read: *The darkest night is a heart frozen by neglect. Yet in its cracks, true love finds room.*
Tears came then—not timid, but a flood. They washed away the old label: *certificate, paperwork, transaction.* For the first time, I felt the weight of my own being.
At dawn, Mum’s eyes flickered open. “Ord… order?”
“I’m here,” I said, steady. “But I’m not a document. I’m your daughter. I’m Rose.”
Something shifted. Love, I realised, wasn’t barter. It was a choice—one I could make, even unseen.
I left the hospital light. Outside, sunlight dappled the park path. A girl dropped her ice cream, tears welling. I handed her mine. “Who’re you?” she sniffed.
“Rose,” I said. “Just Rose.”
Warmth unspooled in my chest, bright as the morning. Birds sang. Leaves rustled. I was alive.
Back at Mum’s bedside, I took her hand, expecting nothing. The light inside me spilled over, unasked. That extra square metre had become endless. Because walls are built in the heart—and only we can tear them down to let the light in.
