“Thank You, Mum, for the Gift”
Eleanor stepped outside, pausing as the crisp winter air met her face. Overnight, the world had transformed—fresh snow blanketed the ground, delicate flakes drifting silently onto the few stubborn golden leaves still clinging to the trees, onto the pavement, and over the parked cars along the street.
She held out her palm, catching a few snowflakes that melted instantly. The crunch under her boots reminded her—Christmas was coming, with its scent of oranges, the glittering tree, and the quiet hope for something magical.
Inside the shop, she grabbed oranges, milk, and biscuits for tea. Just as she reached the till, her phone buzzed.
“Ellie, love—could you come over today?” Her mother’s voice was oddly bright.
“Of course, Mum. Is everything alright?”
“Yes, yes. There’s someone I’d like you to meet. Come by lunchtime.” That excited lilt again.
Eleanor sighed. “Not another one of your matchmaking schemes, is it? Another lonely bachelor finally cutting the apron strings?”
“It’s a surprise,” her mother said mysteriously before hanging up.
Curious. That tone—hopeful, almost girlish—had been absent since Andrew left. Back then, she’d sobbed in her mother’s arms, only for Mum to ruin it by saying, *I told you so.* Of course, she’d been right—but that didn’t dull the sting. They’d argued, and Eleanor stopped confiding in her, preferring to nurse her wounds alone.
At the bakery counter, she hesitated, then added a small cake to her basket. Never empty-handed.
At home, she washed her hair, curled the ends, swiped on mascara, and smoothed her dove-gray skirt and peach knit jumper. A glance in the mirror—whatever surprise awaited, she’d face it with dignity. *Andrew’s the one who’ll regret it,* she thought, lacing her boots.
When her mother opened the door, Eleanor froze. Mum looked radiant—rosy-cheeked, eyes sparkling, her new bob taking years off her face.
“Mum, you look brilliant,” Eleanor said, handing over the cake.
“Ta, love.” Her mother’s smile was hesitant. “Come in, then.”
*So there’s a guest,* Eleanor deduced, adjusting her curls before entering the lounge. A broad-shouldered man in his fifties, dressed in pressed trousers and a navy jumper, stood from the sofa. His receding hairline and strong nose gave him a rugged air, but the crinkles around his eyes suggested kindness—or years of squinting into the sun.
“Eleanor, this is George Whitmore,” Mum said, slipping an arm around her waist. “An old friend.”
*From the village, no doubt.* Eleanor suppressed an eye-roll.
At the table, she took her usual seat—back to the fridge, same as when Dad was alive. George sat opposite. Mum, ever the hostess, positioned herself between them, ready to jump up.
“Let me guess—you’re introducing us?” Eleanor couldn’t help the acid in her voice.
“Must you be like this?” Mum’s frown was sharp.
“What, should I applaud? Had enough of fists, did you? Or does George prefer a vodka chaser?”
George laid a calloused hand over Mum’s. “Leave it, Rose.”
That only stoked her fury. “Oh, playing the saint now? Wait till you move in—then we’ll see. Mum, seriously? You’re *marrying* him?”
The words spilled out, unstoppable. Mum’s lips trembled; tears welled. George stared at his untouched soup.
“Finished?” Mum’s voice was steel. “You’ve no idea—the drunken rages, the hiding. You’d run next door. I *stole* from his pockets just to buy you shoes. Thirty years, I kept silent—” She faltered. “George *is* your father.”
Eleanor recoiled. “*What?*”
Mum inhaled shakily. “We were sweethearts. He went into the service; I found out I was pregnant. My mother—she forced me to marry Robert. He never knew you weren’t his. George didn’t either—not until last summer, when I saw him again.”
The room spun. *Robert*—her violent, broken father—wasn’t her father at all.
“I’m going with George,” Mum said softly. “The flat’s yours. God knows you’ve spent enough years drifting.”
Eleanor fled to the hallway.
“Ellie!” Mum called.
“Give her time,” George murmured.
*Oh, now he’s the wise one?* She slammed the door.
Outside, snow fell, stirring memories—nights they’d walked the streets, dodging Robert’s rages. Peering into warm-lit windows, aching for the families inside.
Maybe Mum deserved this. Forty-nine wasn’t old. And George… the way he’d looked at her.
Days later, she returned, pride swallowed. Mum beamed, suitcases packed.
“The village has a post office, a dairy—Rose’ll manage,” George said, grinning.
Eleanor watched them go, then moved into the flat. Months passed. At Christmas, she visited—a cozy cottage, honey from George’s hives, Mum flitting about like a girl. Just as she’d dreamed.
Then, one spring morning, George called. Mum was gone—a clot to the heart. *A heart condition?* She’d never known.
At the wake, bitterness surged. “You did this,” she spat.
George said nothing. Aunt Maggie pressed her hand. “She was happy, love. For the first time.”
Later, George’s son, Paul, drove her home. Broad-shouldered, quiet, with George’s crinkled smile.
“Brother, I suppose,” she muttered.
He chuckled. “Or friends.”
Over tea, they talked—about Mum, about Robert, about the photo of young George in uniform.
When he dozed off in her armchair, she watched him, struck by the peace she felt.
At the graveside nine days later, snowdrops peeked through the thaw. Paul’s hand brushed hers.
*No,* she thought. *Not a brother.*
And silently, to the sky: *Thank you, Mum.*
