The Borrowed Dress Back then, on our street, just three houses down from the clinic, lived Evelyn. Her last name was Smith, nothing fancy, and she herself was a quiet, unremarkable woman, as subtle as the shadow of a birch at noon. Evelyn worked as the village librarian. Wages came months late—when they came at all—and if anyone did get paid, it was in rubber boots, vodka, or sad, weevil-infested grains. Evelyn had no husband. He’d gone north chasing better wages back when their daughter Ellie was still in nappies, and was never heard from again. Whether he’d found a new family or vanished into the woods, no one knew. So Evelyn raised Ellie on her own. She worked herself ragged, up late at night at her sewing machine. She was a real craftswoman—just so Ellie’s tights never had holes, her hair ribbons were as nice as any other girl’s. Ellie grew up… Oh, what a fiery girl she was. Stunning, truly. Eyes blue as cornflowers, a golden plait, and such a graceful figure. But proud—painfully so. She was ashamed of their poverty. It stung. She was young, wanted to blossom, wanted to go dancing, but those patched-up boots were on year three already. Then came that spring. Final year of school—the time when young girls’ hearts ache and dreams are built. One day Evelyn popped by my place to check her blood pressure. It was early May, the cherry trees just starting to blossom. She sat on my couch, thin, sharp shoulders poking through a washed-out jumper. “Val,” she says softly, fingers twisting nervously, “I’m in trouble. Ellie won’t go to prom. Keeps having meltdowns.” “Why?” I ask, wrapping the cuff round her thin arm. “She says she won’t go to be embarrassed. Lena’s got a dress from the city, all imported, so grand. But me…” Evelyn sighed so deeply, my own heart ached. “I don’t even have enough for a bit of fabric, Val. Used up everything over winter.” “So what are you going to do?” I ask. “I’ve got an idea.” Evelyn’s eyes shone. “Remember those curtains my mum kept in her old chest? Thick satin, good stuff. Beautiful colour. I’ll take the old lace from a collar, bead it. It’ll look a treat—not just a dress, but a picture!” I just shook my head. I knew Ellie’s temperament. She didn’t want a ‘picture,’ she wanted to look ‘expensive,’ with some fancy label sticking out. But I kept quiet. Hope is blind, but a mother’s hope is sacred. All May, I saw the light on in Evelyn’s window long past midnight. The old sewing machine rattled, ta-ta-ta… Evelyn worked like magic. Slept three hours a night, eyes red, fingers all pricked, but she looked happy. Trouble came about three weeks before the big day. I popped in with some ointment for Evelyn’s aching back. And there, laid out on the table—not so much a dress as a dream. The fabric shimmered with soft rose-grey, like evening sky before a storm. Every seam and bead sewn with such care, it glowed from within. “Well?” Evelyn asked, smiling shyly, hands trembling, every finger bandaged. “Gorgeous,” I told her truly. “You’re a master, Evelyn. Has Ellie seen it?” “Not yet, she’s at school. I want it to be a surprise.” Then, the front door slammed. Ellie burst in, cheeks flushed, angry, her school bag flung into the corner. “Lena was showing off again! She got new patent heels! What am I meant to wear, busted trainers?!” Evelyn stepped forward, carefully lifted the dress from the table: “Look, darling… it’s finished.” Ellie froze. Her eyes took it in—then she burst out. “What’s this?” Her voice went cold. “These…these are grandma’s curtains! I recognise them! They’ve stank of mothballs forever! Are you joking?” “Ellie, it’s real satin, look how it fits—” Evelyn’s voice broke, she murmured, edging closer. “CURTAINS!” Ellie shrieked so loud the windows rattled. “You want me to go on stage in a set of drapes? Have the whole school laugh? ‘Poor Smith wrapped herself in a curtain!’ Never! I’d rather go naked—rather drown than wear this misery!” She snatched the dress, threw it to the floor, stamped right on the beads— right on her mum’s hard work. “I hate it! I hate being poor! I hate you! Everyone else has a proper mum, you’re just nothing!” A frightening silence hung in the air. Evelyn went paler than the plaster on the fireplace. She didn’t scream, didn’t cry. She just bent down, old-woman slow, picked up the dress, brushed off imaginary dust, and pressed it to her heart. “Val,” she whispered, not looking at her daughter. “Go, please. We need to talk.” I left, throat tight. I wanted to grab the belt and give that foolish girl a telling off… By morning, Evelyn was gone. Ellie ran to the clinic, midday—face drained, all her pride gone, only raw fear in her eyes. “Auntie Val…Evelyn’s missing.” “What do you mean, missing? Maybe she’s at work?” “No, the library’s locked, she didn’t come home last night. And…” Ellie stammered, lips trembling, chin shaking. “The icon’s gone.” “What icon?” I almost collapsed, pen dropping. “St Nicholas. The silver-framed one grandma said protected us through the war. Mum always said ‘It’s our last bread, Ellie. For the darkest day.’” I went cold inside. I understood what Evelyn had done. In those years, old icons fetched big money—and were dangerous to sell, buyers could cheat or worse. Evelyn was so trusting, like a child. She’d gone to town to sell it, to get her daughter an ‘expensive’ dress. “Chase the wind,” I whispered. “Oh, Ellie, what have you done…” For three days, we lived in hell. Ellie moved in with me, afraid to stay alone. Ate nothing, only drank water. Sat on the porch, watching the road, waiting. Every engine sound—she jumped, ran to the gate. But always strangers. “I’m to blame,” she whispered at night, curled up. “I killed her with my words. Val, if she comes back, I’ll beg on my knees. Just let her come back…” On the fourth evening, the clinic phone rang, sudden, urgent. I grabbed the receiver. “Hello! Village Clinic!” “Val Smith?” A male voice, tired, official. “Calling from County Hospital. Intensive Care.” My legs gave way, I dropped into a chair. “What?” “A woman arrived three days back, no documents. Found at the station, heart attack. When conscious, she named your village and you. Evelyn Smith. Is that right?” “She’s alive?!” I shouted. “For now. But she’s critical. You must come.” How we got to the county hospital is a story of its own. The bus had gone. I begged the chairman for a lift. They sent old Pete with a battered Land Rover. Ellie was silent throughout, gripping the door handle until her knuckles whitened, staring straight ahead, lips moving—praying, for the first time ever, truly praying. The hospital smelled of trouble. Chlorine, medicine—and that special hush where life and death wrestle. The young doctor, eyes red from sleeplessness, greeted us. “To see Mrs Smith? Five minutes only. No crying! She cannot get upset.” We entered the ward. The machines beeped, tubes snaked. There was Evelyn—oh God, I’ve seen corpses dressed finer. Her face grey as ash, deep circles under her eyes, tiny under the NHS blanket, like a little girl. When Ellie saw her, she gasped. Dropped to her knees at the bedside, face pressed into the sheet, shoulders shaking, too scared to sob. Evelyn’s eyelids fluttered. Her gaze blurred, struggled to focus. Finally, her bruised hand moved and rested on Ellie’s head. “Ellie…” she whispered, like dry leaves rustling. “You’re safe…” “Mum,” Ellie sobbed, kissing that cold hand. “Mum, forgive me…” “Money…” Evelyn fumbled at the blanket. “I sold it, darling… it’s in the bag… take it. Buy the dress… with sparkles… like you wanted…” Ellie lifted her head, eyes streaming. “I don’t want it, Mum! Hear me? I don’t want anything! Why did you do it?” “So you’d be beautiful…” Evelyn smiled faintly. “So you wouldn’t be less than anyone…” I stood by the door, choking, unable to breathe. Watching, thinking—this is mother’s love. It never debates, never counts. It gives everything, to the very last heartbeat. Even if her child is foolish. Even if she’s hurt. The doctor made us leave after five minutes. “That’s it,” he said. “She’s out of danger, but the heart’s weak. She’ll be here for a long time.” And so began long days of waiting. Nearly a month Evelyn was in hospital. Ellie visited every day. School in the morning, then caught lifts to town in the afternoon. She brought broths she made herself, grated apples. The girl changed—unrecognisable now. All pride gone. Home cleaned, garden weeded. Every evening she’d come to update me, her eyes wise beyond her years. “You know, Aunt Val,” she said one evening, “after I shouted… I tried the dress on, secretly. It’s so gentle. Smells of Mum’s hands. I was a fool. I thought if my dress was fancy, people would respect me. Now I know: if I lose Mum, there isn’t a dress in the world I’d want.” Evelyn started improving. Slowly, painfully, but she pulled through. The doctors called it a miracle. I think Ellie’s love dragged her back from the other side. Evelyn was discharged just before prom. Weak, barely able to walk—but desperate to go home. Prom night arrived. The whole village gathered at the school. Music playing, the Pet Shop Boys booming from speakers. The girls were all lined up—each in their own outfits. Lena wore her imported crinoline, looking like a wedding cake, preening, turning her nose up at lads. Then the crowd parted. Silence fell. Ellie walked in. Leading Evelyn by the arm. Evelyn pale, limping, leaning heavily, but smiling. And Ellie… My dears, I’ve never seen beauty like it. She wore that very dress. The one made from the curtains. In the sunset’s glow, that rose-ash colour shone with an unreal light. The satin flowed over her graceful figure, modest yet flattering. On her shoulders, the lace beaded in the evening light. But it wasn’t about the dress. It was about how Ellie walked. Regal, head held high—yet without arrogance. There was a calm, deep strength. She held her mother’s arm as if carrying crystal, silently telling them all: “Look—this is my mum. And I’m proud of her.” One of the lads, cheeky Ben, tried a joke: “Oi, look! Here comes the living curtain!” Ellie stopped. Turned to him slowly. Looked him right in the eye, steady, not angry, almost kindly. “Yes,” she said loud enough for all, “my mum made this with her own hands. To me, it’s worth more than gold. Ben, you’re the fool if you can’t see beauty.” He blushed, stammered silent. And Lena, in her fancy store-bought dress, suddenly seemed dull and faded. Because clothes alone don’t make a person, do they? Ellie didn’t dance much that evening. She mostly sat with her mum on the bench. Covering Evelyn with the shawl, bringing her water, holding her hand. There was so much warmth and tenderness that I teared up. Evelyn watched her, face glowing. She knew it was worth it. That precious old icon hadn’t helped with money—it had saved a soul. Many years have passed since. Ellie moved to London, became a cardiologist, saves lives with her skills. Evelyn lives with her, cherished and cared for. They’re inseparable. And that icon, they say, Ellie tracked it down years later. Paid a fortune to recover it. Now it hangs in their flat, pride of place, oil lamp always lit beneath. Sometimes I look at today’s young people and think—how easily we hurt those closest, chasing others’ approval, demanding, stamping our feet. But life is short, like a midsummer night. And we only have one mum. While she’s alive, we’re children—she shields us from the cold winds of eternity. When she’s gone, we’re alone. Cherish your mothers. Call them, if you can. If not, remember them kindly—they’ll hear you from above. If you enjoyed this story, do come back and subscribe to the channel. Let’s keep sharing, remembering, and celebrating simple things together. Every subscription from you is like a hot cuppa on a long winter evening. Looking forward to hearing from you.

There was a time when, just down our street, three houses from the doctors surgery, lived Hope. Her surname was Clark honestly, you wouldnt pick her out in a crowd she was quiet as a whisper, barely noticed, like the shadow under an oak at lunchtime. She worked at the village library. Back then, wages came late sometimes, not at all and when they finally gave you something, it was a bottle of cheap brandy, a pair of rubber boots, or a sack of flour that was already sprouting its own ecosystem.

Hope didnt have a husband. Hed packed up and left for the North chasing a good wage, back when their daughter still wore nappies. He vanished maybe started a new family, maybe got lost in the moors. No one really knew.

So Hope raised her daughter, May, alone. Gave it everything she had late nights at her sewing machine, fighting sleep to make sure May didnt go to school with holes in her tights or tatty ribbons in her braids. Hope was brilliant on that old Singer made do so May wouldnt stick out from the other girls.

May grew into a stunner, a real firecracker. Blue eyes you could sink into, hair like fields of barley, and a figure youd see in the magazines. But she had pride mountains of it. She hated how poor they were. It stung. You know, at that age, you want to shine, go to parties, dance all night. And she had the same battered boots for three years straight, patterned with patches.

Spring came Year Eleven. That magical time when girls dream bigger than ever, their hearts fluttering like sparrows. One day, Hope popped in to get her blood pressure checked early May, and the hawthorn was just starting to bloom. She perched on my couch, thin as a willow switch, shoulders poking through her faded cardigan.

Val, she said, voice barely audible, fingers twisting in her lap. Im in a mess. May refuses to go to the prom proper tantrums.

Whys that? I asked, tightening the cuff around her skinny arm.

She says she wont bloody embarrass herself. That Lena Carter, the chairmans daughter, got a fancy dress from London, all imported, gorgeous. And me Hope sighed so deeply my heart squeezed. I havent a penny for cotton, Val. We ate through the cupboard this winter.

Whatll you do? I asked.

Ive got a plan, her eyes suddenly lit up. Remember the thick satin curtains Mum kept in her trunk? Theyre good quality, beautiful colour. Ill add lace from her old collar, and embroidery. Wont look like a dress more like a painting!

I only nodded. I knew May she wanted something that shouted expensive, with a foreign label peeking out. But I kept quiet. A mothers hope is blind but holy.

All May, you could see the light on in Clarks windows well past midnight, the old sewing machine rattling away, Hope working magic. Slept three hours a night if that, eyes red, hands full of pinpricks but she wore her smiles light as air.

Disaster struck about three weeks before the prom. I popped round with some ointment for Hopes back shed been hunched over the machine so long she said her spine was on fire.

I walked in and honestly on the table lay not a dress, but a dream. The fabric was soft and glowing, a lovely dusky pinkish-grey, like the evening sky before rain. Every seam and bead stitched so tenderly it seemed to glow.

Well? Hope said, her smile shy and a bit childish, hands trembling, fingers all patched up with plasters.

Queenly, I said truly. Hope, youve magic fingers. Has May seen it?

No, not yet shes at school. Itll be a surprise.

Then, bang! The front door slammed. May stormed in, cheeks blazing, flung her backpack across the hall.

Lenas showing off again! Got fancy patent heels real ones! What do I get? Battered trainers, covered in holes?

Hope stepped forward gently, picking up the dress:

May, look its finished.

May froze, her eyes swept over the dress. I thought, surely, shed light up. But instead, she went off like a flare.

Whats that? Those are Grandmas curtains! I know the smell! They stank of mothballs for years! Are you having a laugh?!

Sweetheart, its real satin, see how beautiful its turned out Hopes voice faltered, she fumbled for words, took a step closer.

Curtains! May shrieked so loud the windows rattled. You want me on stage wrapped in a drape? So everyone can point? Thats poor-clark May in her grans old curtains! I wont wear it! Never! Id rather go naked or drown than in this mess!

She snatched the dress, threw it down, stamped on it. Beads and Mums sweat beneath her shoe.

I hate it! I hate being poor! I hate you! Other girls mums make things happen; you youre nothing, not even a mum!

Silence descended, thick and suffocating.

Hope went ghostly pale, blending into the whitewash of the stove. She didnt shout, didnt cry. She simply bent down slowly, picked up the dress, brushed off imaginary dust, and hugged it to her chest.

Val, she whispered to me, eyes to the floor. Please, leave us. We need to talk.

I left, fuming. I wanted to give that foolish girl a proper telling-off.

The next morning, Hope was gone.

May dashed into the surgery at lunchtime. She was a wreck all that pride burned away, just fear left.

Auntie Val Hope Mums gone.

What do you mean, gone? Maybe at work?

No. Librarys locked. She didnt sleep at home. And the icons missing.

What icon? I nearly dropped my pen.

St. Nicholas. The old one in the silver frame, in the red corner. Grandma said it protected us during the war. Mum always said, This is our last loaf, May. For the darkest day.

Inside, I froze. I realised what Hope had done. Those days, antique dealers paid big money for icons they could cheat or even worse. Hope was so trusting, like a child. She must have gone to town to sell it, to make enough for Mays proper dress.

Like searching for the wind in the fields, I whispered. Oh, May, what have you done

Three endless days passed. May moved in with me too scared to sleep in an empty house. She hardly ate, barely drank, just sat on the porch and watched the road. Every engine, shed run to the gate. Only strangers came.

Its all my fault, shed mutter at night, curled tight.

I killed her with my words, Val. If she comes back, Ill crawl and beg. Anything for her to come home.

On the fourth day, as dusk turned the sky bronze, the phone rang at the surgery sharp, insistent.

I grabbed it.

Hello? Val Clark speaking.

Mrs. Clark? This is the district hospital intensive care.

My knees buckled. I slumped into the chair.

What?

A woman came in three days ago. No papers. Collapsed at the train station heart attack. She woke briefly and asked for your village, for you. Hope Clark. You know her?

Shes alive?! I yelled.

For now. But its critical. You must come right away.

Getting to the hospital was another saga. The last bus was gone, so I begged the council chair for his old car. We got an ancient Land Rover, Pete driving.

May was silent the whole trip, clutching the door handle so tight her knuckles were white. She was mouthing words I think real prayers, maybe her first ever.

The hospital reeked of worries bleach, medicines, and that heavy, uncanny hush you get where the stakes are life or death.

A young, sleepless doctor came out.

For Mrs. Clark? Youve five minutes. And no tears she mustnt be upset.

We went in, machines pinging, tubes snaking. Hope lay there, face grey, eyes sunken, tiny under the stiff hospital blanket, like a child tucked in wrong.

May saw her mum, and could barely breathe. She dropped to her knees by the bed, pressed her face deep into the sheets, shoulders shaking but silent, scared to sob or wail.

Hopes eyelids fluttered open, gaze foggy. It took a second, but her hand bruised from injections reached for Mays head.

May barely a whisper, like dry leaves. Found you

Mum, May choked out, kissing her cold hand. Im sorry

The money Hopes finger traced the blanket. I sold Its in my bag For your dress With glitter How you wanted

May lifted her head, tears streaming down her cheeks.

I dont need a dress, Mum! I dont need anything! Why, Mum?! Why?

So you could be beautiful so you wouldnt feel less than anyone else Hopes smile flickered, faint but real.

Standing by the door, I was holding back tears. Watching this, I thought: this is what a mothers love is. It doesnt weigh up, doesnt bargain. It gives everything every heartbeat, every drop of strength. Even when the child is foolish. Even when it hurts.

The doctor shooed us out after a few minutes.

Thats it. Her energys gone. The worst is past, but her hearts fragile. Shell be here a while.

The long wait began. Nearly a month Hope stayed in hospital. May visited daily school and exams in the morning, lifts to town in the afternoon, homemade soup and apples for her mum.

You wouldnt recognise May now. Gone was the bravado she scrubbed the house, weeded the veg patch, came to mine at night with updates, her eyes grown-up and deep.

You know, Val she said once, That time I yelled I tried on the dress later, secretly. Its so soft. Smells like Mums hands. I was so daft. I thought people would respect me if the dress was fancy. Now I get it: if Mums gone, no dress in the world matters.

Hope slowly pulled through. The doctors called it a miracle. Me, Im sure it was Mays love that dragged her back from the brink. They discharged her just before the prom. She was weak, walking was hard, but desperate to be home.

The night of the prom arrived.

The whole village crowded by the halls. Music blasting the 80s classics, everyone in whatever they could muster. Lena Carter flaunted her huge crinoline, nose in the air, fending off suitors.

Suddenly, the crowd parted and hush fell.

May walked in arm-in-arm with Hope. Hope looked pale, limping, leaning heavily on her daughter, but smiled with real joy.

And May mate, Ive never seen such beauty in all my years.

She wore that curtain dress.

In the sunset, the dusty rose fabric glowed with an extraordinary light. Satin hugging her waist, lace shimmering on her shoulders. But it wasnt the dress, really. It was Mays presence. She walked like a queen. Head held high, but the arrogance was gone only a calm, powerful grace in her eyes. She guided her mother so gently it was as if she was carrying a crystal vase. She was silently showing the world: This is my mum, and Im proud of her.

One cheeky lad, Nick, piped up:

Cor, look, the curtains arrived!

May turned slowly and looked him straight in the eye cool, steady, almost kindly.

Yes, she said, loud enough for all, My mum made this with her own hands. Its worth more to me than any gold dress. And Nick, youre clueless if you cant see true beauty.

Nick went bright red and shut up. Lena, in her big shop-bought frock, suddenly looked faded, exhausted. Because its never the clothes, mate. Never has been.

May barely danced that night. She mostly sat with her mum, tucked a shawl round her, fetched water, and held her hand. The warmth in that touch the care! had me teary. Hope gazed at her daughter, her face glowing. She knew it had all been worth it. That old icon it really did its job: not giving money, but saving a soul.

Years have gone by since then. May moved to London, trained as a heart doctor, got really good brings people back from the edge. Took Hope with her, cherishes her like a jewel. They live side by side, soul to soul.

And the icon? May tracked it down eventually, hunted antique shops for years, paid plenty, but found it. It hangs now in their flat, pride of place, with a candle always burning before it.

Sometimes, I watch the youngsters today and think how easily we hurt those closest, all for someone elses opinion, shouting and stamping our feet. Lifes short, like an English midsummer night. And you only get one mum. While shes here, youre still a child sheltered from lifes bitter winds. Once shes gone, well, then it’s you against the world.

So treasure your mum. Call her now if shes still with us. And if not, just remember her with love. Shell hear you, wherever she is.

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