The morning greeted me with silence. Normally, my mother, Margaret, would wake me softly before breakfast, but that day, she was gone. I opened my eyes and knew—she had left. For good. The wardrobe gaped empty, her worn boots no longer stood by the door, and her bed was neatly folded in the corner. A single note lay on the kitchen table, lonely as her heart. I froze, staring at it, and something inside me shattered.
Standing before the doors of a care home in a forgotten village near Birmingham, I clenched my fists to steady my trembling hands. Through the grimy window, I saw her—my mother, aged and bent, standing alone by the pane. Once, I had chosen a new life with my wife, pushing her away, my only mother, 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 had left us when I was just a boy. He walked away without a glance, leaving Mum alone at thirty—still beautiful, full of life, yet she chose me over remarriage. Suitors came, promising comfort, but only if she gave me up. She turned them all away without hesitation. Her choice was always me. Margaret worked as a baker in a local shop, taking shift after shift to pay for our cramped flat and my schooling. Her hands, red and swollen from kneading dough, never knew rest. Yet she never complained. Never.
I remember her returning from night shifts, boiling the kettle, and pulling out a warm roll. Sometimes, when wages were late, she’d watch me eat before touching the crumbs herself. I was too young to see it then—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 a mother like her, I needed no one else.
My childhood was happy despite the hardships. Mum went without sleep, without meals, yet always smiled. Everything changed when the bakery closed, and arthritis twisted her fingers. Every movement brought agony, but no one would hire her—worn out by pain and age. I finished school by then, working odd jobs at a local shop: sweeping, hauling crates, manning the till. They paid in food and pocket change, but I saved every penny for her medicine. I knew how proud she was of my grades, so I studied harder. With top marks, I won a place at a prestigious university in Birmingham. We moved, hoping for a fresh start.
In the city, things improved. I worked at a café and a warehouse, enough for food and small joys. We shared a dorm room, and I tried to brighten her life—taking her to plays, buying her dresses, showing her the sights. She smiled, but I saw the pain in her hands never left. All was well until I met her—the girl who upended everything.
Her name was Eleanor. I met her in my second year. Vibrant, bold, from wealth—she seemed an impossible dream. Friends envied me for winning her. Our whirlwind romance swept me up, and soon she demanded we live together. I wasn’t ready, but she gave an ultimatum: move in or part ways. I agreed. We couldn’t stay at her place—her parents disapproved of me, the baker’s son. Only our dorm room remained.
I never introduced Eleanor to Mum. I was ashamed. My mother, worn by years of toil, beside Eleanor’s—polished, manicured, refined. I knew it was cruel, but I couldn’t stop myself. I steeled myself to speak to Mum, knowing what I’d do. I was going to cast her out.
“Mum, I’ve met someone. We’re moving in together,” I began, avoiding her eyes.
“Oh, my boy, I’m so happy for you! When do I meet her?” Her voice trembled with joy.
“Not yet. But… where will you live?”
She hesitated. I watched her face darken.
“I’ll… go back to the village. Stay with Aunt Mabel,” she whispered.
“How long can you stay there? For free?” I pressed, though I knew Aunt Mabel—bitter and alone—would never take her in.
“Don’t worry, love. She’s lonely; she’ll be glad of the company. You save your money, eat well, take care of your girl.”
I saw the hurt in her eyes, but my love for Eleanor blinded me. I sent Mum away, knowing she had nothing—no money, no health. I went to bed, and by morning, she was gone. Silently, she’d left a note:
“Edward, don’t fret for me. I barely noticed you’d grown up. I know you’re ashamed of me, and I don’t blame you. Tell your girl you have no mother—it’ll be easier. Be happy, my love. If you need me, I’ll be at Aunt Mabel’s.”
Tears scalded my eyes. I knew she’d be wandering somewhere, sick and homeless, but Eleanor was already moving in. We married, and under her sway, I didn’t invite Mum. I told everyone she’d drowned in an accident. Years passed, life consumed me, and I never searched for her.
When our daughter was born, I understood parenthood. I told Eleanor the truth. She exploded:
“What, you’ll drag her here now? What if she brings her illnesses? Think of our child!”
“Eleanor, she’s her grandmother. I need to know she’s all right.”
I began searching. Aunt Mabel had died soon 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:
“Edward, if you’re reading this, you looked for me. I’m at ‘Haven Rest Home,’ near your university. I’ve seen you—happy—and didn’t want to intrude.”
I raced to the city, unable to believe she’d been so close. The care home staff said she’d been found begging in winter. My mother—begging? I couldn’t fathom it. In her room, I saw a frail woman in rags. She didn’t recognize me at first.
“Mum… it’s me,” I choked out, falling to my knees.
She stroked my hair, weeping:
“My boy, you found me. I waited.”
“Come home, Mum. You have a granddaughter.”
“A granddaughter?” Her eyes lit up.
At home, Eleanor screamed:
“Who is this? You said your mother died in a crash!”
I slapped her. I filed for divorce. She threatened to take my daughter, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t forgive myself. Yet as I argued with Eleanor, Mum slipped away again.
I dashed outside, heart pounding. A crowd, a crumpled car, Mum on the pavement… My guilt crushed me. No love is stronger than a mother’s. She chose me; 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 have yours, you’re the luckiest soul alive. Hold her close before it’s too late.
