Eleanor stands at the kitchen window, chewing a piece of stale bread and butter, gazing at the neighbouring garden. It’s a grey, rainy morning, matching her mood these past weeks. Behind the glass, a familiar figure flashes past—Elizabeth Davies struggles towards the building entrance, laden with heavy shopping bags.
“Mum, your neighbour’s struggling with her bags again,” Eleanor calls into the living room, where Margaret Collins sits at the table flipping through an outdated magazine. “Shall I help?”
“What neighbour?” the woman grumbles without looking up. “Just some woman. She’s got a son; let him help.”
Eleanor frowns but stays quiet. Recently, Margaret has grown particularly prickly, like a cornered hedgehog. Yet years ago, she’d be the first to lend a hand if anyone in the building was struggling.
“Her son works in Berlin, Mum. You know that,” Eleanor says softly, pulling on her jacket. “I’m going to the shop anyway; I’ll help carry her bags.”
“Off you go, our little saint,” Margaret mutters. “Mind everyone else, forget about me.”
Eleanor pauses at the door, turning back to look at the woman she’s called Mum for over forty years. Thin, grey hair pulled into a tight bun, Margaret looks especially small in her armchair. The lines on her face seem deeper, her hands trembling as she turns a page.
“Anything you need me to pick up?” Eleanor asks gently.
“Need nothing. Just get going.”
On the landing, Eleanor bumps into Elizabeth Davies, breathing heavily as she stops for a breather.
“Elizabeth, let me help,” Eleanor offers, taking one of the heavy bags.
“Oh, thank you, love!” sighs the neighbour with relief. “Don’t seem to have the strength lately. Age, I expect.”
They climb slowly, resting on each landing.
“How’s your Margaret?” Elizabeth asks cautiously. “Haven’t seen her out much.”
“Oh, it varies,” Eleanor replies evasively. “Some days are better than others.”
“I understand. My sister was similar…” Elizabeth trails off, but Eleanor catches her meaning.
After helping carry the bags into the flat, Eleanor returns home. Margaret sits in the same chair but isn’t reading anymore. She simply stares blankly ahead.
“Mum, fancy some tea?” Eleanor suggests, taking off her jacket.
“Mum…” repeats Margaret, her voice carrying a strange note. “You call me Mum.”
Eleanor freezes. Something in her tone sets off alarm bells.
“Well, yes, Mum. What else?”
“But I’m not your mother,” Margaret says quietly, turning her face towards Eleanor. “I’m nobody to you.”
Eleanor feels everything tighten inside her. This is it. What she’s dreaded for months. What she’d avoided noticing when Margaret sometimes looked at her with confusion.
“What are you saying, Mum?” Eleanor kneels beside her, taking her hand. “Of course you are my mum. My real mum.”
“No,” Margaret shakes her head stubbornly. “I remember now. I remember everything. You’re not my daughter. You… you’re a stranger.”
A lump forms in Eleanor’s throat. She knew this day would come. The doctors warned that the illness would progress, that her memory would falter more. But she wasn’t ready for Margaret to remember *this*.
“Mum, please listen,” Eleanor begins, keeping her voice steady. “Yes. You’re right. You didn’t give birth to me. But you raised me. You loved me. You *are* my mum.”
“Raised…” Margaret frowns, as if trying to recall. “Yes… raised. They brought you… so little. Always crying, wouldn’t eat.”
“Yes, Mum. I was three.”
“Three…” Margaret repeats. “Where’s your real mother? Where is she?”
Eleanor closes her eyes. She’s avoided this conversation her whole life. Margaret never shared the details, and Eleanor never asked. She’d always had a mother who loved her.
“I don’t know, Mum. You never told me.”
“Never told you…” Margaret seems lost in thought. “Perhaps rightly so. Nothing good in that story.”
Eleanor waits, afraid to move. Margaret is silent for a long time, then suddenly speaks again.
“She was my friend. Your mother. Claire, her name was. We studied together at college, then worked at the same factory. Beautiful girl, full of life. Men buzzed round her like bees to clover.”
Eleanor listens, holding her breath. For the first time in forty years, she learns about her birth mother.
“Married young, had you. But the husband… turned out rotten. Drank, hit her. She left him, but where could she go with a child? Lived here and there, friends’ sofas. Then she met another man. He wanted to marry her, but wouldn’t take children.”
“So she gave me away?”
“Brought you to us. Said, ‘Margaret, help me. Just for a while, till I get sorted.’ But she…” Margaret stops, seemingly unable to finish.
“What, Mum?”
“Went off with that man. Promised to come back for you in six months. Never did.”
Eleanor feels tears run down her cheeks. She’d always suspected something like this, but hearing it hurts sharply.
“And then?”
“Then I realised you were already my daughter. Stayed up nights when you were ill. Taught you to walk, to talk. Your first word was ‘Mummy’, and you called *me* that.” Margaret smiles through tears. “Remember how happy I was. Thought: here she is, my girl.”
“You always were my mother,” Eleanor whispers, embracing her. “The only one and the very best.”
“Was…” echoes Margaret. “But now I’m a stranger. My memory’s going, Eleanor. I feel it slipping. Remember today, forget you—and myself—by tomorrow.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not, if it’s true?” Margaret pulls gently from the hug, looking Eleanor in the eyes. “Listen carefully. While I still remember, this is important.”
Eleanor nods, wiping away tears.
“I never regretted taking you. Not once. Not when it was hard, not when money was tight. You were my greatest joy. Understand?”
“Yes, Mum.”
“And if… if I forget you… If I say you’re a stranger, don’t be hurt. It’s the illness talking, not me. In my heart, you’ll always be my daughter.”
Eleanor can’t hold back; she sobs openly. Margaret strokes her hair, just as she did when Eleanor came home with scraped knees as a child.
“Don’t cry, love. We’ll get by. We’ll fight this awful thing.”
Days pass. Margaret sometimes recognises Eleanor, sometimes stares at her confused. But she recognises her more often than not. Eleanor takes leave from work, determined to stay close.
One evening as they sit at the kitchen table drinking tea, Margaret asks suddenly:
“Did Claire ever come? For her daughter?”
Eleanor chokes slightly on her tea.
“Claire?”
“Well, your mother. She did promise to come back for you.”
“No, Mum. She never came.”
“Strange,” Margaret says thoughtfully. “Perhaps it’s for the best. You’re mine now. Why would you want another mother?”
“I don’t want anyone except you,” Eleanor says softly.
“That’s right. And I don’t want anyone but you.” Margaret reaches her hand across the table, and Eleanor clasps it. “You and me, we’re family. Proper family.”
Eleanor nods, fighting more tears. Yes, they are family. Not by blood, perhaps, but true family. And no illness can change that.
The next morning, Margaret rises early and starts frying eggs. Eleanor wakes to the smell and smiles –
Violet stood at the kitchen window, chewing on stale toast and watching the neighbour’s garden under a drizzling grey sky that matched her mood these past weeks. A familiar figure hurried past—Mrs Pendleton struggling towards the building entrance laden with shopping bags. “Mum, Mrs Pendleton’s managing those bags alone again,” Violet called towards the living room where Margaret Wright sat leafing through an old magazine. “Shall I help?” “What’s she to me?” Margaret grumbled without looking up. “A stranger. She has a son, let him sort it.” Violet wrinkled her nose but stayed silent. Lately, Margaret had become prickly, like a hedgehog best avoided, though she’d always been the first to help anyone in their block before.
“Her son’s working in Germany, you know,” Violet said softly, pulling on her coat. “I’m going to the shops anyway. I’ll help her carry them up.” “Go on then, our little saint,” Margaret muttered. “Feel sorry for everyone else, see if you remember *me*.” Violet paused at the door, looking back at the woman she’d called Mum for over forty years. Thin, with grey hair tied tightly back, Margaret seemed especially small in her armchair. Her wrinkles had deepened, her hands trembled turning the pages. “Anything you need from the shops?” Violet asked gently. “Nothing. Off you go.” On the landing, Violet met a breathless Mrs Pendleton. “Let me help,” Violet offered, taking a bag. “Oh, bless you, dear!” Mrs Pendleton sighed in relief. “Not my old bones anymore. How’s your Margaret? Haven’t seen her about.” “Up and down,” Violet replied carefully. “Some days she’s well, others…” “I understand,” Mrs Pendleton said softly. “My sister, she…”
After helping with the bags, Violet returned home. Margaret was still in her chair but staring blankly at the wall. “Fancy a cuppa, Mum?” Violet asked, hanging her coat. “Mum…” Margaret repeated, a strange note in her voice as she turned. “You call me Mum.” Violet froze. The tone unsettled her. “Yes, Mum. What else?” “But I’m not your mum,” Margaret said quietly, meeting her eyes. “I’m nobody to you.” Violet felt her insides clench. This was it. What she’d feared for months, what she avoided seeing when Margaret sometimes looked at her with confusion. “What are you saying?” Violet knelt, taking her hand. “Of course you’re my mum. My real mum.” “No,” Margaret shook her head stubbornly. “I remember now. I remember it all. You aren’t my daughter. You… you’re a stranger.” A lump formed in Violet’s throat. She knew this day would come. The doctors had warned the dementia would progress, memory would fail more often. But she wasn’t prepared for Margaret remembering *this*.
“Mum, listen to me,” Violet began, keeping her voice level. “You’re right. You didn’t birth me. But you raised me. You loved me. You *are* my mum.” “Raised you…” Margaret frowned, struggling. “Yes… Raised you. They brought you… such a little thing. Always crying, wouldn’t eat.” “Yes, Mum. I was three.” “Three…” Margaret echoed. “Where’s your real mum? Where is she?” Violet closed her eyes. She’d avoided this conversation all her life. Margaret had never shared details; Violet hadn’t asked. Knowing she had a mum who loved her was enough. “I don’t know. You never told me.” “Never told you…” Margaret mused. “Maybe just as well. Nothing good in it.”
Violet waited, scared to move. Margaret was silent a long time, then spoke suddenly. “She was my friend. Your mother. Grace, her name was. We met at technical college, worked at the same factory. Pretty, full of life. Men buzzed around her like bees round jam.” Violet held her breath. For the first time in forty years, she was learning about her birth mother. “Married young, had you. But he was… a rotter. Drank, hit her. She left him, but where to go with a child? Floated from one friend’s sofa to another. Then she met another man. He wanted to marry her, but not children.” “So she gave me away?” “Brought you to us. Said: ‘Maggie, help me. Just till I get sorted.’ Then she…” Margaret trailed off. “What?” Violet urged.
“Went off with him. Promised to fetch you in six months.” Margaret paused again. “She never came.” Tears welled in Violet’s eyes. She’d always suspected something like this, but hearing it hurt deeply. “And then?” “Then I knew you were my girl. Sat up nights when you were poorly. Taught you to walk, to talk. Your first word was ‘Mama’, meant for me.” Margaret smiled through tears. “I remember… so thrilled. I thought: here’s my daughter.” “You always *were* my mum,” Violet whispered, embracing her. “The only one, the best one.” “Was…” Margaret repeated. “But now I’m a stranger. It’s going, Violet. My memory. I feel it slipping. Today I remember… tomorrow, I might forget you. Forget myself.” “Don’t say that.” “Why not? It’s the truth,” Margaret pulled back to look Violet in the eye. “Listen. While I still can, I need you to know something.”
Violet nodded, wiping her eyes. “I never regretted taking you. Not once. Not when it was hard, not when money was tight. You were the best joy of my life. Understand?” “I understand.” “And… if I forget you, if I say you’re a stranger… don’t be hurt. It’s the illness talking, not me. In my heart, you’ll always be my girl.” Violet couldn’t hold back, sobbing openly. Margaret stroked her head, like when she’d fallen and scraped her knees as a child. “Don’t cry, duck. We’ll have a good bit yet. Fight this silly illness together.”
The following days passed. Sometimes Margaret recognised Violet; other times she looked at her with confusion. But more often than not, she knew her. Violet took leave from work to stay close. One evening over tea, Margaret suddenly asked, “Did Grace ever come back? For her daughter?” Violet choked on her tea. “Grace?” “Yes, your mum. She promised to fetch you.” “No. She never did.” “Odd,” Margaret mused. “Probably for the best. You were mine by then. Why would you need another mum?” “I only ever needed you,” Violet said softly. “Quite right. And I only ever needed you.” Margaret reached across the table, Violet clasping her thin hand. “We’re family. Proper family.” Violet nodded, fighting fresh tears. Yes, they were. Perhaps not by blood, but real. No illness could change that.
The next morning, Margaret rose early and started breakfast. Violet woke to the smell of frying eggs, surprised – her mum hadn’t cooked recently. “Morning,” Violet said, entering the kitchen. “Morning, love,” Margaret replied, no doubt in her voice. “Sit down. Cooked your favourite eggs with tomatoes.” Violet sat, watching Margaret with gratitude. Maybe there would be many good days still. Maybe the illness would ease. Or maybe not. But right then, they were simply mother and daughter sharing breakfast. “Mum,” Violet said, taking a bite. “Yes, love?” “Nothing. Just… thank you.” “What for?” “For being my mum.” Margaret smiled the beautiful, warm smile Violet remembered from childhood. “And what about me thanking my lucky stars for a daughter like you?” In that moment, Violet understood: it didn’t matter who birthed her. What mattered was who loved her, raised her, stood by her through thick and thin. Margaret was her real mother, the only mother she needed, and they shared this sun-drenched kitchen moment without needing another word. They cherished the quiet warmth and the familiar rhythm of shared toast and tea, finding comfort in the simple act of breakfast together while they still could.
