Eleanor lingered by the kitchen window, nibbling dry toast while watching the neighbour’s garden. It was a grey, drizzly morning, matching the heavy feeling she’d carried lately. Outside, a familiar figure caught her eye – Mrs. Goodwin was struggling towards their building with heavy shopping bags.
“Mum, Mrs. Goodwin’s lugging her shopping all alone again,” Eleanor called into the living room where Martha Wilson sat flipping through an old magazine. “Should I help?”
“What’s she to me?” Martha mumbled without looking up. “Just some woman. She’s got a son, he should help.”
Eleanor winced but stayed quiet. Lately, Martha had become prickly as a hedgehog, easily startled. Hard to believe she used to be the first to jump in whenever anyone in the block needed a hand.
“Her son’s working in Germany now, you know,” Eleanor said softly, pulling on her coat. “I’m just popping to the shop anyway, might as well help her with the bags.”
“Go on then, Saint Eleanor,” Martha grumbled. “Worry about everyone else, forget about me.”
Eleanor paused in the doorway, turning to look at the woman she’d called Mum for over forty years. Small and thin, her grey hair in a tight bun, Martha seemed especially fragile in that armchair. The lines on her face were deeper, her hands shaking slightly as she turned the pages.
“Anything I can get for you?” Eleanor asked gently.
“Don’t need a thing. Off you go.”
On the landing, Eleanor collided with Mrs. Goodwin, who was leaning against the wall, catching her breath.
“Mrs. Goodwin, let me help,” Eleanor offered, taking one of the heavy bags.
“Oh, bless you, love!” Mrs. Goodwin sighed with relief. “Don’t seem to have the strength I used to. Getting on, I suppose.”
They climbed slowly, stopping on each landing for breath.
“How’s your Martha these days?” Mrs. Goodwin ventured carefully. “Haven’t seen hide nor hair of her.”
“Oh, up and down,” Eleanor replied vaguely. “Some days are good, some days… less so.”
“Ah, yes. I know. My sister…” Mrs. Goodwin trailed off, but Eleanor understood.
After helping carry the bags up, Eleanor went back home. Martha was in the same chair but no longer reading the magazine. She was just staring into space, as if searching for something.
“Mum, fancy a cuppa?” Eleanor suggested, taking off her coat.
“Mum…” Martha repeated, her voice holding a strange note. “You call me Mum.”
Eleanor froze. Something in her tone sent a chill through her.
“Well, yes, Mum. What else?”
“But I’m not your mum,” Martha said quietly, turning to face her. “I’m nobody to you.”
Eleanor felt her chest tighten. Here it was. The thing she’d been dreading for months. The thing she’d looked away from whenever Martha’s gaze held confusion.
“What are you on about, Mum?” Eleanor knelt beside the chair, taking Martha’s hand. “Course you’re my mum. My real mum.”
“No,” Martha shook her head stubbornly. “I remember now. I remember it all. You’re not my daughter. You… you’re a stranger.”
A lump formed in Eleanor’s throat. She knew this day would come. The doctors warned her the illness would get worse, that Martha’s memory would falter more often. But she wasn’t ready for Martha to remember *this*.
“Mum, listen to me,” Eleanor began, 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 you…” Martha frowned, as if trying to recall. “Yes. Raised you. They brought you… tiny little thing. Cried all the time, wouldn’t eat.”
“Yes, Mum. I was about three.”
“Three…” Martha repeated. “So where is she? Your real mum? Where is she?”
Eleanor closed her eyes. This was the conversation she’d avoided her whole life. Martha had never told the details, and Eleanor hadn’t asked. Knowing she had a mum who loved her was enough.
“I don’t know, Mum. You never said.”
“Never said…” Martha went quiet, thoughtful. “Maybe for the best. Nothing good in that story.”
Eleanor waited, scared to move. Martha was silent for a long time, then suddenly spoke.
“She was my friend. Your mother. Gillian, her name was. We went to college together, then worked at the same factory. Lovely girl, full of life. Men buzzed around her like wasps round jam.”
Eleanor listened, holding her breath. After forty years, she was finally hearing about her mother.
“Married young, had you. But the bloke… he was a wrong ‘un. Drank, rowd. She left ‘im, but where could she go with a baby? Couch-surfed with friends. Then she met another fella. Wanted to marry ‘im, but he didn’t want kids.”
“So she gave me away?”
“Brought you to me. Said, ‘Martha, help. Just for a bit, ’til I get sorted.’ But she…” Martha trailed off, hesitating.
“What, Mum?”
“Went off with that man. Said she’d be back for you in six months. Never came back.”
Eleanor felt hot tears spill down her cheeks. She’d always suspected something like that, but hearing it was a fresh ache.
“Then what?”
“Then I realised you were my girl. Sat up nights when you were poorly. Taught you to walk, talk. Your first word was ‘Mama’, and you said it to me.” Martha smiled, tears welling too. “I remember being chuffed to bits. Thought, ‘This is my daughter.'”
“You always were my Mum,” Eleanor whispered, hugging her. “The only one, and the best.”
“Was…” Martha echoed. “Now I’m a stranger. My mind’s going, Eleanor. I feel it slipping. I remember today, tomorrow I might forget you. Forget me.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s true, isn’t it?” Martha pulled back slightly, looking Eleanor in the eye. “Listen to me while I still can. While I still remember, this is important.”
Eleanor nodded, wiping her tears.
“I never regretted taking you. Not once. Not when things were tight, not when money was scarce. You were the biggest blessing in my life. Understand?”
“I understand, Mum.”
“And if I forget you… if I say you’re a stranger, don’t take it to heart. That’s the illness talking, not me. You’ll always be my girl in here.” Martha touched her chest over her heart.
Eleanor couldn’t hold back her sobs. Martha stroked her hair, just like she did when Eleanor fell off her bike and scraped her knees as a kid.
“Don’t cry, love. We’ve got life in us yet. We’ll keep fighting this blinking illness.”
Days passed. Sometimes Martha recognised Eleanor; sometimes she’d look at her with confusion. But more often, she knew her. Eleanor took leave from work, determined to stay close.
One evening, sharing tea in the kitchen, Martha suddenly asked:
“Did she ever come back? For her daughter?”
Eleanor choked on her tea. “Gillian?”
“Yes. Your mother. Said she’d come back for you.”
“No, Mum. She never came.”
“St
Valerie leaned back in her chair, the warm, familiar sizzle of the eggs fading as Jean placed the worn, comforting frying pan back on the cooker, the simple clunk a quiet testament to their enduring, unspoken bond forged through decades of everyday love and unwavering support.
