Valerie stood by the kitchen window, chewing on stale bread and butter while watching the neighbour’s garden. The morning was grey and rainy, matching her low spirits these past weeks. A familiar shape moved beyond the glass—Eleanor was trudging towards the building entrance, weighed down by heavy shopping bags.
“Mum, your neighbour’s struggling with her groceries again,” Valerie called into the living room, where Margaret Smith sat flipping through a dated magazine. “Should I lend a hand?”
“What neighbour?” Margaret muttered without looking up. “She’s just some stranger. Let her son help.”
Valerie frowned but stayed silent. Lately, Margaret had turned prickly as a hedgehog, touchy and defensive. It stung, remembering how readily she’d once rushed to help anyone in the building feeling poorly.
“Her son’s working in France, you know,” Valerie said softly, pulling on her jacket. “I’ll pop to the shop and help carry her bags.”
“Off you go then, Saint Valerie,” Margaret grumbled. “Always fretting over others while I’m forgotten.”
Valerie paused in the doorway, turning to study the woman she’d called Mum for over forty years. Thin, with silver hair scraped into a tight bun, Margaret looked especially small in her armchair. Her wrinkles seemed deeper now; her hands trembled as she turned magazine pages.
“Anything I can bring you?” Valerie asked gently.
“Not a thing. Get going, if you’re set on it.”
On the landing, Valerie found Eleanor catching her breath.
“Eleanor, let me help,” Valerie offered, taking one bag.
“Oh, bless you, love!” Eleanor sighed gratefully. “Seem to run out of steam lately. Age creeping up, I suppose.”
They climbed slowly, pausing on each floor.
“How’s your Margaret?” Eleanor ventured cautiously. “Hardly seen her about.”
“Up and down,” Valerie replied vaguely. “Some days better, some days rough.”
“Know what you mean. My sister…” Eleanor trailed off, but Valerie understood.
After helping unload the groceries, Valerie returned home. Margaret sat in the same chair, the magazine abandoned. She stared blankly ahead like she was puzzling something out.
“Mum, fancy some tea?” Valerie asked, hanging up her jacket.
“Mum…” Margaret repeated, an odd edge to her voice. “You call me Mum.”
Valerie froze. That tone set alarm bells ringing.
“Well, yes, Mum. What else?”
“But I’m not your mother,” Margaret said quietly, turning to face her. “I’m nothing to you.”
Valerie felt her insides clench. This was it—the moment she’d dreaded for months, avoiding the confusion in Margaret’s eyes.
“What’re you saying, Mum?” Valerie crouched beside her, clasping her hand. “You’re my mother. Truly you are.”
“No,” Margaret insisted stubbornly, shaking her head. “I remember now. Remember everything. You’re not my daughter. You’re… you’re a stranger.”
A lump rose in Valerie’s throat. She’d known this day would come. Doctors warned the illness would worsen, memories failing more often. But she hadn’t braced for Margaret recalling this.
“Mum, listen to me,” Valerie began, steadying her voice. “You’re right. You didn’t birth me. But you raised me. Loved me. To me, you are my mum.”
“Raised you…” Margaret frowned as if sifting through fog. “Yes, raised you. You arrived… such a tiny thing. Cried constantly, refused to eat.”
“That’s right, Mum. I was three.”
“Three…” Margaret echoed. “But where’s your real mother? Where is she?”
Valerie closed her eyes. She’d dodged this talk her whole life. Margaret never shared details, and Valerie never asked. She’d had Mum’s love; that was enough.
“I don’t know, Mum. You never told me.”
“Never told you…” Margaret grew thoughtful. “Maybe rightly so. Nothing good in that tale.”
Valerie waited, scarcely breathing. Margaret stayed silent a long while, then spoke abruptly:
“She was my friend. Your mother. Gillian, her name was. We studied at college together, then worked the same factory. Lovely girl, full of life. Men buzzed round her like bees round jam.”
Valerie listened, holding her breath. After forty years, she was learning about her birth mother.
“Married young, had you. But her husband was… a rotter. Drank, hit her. She left him, but where’s a woman with a child to go? Floated between friends’ sofas. Then she met another chap—he wanted marriage, but not kids.”
“And she gave me away?”
“Brought you to us. Said: ‘Mags, help me. Just till I find my feet.’ But
Evelyn watched sunlight catch the steam rising from Dorothy’s teacup, holding this perfect moment like a sudden ray of sunshine that broke through the clouds.
