The woman I called Mother
Margaret stood by the kitchen window, chewing dry toast and butter, gazing at the neighbour’s garden. It was a grey, drizzly morning, matching her low spirits these past weeks. Beyond the glass, a familiar figure flashed past—Florrie Jenkins struggled towards the flats, arms laden with heavy shopping bags.
“Mum, your neighbour’s managing those bags all alone again,” Valerie called into the sitting room where Margaret sat leafing through an old magazine at the table. “Shall I help?”
“What neighbour?” the woman muttered without looking up. “That stranger? She has a son; let him help.”
Valerie winced but stayed silent. Lately, Margaret had become especially prickly, like a hedgehog best not touched. Yet, once, she’d been first to lend a hand whenever anyone in the block struggled.
“Her son works in Canada; you know that,” Valerie said softly, pulling on her coat. “I’m popping to the shops. I’ll help her with the bags.”
“Go on then, Saint Valerie,” Margaret grumbled. “Always caring for others, forgetting about me.”
Valerie paused in the doorway, looking back at the woman she’d called Mum for over forty years. Thin, with silver-grey hair pulled into a tight knot, Margaret seemed suddenly tiny in her armchair. The lines on her face were deeper, her hands trembled as she turned a page.
“Can I bring you anything?” Valerie asked gently.
“Don’t need a thing. Be off with you.”
On the landing, Valerie met Florrie Jenkins, catching her breath by the stairs.
“Mrs. Jenkins, let me help,” Valerie offered, taking one of the heavy bags.
“Oh, bless you, dear!” Florrie sighed in relief. “My strength isn’t what it was lately. Age creeping up, I expect.”
They climbed slowly, pausing on each landing.
“How’s your Margaret?” Florrie enquired cautiously. “Not seen her about for ages.”
“Oh, some days better than others,” Valerie replied evasively. “Ups and downs, you know.”
“I do, dear, I do. My sister, rest her soul…” Florrie trailed off, but Valerie understood.
Valerie helped carry the bags to Florrie’s door, then returned home. Margaret sat in the same chair, but wasn’t reading. She stared blankly ahead, as if searching the air.
“Mum, shall I put the kettle on?” Valerie suggested, removing her coat.
“Mum…” Margaret repeated, and her voice held a strange note. “You call me Mum.”
Valerie froze. Something in her tone was unnerving.
“Yes, Mum. What else would I call you?”
“I’m not your mother, though,” Margaret said quietly, turning to face her. “I’m no relation to you.”
Valerie felt her insides clench. Here it was. What she’d dreaded for months. What she’d avoided whenever Margaret looked at her with uncomprehending eyes.
“What are you saying, Mum?” Valerie crouched beside her, taking her hand. “You are my mother. My real mother.”
“No,” Margaret shook her head stubbornly. “I remember now. I remember it all. You aren’t my girl. You… you’re a stranger.”
A lump formed in Valerie’s throat. She knew this day would come. The doctors had warned the illness would worsen, that her memory would fail more often. But she wasn’t prepared for Margaret recalling *this*.
“Mum, listen to me,” Valerie 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 mother.”
“Raised you…” Margaret frowned, wrestling with the thought. “Yes. Raised you. You were brought… such a little mite. You cried and cried, wouldn’t eat.”
“That’s right, Mum. I was three.”
“Three…” Margaret echoed. “Where is your real mother? Where is she?”
Valerie closed her eyes. This was the conversation she’d avoided all her life. Margaret had never shared the details; Valerie had never asked. Knowing she had a mother who loved her was enough.
“I don’t know, Mum. You never told me.”
“Never told you…” Margaret seemed lost in thought. “Perhaps best. Nothing good in that story.”
Valerie waited, scarcely breathing. Margaret stayed silent a long while, then spoke suddenly.
“She was my friend. Your mother. Gillian was her name. We met at technical college, then worked at the same factory. Lovely girl, full of life. Lads buzzed round her like bees round jam.”
Valerie listened, scarcely breathing. After forty years, she was learning about her birth mother.
“Married young. Had you. But her husband… was a brute. Drank, was violent. She left him, but where to go with a child? Floated between friends’ places. Then she met another man. He wanted to marry her, but no children.”
“And she… left me?”
“Brought you to us. Said, ‘Maggie, help me. Just till I get sorted.’ But she…” Margaret hesitated, unable to continue.
“What happened, Mum?”
“Went off with that man. Promised to come back for you in six months.” Margaret stopped, unwilling to finish.
“She never came back?”
Margaret shook her head. “Not a word. Not ever.”
Tears rolled silently down Valerie’s cheeks. She’d always suspected, but hearing it was raw pain.
“And then?”
“And then… I knew you were my daughter. Sat up nights when you were poorly. Taught you to walk, to talk. Your first word was ‘Mama’, and you called *me* that.” Margaret smiled through tears. “I remember how overjoyed I was. Thought: here she is, my girl.”
“You’ve always been my mother,” Valerie whispered, embracing her. “My only, my best.”
“Was…” Margaret repeated. “Now I seem a stranger to you. My mind is slipping, Val. I feel it going. Today I remember, tomorrow I might forget you, forget myself.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not, when it’s true?” Margaret pulled back, looked into her daughter’s eyes. “Listen carefully. While I still remember, I want to say something important.”
Valerie nodded, wiping her eyes.
“I never regretted taking you in. Not once. Not even when it was hard, when money was tight. You were the greatest joy in my life. Understand?”
“Yes, Mum.”
“And if I forget you… if I say you’re a stranger, don’t take offence. It’s the illness talking, not me. In my heart, you’ll always be my girl.”
Valerie broke down, sobbing. Margaret stroked her head, just as she had when Valerie came home with scraped knees as a child.
“Don’t cry, love. We’ll manage yet. Fight this wretched thing.”
Several days passed. Sometimes Margaret knew Valerie; other times she looked at her with puzzlement. Mostly, she knew. Valerie took leave from work to be with her constantly.
One evening, as they shared tea in the kitchen, Margaret asked suddenly:
“Did Gillian ever come back? For her daughter?”
Valerie choked on her tea.
“Gillian?”
“Yes, your mother. She promised to come back for you.”
“No, Mum. She never came.”
“Strange,” Margaret mused. “Perhaps for the best, though. You were mine by then. Why would you need another mother?”
“I need no one but you,” Valerie said softly.
“Right. And I need no one but you.” Margaret reached across the table. Valerie clasped her hand. “We’re family. A proper family.”
Valerie nodded, fighting fresh tears. Yes, they were family. Not by blood, perhaps, but truly. And no illness could change that.
The next morning, Margaret rose early and began breakfast. Valerie woke to the smell of eggs frying, surprised – Mum hadn’t cooked properly in ages.
“Morning,” Valerie said, entering the kitchen.
“Morning, love,” Margaret replied, her voice free of doubt. “Sit down. Made your favourite – eggs and soldiers, with grilled tomatoes.”
Valerie sat, her heart full
Looking out at the dreary London street, the weight of decades settled gently around them in the quiet kitchen, cemented by the simple, unwavering acts of care passing from mother to daughter and back again, proof against time itself.
