The grey light filtering through the kitchen window matched my mood perfectly. I stood there, chewing on a piece of dry toast, watching Mrs. Henderson struggle up the path next door with heavy shopping bags. The rain drizzled steadily.
“Mum?” I called into the sitting room. “Mrs. Henderson’s back with her shopping. Looks like a lot. Should I help?”
“That woman? Hardly my neighbour,” came Mum’s voice, tight and dismissive. She didn’t look up from the old magazine spread on the table before her. “She has a son. Let him help.”
I flinched but stayed silent. Mum had become increasingly prickly lately, like a hedgehog you daren’t touch. Once, she was the first to offer help to anyone in the street who needed it.
“Her son works in Germany, Mum, you know that,” I replied quietly, grabbing my coat. “I’m popping to the shop anyway. I’ll help her in.”
“Go on then, Saint Valerie,” she muttered. “Always worrying about others. Forget me.”
Pausing at the door, I looked back at the woman I’d called Mum for over forty years. Slim, hair silver-grey and pulled tight in a bun, she seemed shrunken in her armchair by the bay window lately. Her wrinkles seemed deeper; her hands trembled slightly turning the pages.
“Do you need anything?” I asked gently.
“Nothing. Off you go.”
On the landing, I found Mrs. Henderson catching her breath, laden with bags.
“Oh, Valerie! Thank you, pet!” She sighed with relief as I took one. “Just don’t have the strength I used to. Age, I suppose.”
We climbed slowly, stopping at each landing.
“How’s your Margaret?” Mrs. Henderson asked carefully. “Haven’t seen her out much.”
“Up and down,” I evaded. “Some days good, some not so.”
“Ah. My sister was the same…” She trailed off, but I understood.
I helped her to her door then came home. Mum sat in the same chair, but the magazine lay forgotten. She stared blankly at the wall, as if searching for something.
“Mum, fancy a cuppa?” I offered, hanging my coat.
“Mum…” she repeated, her voice strangely distant. “You call me Mum.”
I froze. That tone was unsettling.
“Well, yes, Mum. What else?”
“But I’m not, am I?” she said softly, turning to face me. Her eyes were clearer than they’d been in weeks. “I’m nothing to you.”
My stomach clenched. This. The moment I’d dreaded for months. The thing I turned away from every time confusion flickered in her gaze.
“What are you saying?” I knelt beside her, taking her frail hand. “Of course you’re my mum. The realest ever.”
“No,” she insisted, shaking her head firmly. “I remember now. I remember it all. You’re not my daughter. You’re… a stranger.”
A lump rose in my throat. The doctors warned this day would come. The illness would progress; memory would falter. But I wasn’t ready for her to remember *this*.
“Mum, listen,” I began, forcing my voice steady. “You’re right. You didn’t give birth to me. But you raised me. You loved me. You *are* my mum.”
“Raised you…” she frowned, concentrating. “Yes. They brought you… little thing. Cried so much. Wouldn’t eat.”
“Yes, Mum. I was three.”
“Three…” she echoed. “Where is she? Your real mother? Where?”
I closed my eyes. This conversation. Avoided my entire life. Margaret never offered details; I never asked. Her love was enough.
“I don’t know, Mum. You never told me.”
“Didn’t tell…” she pondered. “Perhaps rightly so. Nothing good in that tale.”
I waited, barely breathing. Mum was silent a long moment, then spoke slowly.
“She was my friend. My best friend, actually. Your mother. Gwen. We met at community college, worked at the same factory afterwards. She was stunning. Lively. Men buzzed round her like bees round honey.”
I listened, rapt. Forty years, and I was finally hearing about Gwen.
“Married young. Had you. But her husband… was a brute. Drank, hit her. She left him, but with a baby? Flitted between friends’ places. Then she met another man. He wanted her, but not the child.”
“So she gave me away?”
“Brought you to us. Said, ‘Maggie, help me. Just while I get sorted.’ But she…” Mum trailed off, hesitant.
“What, Mum?”
“Went off with him. Promised she’d be back for you in six months. Never returned.”
Tears slid down my cheeks then. I’d always suspected something like it, but hearing it was a raw pain.
“And then?”
“Then I realised you were already my daughter. Stayed up nights when you were poorly. Taught you to walk, to talk. Your first word was ‘Mum’, and you pointed right at me.” A teary smile touched her lips. “Remember how chuffed I was? Thought, ‘That’s my girl.'”
“You’ve always been my mum,” I whispered, embracing her thin shoulders. “The only one, and the best.”
“Was…” she murmured into my hair. “Now I’m a stranger to you. It’s going, Valerie. My mind. I feel it slipping. Today I remember; tomorrow… I might forget you. Forget me.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not? If it’s true?” She pulled back, looking straight into my eyes. Her grip on my hand was surprisingly strong. “Listen carefully. While I still remember… I need to tell you.”
I nodded, wiping my tears.
“I never regretted taking you. Not once. Not through the hard times, not when money was tight. You were the greatest joy of my life. Understand?”
“I understand, Mum.”
“And if I forget you… if I say you’re a stranger… don’t be hurt. It’s the illness talking, not me. In here,” she tapped her chest, “you’ll always be my girl.”
I couldn’t hold back the sobs then. Mum stroked my hair, just like when I was small with grazed knees.
“Don’t cry, pet. We’ve got life in us yet. We’ll fight this rotten thing.”
The days that followed blurred. Some moments she knew me; others, confusion clouded her gaze. But she knew me more often than not. I took leave from work, determined to be there.
One evening, sharing tea at the small kitchen table, Mum suddenly asked, “Did Gwen ever come? For her girl?”
I choked on my tea.
“Gwen?”
“Yes, your mother. Promised she’d come back for you.”
“No, Mum. She never did.”
“Odd,” Mum murmured thoughtfully. “Perhaps it’s better. You were mine already. Why would you need her?”
“I only ever needed you,” I said softly.
“Right. And I only ever needed you.” Mum reached across the chipped Formica, and I grasped her trembling hand. “We’re a family. A proper family.”
I nodded, blinking back fresh tears. Yes
She looked at her mother’s loving eyes, weathered by time but still shining with devotion, and knew their bond would endure whatever challenges lay ahead.
