“You’re Still My Mother”
“Mum, did you ever want to be an artist too?”
Emily sat at the kitchen table, gripping a delicate paintbrush. On the watercolour sheet before her, an unsteady yet tender lilac branch took shape—the violet strokes trembling as if afraid to bleed.
“I did,” smiled Natalie, standing by the stove. “But I was nine, and I decided becoming a doctor to save lives was better.”
“And then you changed your mind?”
Natalie reached for the teapot, avoiding her daughter’s gaze. These conversations always unnerved her. Too much lay beneath them—old dreams, abandoned hopes, choices made with reason, not heart.
“Yes. Life had other plans.”
When Natalie adopted Emily, she was thirty-three. By then, she had weathered infertility, a divorce that hollowed her, and endless well-meant advice: “Move on,” “Try again,” “Just adopt.” She hadn’t wanted to—not out of selfishness, but fear. Did she have enough love to give? Then, at the orphanage, she saw Emily: a thin girl with braids, sketching flowers in a corner. When Emily looked up, her eyes held a grown-up sorrow that pierced Natalie’s chest. A year later, Emily called her “Mum.”
Now Emily was ten. She attended the local school where Natalie taught literature. Colleagues and parents admired Natalie—“the teacher who adopted that girl from the home”—but she sought no praise. Her only wish was to give Emily a life untouched by the past.
“Mrs. Whitmore, if you want Emily considered for our academy, you’ll need to complete the forms. Including her birth certificate.” The woman in the admissions office adjusted her glasses, stern but not unkind.
“Of course,” Natalie nodded, steadying her voice. “We’ll have everything ready.”
She’d prepared meticulously. Emily’s new surname—hers—was inscribed without hint of adoption. Not that it was secret, but Natalie refused to let Emily’s past invite pity or questions. She knew how cruel children could be, how a single word could cut deeper than imagined.
That evening, they baked an apple pie. Emily peeled the fruit with an artist’s focus, thin curls of skin spiraling into the bowl, sugar sprinkled as though measured for a spell.
“Mum, does the new school have an art club?”
“Yes. A fine one. And drama. And a swimming pool.”
“What if they don’t take me?”
Natalie studied her daughter. Emily didn’t look up, but her fingers stilled over the bowl.
“They will, love. We’ll see to it.”
The call came on a Saturday morning. Natalie stepped into the garden for privacy—the flat made every sound too loud. The voice on the line was a woman’s, muffled, as if strained through years.
“Is this Natalie? I’m… Emily’s mother.”
The world narrowed. Natalie gripped the porch railing, noticing everything: a speck on her coat, a crack in the pavement, her own breath turning leaden.
“What do you want?”
“I… I’m not asking for anything. I just wondered how she is. Could I… see her, even from afar?”
“She doesn’t remember you.” Natalie’s voice was harder than she felt. “She has a new life. Don’t ruin it.”
“I understand. I’m sorry.”
A dial tone.
Back inside, Natalie didn’t notice Emily at first, standing by the stairs. The girl was silent, but her eyes were watchful, like a kitten hearing an unfamiliar sound.
“Who was that?”
“Wrong number,” Natalie lied, the words like grit in her throat. “Come, breakfast is ready.”
Days later, Natalie was summoned to school. Emily had struck a classmate—utterly unlike her. In the staff room, Natalie faced the teacher while Emily waited outside.
“She hit a boy,” the teacher said, adjusting her glasses. “Claims he insulted her.”
“How?” Natalie’s grip tightened on her bag.
“She’ll tell you. But Mrs. Whitmore, you know… children repeat what they hear at home.”
Emily sat on a hallway chair, staring at the floor. When Natalie approached, the girl whispered:
“He said I didn’t have a real family. That I wasn’t ‘his sort.’ And… that you’re not my mum.”
“Who told him that?!”
“I don’t know. But he knew.”
That night, Natalie lay awake, staring at the ceiling. For the first time, her lie felt like a hairline crack in glass—invisible until pressure split it wide. She remembered Emily’s first “Mum,” their wobbly bicycle lessons, the tears in the early days. She’d wanted to shield her, but truth, it seemed, was stronger.
The next day, the woman called again. Her name was Helen. She asked to meet. Natalie hesitated, but exhaustion—or perhaps intuition—made her agree.
“Come. No scenes. And don’t approach Emily.”
They met in the park by an old lime-tree avenue. Helen was younger than Natalie expected—maybe thirty, with tired eyes and a frayed scarf clutched in restless hands.
“I’ve no right… but back then, I was alone. Terrified. No one told me there were choices. I spent three years in a shelter. I’ve changed. I work, I don’t drink. But… I dream of her. I thought, just once, from a distance…”
“And then what? Say, ‘Hello, I left you, but now I want cuddles’?” The words escaped before Natalie could soften them.
“No. Just to see. That’s all.”
Natalie studied her—not an enemy, but another woman carrying the past’s weight. Then, without quite knowing why, she said:
“Tomorrow. Four o’clock. By the school bench. I’ll walk past with her. Don’t speak. Just… look.”
Helen nodded, guilty as a scolded child, and Natalie felt an unexpected pang of pity.
On their way home, Emily stopped suddenly.
“Mum… did I have another mother? A real one?”
Natalie’s heart raced, but she sat on the doorstep bench.
“Love… I didn’t mean to deceive you. I thought you were too young.”
“I’m not cross. But I need to know. Because sometimes kids say odd things, and I don’t know what’s true.”
“Shall I tell you everything?”
“Yes.”
They sat there a long while. Natalie spoke without blame—how Emily came into her life, how her birth mother couldn’t care for her but now, perhaps, regretted it. Emily fiddled with her coat sleeve, then asked:
“Is she… nice?”
“I don’t know. I think she’s trying.”
“Can I see her too?”
Natalie squeezed her daughter’s warm hand.
“If you truly want to.”
The meeting lasted minutes. Helen lingered by the school like a woman waiting for a bus. Emily walked beside Natalie, quiet but keen-eyed. Then, suddenly, she let go and approached the bench.
Natalie froze, wanting to call her back but rooted to the spot. Emily stood before Helen and said:
“I’m Emily. I paint lilacs. I like pies. And my mum’s right there. You… can look. But not for long.” Then she walked back.
Helen’s shoulders shook. Natalie sat beside her, and after a silence, said:
“She’s wiser than both of us.”
Helen wiped her tears. “Everything for Emily. Just for her.” Then she left without turning.
At home, Emily painted a new lilac branch, her strokes surer, the violet even.
“Mum… you’re not cross?”
“About what?”
“That I spoke to her.”
“No. I’m proud.”
Emily nodded, then, without looking up, said:
“Shall we bake a pie?”
Natalie smiled, warmth spreading through her.
“We shall, love. We shall.”
