Valerie stood at the kitchen window, chewing stale bread and butter while watching the neighbour’s yard. The morning was grey and rainy, matching her mood these past weeks. A familiar figure appeared outside – Anne Bennett was walking towards the building carrying heavy shopping bags.
“Mum, your neighbour is struggling with her groceries again,” Valerie called into the room where Lillian Martin sat at the table, leafing through an old magazine. “Shall I help her?”
“How’s she my neighbour?” the woman grumbled without looking up. “She’s just another lady. She’s got a son, let him help.”
Valerie winced but stayed quiet. Lillian Martin had become quite prickly lately, like a hedgehog you shouldn’t touch. Once, she’d been the first to offer help to anyone in the building who was struggling.
“Her son works in Germany, you know,” Valerie said softly, pulling on her jacket. “I’m heading to the shops anyway; I’ll help her carry her bags.”
“Off you go then, Saint Valerie,” Lillian muttered. “Feel sorry for everyone else, forget about me.”
Valerie paused at the door, glancing back at the woman she’d called Mum for over forty years. Slight, with grey hair pulled into a tight bun, Lillian seemed especially small in her chair. The wrinkles on her face were deeper, and her hands trembled as she turned the pages.
“Can I get you anything?” Valerie asked gently.
“Don’t need a thing. Just go, since you’re set on it.”
On the landing, Valerie encountered Anne Bennett, breathing heavily as she stopped to rest.
“Anne, let me help you,” Valerie offered, taking one of the bags.
“Oh, thank you, dear!” Anne sighed with relief. “Seem to have no strength lately. Age, I suppose.”
They climbed slowly, stopping on every landing.
“And how is your Lillian?” Anne asked carefully. “Haven’t seen her around.”
“Oh, she has her good days and bad,” Valerie answered evasively. “Sometimes she feels quite well, sometimes worse.”
“I understand. My sister too…” Anne trailed off, but Valerie knew what she meant.
After helping take Anne’s bags to her flat, Valerie returned home. Lillian sat in the same chair, but no longer reading the magazine. She simply stared at a fixed point as if searching for something.
“Mum, shall I make us some tea?” Valerie suggested, taking off her jacket.
“Mum…” Lillian repeated, an odd note in her voice. “You call me Mum.”
Valerie froze. Something in her tone set alarm bells ringing.
“Well, yes, Mum. What else?”
“But I’m not your mum,” Lillian said quietly, turning her face towards her. “I’m nobody to you.”
Valerie felt everything inside her clench. There it was. The thing she’d feared these past months. What she’d avoided seeing when Lillian sometimes looked at her with confusion.
“What are you talking about, Mum?” Valerie sat beside her, taking her hand. “Of course you’re my mum. My real mum.”
“No,” Lillian shook her head stubbornly. “I remember now. Remember everything. You’re not my daughter. You… you’re a stranger.”
A lump formed in Valerie’s throat. She knew this day would come. The doctors warned the illness would progress, the memory fail more often. Still, she wasn’t prepared for Lillian to remember this specific truth.
“Mum, please listen,” Valerie began, keeping her 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…” Lillian frowned, as if trying to recall. “Yes, I raised you. They brought you… so little. You cried all the time, wouldn’t eat.”
“Yes, Mum. I was three.”
“Three…” Lillian echoed. “But where’s your real mother? Where is she?”
Valerie closed her eyes. This conversation was what she’d avoided her whole life. Lillian never shared the details, and Valerie never asked. She’d always had a mum who loved her; that was enough.
“I don’t know, Mum. You never told me.”
“Never told…” Lillian grew thoughtful. “Perhaps that was right. Nothing good in that story.”
Valerie waited, afraid to move. Lillian was silent a long time before speaking again.
“She was my friend. Your mother. Gwendolyn. We went to sixth form college together, then worked at the same factory. Beautiful, full of life. Men chased her like bees round a honeypot.”
Valerie listened, holding her breath. After forty years, she was learning about her birth mother.
“Married young, had you. But the husband was… a… bad sort. Drank, got violent. She left him, but where could she go with a child? Stayed with one friend, then another. Then she met another man, asked her to marry him, but didn’t want children.”
“And she gave me away?”
“Brought you to us. Said: ‘Lillian, help. Just for now, while I get sorted.’ But she…” Lillian paused, seeming reluctant to finish.
“What, Mum?”
“Went away with that man. Promised she’d be back for you in six months. She never came back.”
Valerie felt tears roll down her cheeks. She’d always suspected something like this, but hearing it was painful.
“And then?”
“Then I realised you were already my little girl. Stayed up nights when you were poorly. Taught you to walk, to talk. Your first word was ‘Mummy’, and you said it to me.” Lillian smiled through tears. “Remember how thrilled I was. Thought: there’s my daughter.”
“You always were my mum,” Valerie whispered, hugging her. “My only, my best mum.”
“Was…” Lillian repeated. “Now I’m becoming a stranger to you. The memory’s going, Valerie. I feel it slipping. I remember today, might forget you, even myself, tomorrow.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not, if it’s true?” Lillian pulled gently from the embrace, looking into her daughter’s eyes. “Listen carefully. While I still remember, I need to tell you something important.”
Valerie nodded, wiping her tears.
“I never once regretted taking you. Not once. Even when it was hard, when money was tight. You were the greatest happiness in my life. Understand?”
“I understand, Mum.”
“And if I forget you, if I call you a stranger, don’t be upset. That’s the illness talking, not me. In my heart, you’ll always be my daughter.”
Valerie couldn’t hold back; she sobbed aloud. Lillian stroked her hair, just like when she was little with scraped knees.
“Don’t cry, dear. We’ll carry on. Fight this rotten illness together.”
A few days passed. Lillian sometimes knew Valerie, sometimes looked at her with confusion. But most often, she knew. Valerie took leave from work, deciding to be near constantly.
One evening, as they sat having tea in the kitchen, Lillian suddenly asked:
“Did Gwendolyn ever come back? For her daughter?”
Valerie choked on her tea.
“Gwendolyn?”
“Yes, your mum. Promised she’d come back for you.”
“No, Mum. She never came.”
“Odd,” Lillian mused. “Perhaps it’s just as well. You’re mine now. Why would you need another mum?”
“I don’t need anyone but you,” Valerie said softly.
“That’s right. And I don’t need anyone but you.” Lillian reached across the table, and Valerie squeezed her hand. “
Valerie squeezed her hand across the tablecloth, the scent of fried eggs and tomatoes warm between them. Though the path ahead remained uncertain, filled with moments of clarity and confusion, the deep-rooted love binding mother and daughter was the one memory dementia could never truly erase.
