Your mothers red coat, I whispered, halflaughing, halfsobbing.
Is it hurting you, mum?
No, love, just go to bed.
I stared at her, disbelief curling in my chest. She was in paindeep, searing painthat seemed to pulse straight into me. At seventeen I truly believed I could give my life if it meant keeping hers alive.
Did you take your tablets? Would you like some peppermint tea, or perhaps just a glass of water? I can see youre not well.
My dear, you should be sleeping. Tomorrow you have two exams. Have you revised?
I brushed a damp strand of hair from her forehead. It was a lie born of love, a desperate attempt to shield a loved one from worry. I already knew the truth, and no amount of sweet words could deceive me. If I were five, I might have believed and calmed down, but the sight of her dimming eyes cut like a knife.
Right, I muttered, clenching my teeth so hard my lip turned white.
In the soft glow of the orange lampshade, her face seemed almost youthful; the fine lines around her eyes softened, her skin took on a warm, peachy hue, like autumn leaves. The ache nested somewhere left of her sternum, deep in the lower lung. Trying to look natural, I placed my palm over the quilt exactly where a tumor grew inside her, gnawing her from within. I thought about how our bodies are bundles of concentrated energy, all fashioned from the same matter that weaves the universe together.
I imagined the disease seeping into my hand as tiny glowing specks, climbing up my arm and settling in my chest. I would take it for myself, imprison it in a sturdy vault and never let it go. My mothers life was priceless, far beyond my own. No one on earth had a heart kinder, brighter, purer than hers.
She smiled gently, her eyes briefly clearing. I told myself that my strange, desperate method was finally working.
Whats next?
Alright, Im leaving. Good night, Mum.
And sweet dreams to you, my little bird.
She attended my graduation ball, fighting unimaginable pain. Adjusting the petals on my flower bracelet, she whispered, Dont look at me with such sorrow. Ill still be there at your wedding.
A month later she was gone. The world shrank to the size of a tennis ball, and I stood on it utterly alone. Cosmic winds tossed me through the hidden corners of existence. The home that had always sheltered me collapsed, its walls turning to dust scattered at every crossroads. For the first time I felt the chilling breath of hurricanes, tornadoes, and barren wastelandsplaces my mother had once shielded me from. The ruthless wind of early adulthood tried to knock me off balance at every tentative step, forcing me to stand firmer, think clearer, set solid goals, and never look back.
I enrolled at university in Oxford and moved to the county town. My father, John, still sent money and offered moral support, though he now had a new family. His wife, Barbara, wasnt thrilled that he continued to pay a substantial allowance for me on top of the child support he already gave. Still, his help was a lifeline, and I accepted it gratefully. I spent five years in a student hall, returning to the flat I had once shared with my mother only during winter holidays and brief summer breaks. In the summer I rented a room in town and picked up parttime work. All my classmates went home to their parents; I simply had nowhere else to go.
Even now, its hard to be in our house without her. Ive lined the shelves with her photographs, hung them in the hallway and kitchen. She watches me from every framealive, joyous, full of spark. It eases the loss a little, as if she never truly died, just moved to another city.
The presents she gave me over the years have become priceless. I sit on the sofa, surround myself with albums of us, and dial her number out of habit. The line rings, a sterile female voice says the subscriber cannot take your call and suggests trying later. I stare at the framed picture on my desk, the one of us together. In the albums I hunt for our likenesses, discovering new resemblances each time. I pop a cassette into the player: my mothers voice, laughing, singing, dancingalive and elegant, feminine, gentle. She was beautiful, and she will always be with me.
Do you remember, Mum, how after your divorce we cramped into a tiny room? You gave me two white rats, and they multiplied so fast we had to chase their litters from every crack and turn them over to the pet shop, giving away the ones they wouldnt take.
And the ginger street cat we rescued from a snarling tom? We saved a little ravenchick hed snatched. The chick grew, spread its wings, flew away, but sometimes slipped back through the window, bobbing its black head and croaking, Caw! Im here! and we fed it a crust of bread from our fingers.
Do you recall the day I tore a piece from that picture book of sweets because we couldt afford any? You bought us the most magnificent cake that night.
And the old wardrobe we emptied at Grandmas house, finding a tiny icon that hid a photo of us together? Granddad later said she prayed for us each evening.
You know, Mum, as an adult I still pass shop windows and think, She would love that. Yesterday I saw a sleek red coat in a display and instantly imagined you beaming with delight. You always adored red and clothes that highlighted the waist. Now I buy those things for you in my dreams, taking you on endless shopping trips, spoiling you with everything you never could have while you were alive.
Artist André Conan once wrote, You gave me so much, and you did it with boundless love; it lives inside me, reminding me that only your flesh has faded, while your spirit soars above the clouds, watching, guiding, giving me strength to live each new day. Sometimes the yearning to press my cheek to yours, to feel your scent and warmth, becomes overwhelming. In those moments I swear I see you clearlyyour face, smile, hair, hands, the silky, almost transparent scarf, even the faint trace of your perfume. I understand with sudden clarity that youre still here, your love still protecting me, helping me move forward. You were proud of me, even when there seemed no reason for pride, simply because I was your daughter.
Every weekend I remind my husband, Thomas:
Call your mother, ask how shes doing, make sure shes alright.
He wasnt used to that; for him family was something taken for granted, always nearby. When we visit his parents, I always bring gifts for his mother and persuade Thomas to present them on my behalf. She blushes, touched by the attention, unused to her adult sons care. It fills my heart with warmth. She became, in a way, another mother to me. When I finally asked her for advice about my lingering health worries, she erupted, Why didnt you tell me sooner? Why keep it hidden?
I didnt want to burden you.
What burden? Youre my daughter now, and Im yours. Your own mother may be gone, but Im here.
I wept remembering her words. After years of profound loneliness, I finally had someone I could callmum with a clean heart. I became her daughter, yet no one will ever call me my little bird again. And thats alright.
The word mum is shortfour letters, two of them the samebut within it lies the most fundamental meaning for any person. It reminds us that love endures beyond flesh, that the bonds we forge transcend time, and that caring for others keeps us rooted even when the world feels like a storm. In the end, we learn that the greatest strength comes not from holding on tightly, but from letting love continue to flow, nurturing those we cherish, and carrying their warmth forward.
