WITHOUT A HEART… Claudia Watson had just returned home. Despite her distinguished age—she had recently turned 68—she still enjoyed regular visits to her favourite hairdresser. Claudia liked to keep her hair and nails in order, believing these little indulgences lifted her spirits. “Claudia, some relative of yours stopped by,” her husband George told her as she entered. “I said you’d be home later. She promised she’d come back.” “What relative? I don’t have any left. Probably some distant cousin, here to ask for something. Should have just told her I’d moved to the ends of the earth,” Claudia grumbled. “Come on, no need to lie. She looked like she’s from your family—tall, dignified, reminds me of your dear mother. I don’t think she’s after anything. She was well-dressed, very refined,” George reassured his wife. Forty minutes later, the relative rang the doorbell. Claudia let her in herself. Indeed, the woman resembled her late mother, dressed in a luxurious coat, boots, gloves, and earrings with tiny diamonds—details Claudia would never miss. Claudia invited her to the dining table. “Let’s get acquainted then, if we’re family. I’m Claudia—no need for formalities. We seem close in age. This is my husband, George. So, what’s our connection?” The woman paused, blushing slightly. “I’m Helen… Helen Williams. There’s not much difference in our ages. I turned 50 on the 12th of June. Does that date mean anything to you?” Claudia turned pale. “I see you remember. Yes, I am your daughter. Don’t worry, I don’t want anything from you. I just wanted to finally meet my birth mother. I’ve lived my whole life not knowing why my mum didn’t love me. By the way, she’s been gone eight years now. Why did only my dad love me? He died just two months ago. It was only then he revealed the truth about you. He asked if you could possibly forgive him,” Helen said, trembling. George stared in shock. “You have a daughter?” “Apparently I do. I’ll explain everything,” Claudia replied. “So you’re the daughter? Well, you’ve seen me. If you think I’ll repent and ask forgiveness—no, I won’t. I’m not to blame here.” Claudia turned to Helen, “I hope your father explained everything? If you think you’ll awaken some maternal feelings in me—not at all. Sorry.” “May I visit again? I live nearby, in the suburbs. We’ve a big two-storey house. Why not come around with your husband? I brought photos of your grandson and great-granddaughter, maybe you’d like to see?” Helen asked timidly. “No. I don’t want to. Don’t come back. Forget about me. Goodbye,” Claudia replied harshly. George ordered Helen a taxi and saw her out. When he returned, Claudia had already cleared the table and was calmly watching TV. “What composure! You should’ve commanded armies—not a trace of soul! I always suspected you were ruthless, but not to this degree,” George remarked. “We met when I was 28, right? Well, dear husband, the soul was stomped out of me long before then. I was a village girl, always dreaming of the city, which is why I was top of my class and the only one to make it to university. There, I met Vince—twelve years my senior. I loved him madly and saw my meagre student life as a fairy tale compared to the poverty of my childhood. My stipend barely covered food, so I welcomed every invite to cafés and ice-cream shops. He promised me nothing, but I never doubted our love would lead to marriage. When he invited me to his cottage one night, I didn’t hesitate. I thought our relationship was permanent now. Soon, it became clear I was expecting his child. When I told Vince, he was overjoyed. With my condition soon to show, I asked when we’d marry. Now I was 18—old enough. “Did I promise marriage?” he replied. “No, and I won’t. I’m already married.” Calm as ever. “What about the baby? What about me?” “You’re young and healthy—statuesque. Take academic leave at university, and come live with us. My wife and I will take care of everything. We can’t have kids—maybe because she’s much older. Once you’ve had the baby, we’ll take it. The rest isn’t for you to worry about. I’m somebody at the city council, and my wife runs a hospital department. So the child will be fine. You’ll recover and go back to university, and we’ll pay you.” Back then, no one knew about surrogate motherhood. I was probably the only surrogate mother around. What was I to do—go back to my village and disgrace my family? I lived with them till the birth. Vince’s wife never spoke to me—maybe jealousy. I gave birth at home—midwife and all. Didn’t breastfeed; they took the baby at once, and I never saw her again. A week later, they gently ushered me out. Vince gave me money. Back to university, then to work at the factory. I got a room at a family hostel, started off as a junior supervisor, eventually rose up. I had many friends, but no one asked me to marry until you came along. By then I was 28. I didn’t particularly want marriage, but knew I needed it. The rest you know. We lived well, changed cars three times, house full of comforts, and a well-kept cottage. Holidays every year. The factory survived the ’90s because only our team produced vital tractor parts; no one else even knew the details. It’s still surrounded by barbed wire and guard towers. We retired comfortably. We’ve got everything. No children, and I don’t miss them. Have you seen the kids these days?” Claudia concluded her confession. George shook his head. “We didn’t live well at all. I loved you, spent my life trying to thaw your heart and failed. Sure, no kids, but you never even pitied a cat or dog! My sister asked you to help her niece, but you wouldn’t give her a week’s stay. Today, your daughter came—and how did you greet her? Your own child! I swear, if we were younger, I’d divorce you—too late now. It’s cold beside you, Claudia—so cold,” George protested. Claudia was taken aback; her husband had never spoken to her so sharply before. All her calm routine was shattered by this daughter. George moved into their cottage, living there ever since with three adopted dogs and countless cats. He visits the house rarely. Claudia knows he goes to Helen’s, adores their great-granddaughter, befriended the whole family. “Always soft-hearted. Let him live as he likes,” Claudia thinks. She has no desire to get to know Helen, her grandson, or her great-granddaughter. She travels to the seaside alone, enjoys her holidays, and feels wonderful.

WITHOUT A HEART…

Margaret Wilson had just got back home. Shed gone to the hairdressers, one of her little indulgences she kept up even at her respectable ageshed turned 68 not long ago, and she always made a point of treating herself to a spot of pampering. These simple routinesgetting her hair done, her nails sortedalways brought her spirits up and gave her a bit of a boost.

Margaret, you had some lady come bysaid she was a relative of yours, my husband, Peter, told me when I walked in. I said youd be in later; she said shed pop round again.

What sort of relative? I grumbled. Ive no relatives left. Must be some distant cousin, looking to get something. You should have just said Id moved up north and wasnt coming back.

Why lie? Peter replied, mildly disapproving. She did look like familytall, dignified, actually reminded me of your mother, God rest her soul. Dont think she came for a favour. She seemed respectable, dressed smartly.

About forty minutes later, the doorbell rang and my supposed relative was back. I let her in myself. She did, in fact, resemble my late mothervery well put together: expensive coat, boots, gloves, and diamond stud earrings, which I couldnt help but notice, knowing a thing or two about jewellery myself.

I invited her to the table, which Id already set for tea.

Right, introductions then, since were apparently family. Im Margaret. No need for formalitieswere close in age, I can see. Thats my husband, Peter. So, how are we related? I asked, intent on cutting straight to the matter.

She hesitated, even coloured a little. Im Elaine Elaine Robertson. Theres not much difference in age between us. I turned fifty on the 12th of June. Does that date mean anything to you?

I went pale.

I see you remember now. Yes, Im your daughter. Please, dont get upsetI dont want anything from you. I just had a need to see my birth mother, to understand why she never loved me. Mum died eight years ago. Why did only Dad love me? He passed away just two months back. It was only then he told me about you. He asked if you could forgive him, if youre able, Elaine told me, her voice trembling.

Peter, shocked, sputtered out, You had a daughter?

Apparently, yes. Ill explain everything to you later, I answered with a sigh.

So, youre my daughter? There you go, youve seen me. If you think Im going to beg forgiveness or start repenting, I wonttheres nothing to repent for. Im not at fault here, I told Elaine. I hope your father explained all of this to you. If you expect me to suddenly become maternal, youre mistaken. I cant do it, not even a fragment. Sorry.

Can I visit you again at least? I live out in Surrey with my family. Two-storey house, plenty of spaceyou and Peter can come. You might get used to the idea. I brought photos of your grandson and great-granddaughter, maybe youd like to see them? Elaine asked tentatively.

No. I dont want that. Please dont come again. Forget about me. Goodbye, I said, sharply.

Peter called her a cab and saw her out. By the time he came back, Id cleared the table and had settled down to watch the telly.

You really are something. You could command regiments, the way you carry yourself. Do you truly have no heart? Peter said. I suspected you were tough, but this is another level.

We met when I was twenty-eight, didnt we? I shot back. Well, let me tell you, dear husband, they took my soul and ground it underfoot long before I ever met you.

I was a village girl, always dreaming of the citythat hunger drove me to study hard and get into university, the only one in my year to do so.

At seventeen, I met Robert. Madly fell for himhe was nearly twelve years older, but I didnt care. After a poor childhood, the city seemed magical. My student grant hardly covered anything, and I was always hungry, so I cherished every chance to go to the café with him, or for ice cream.

He never promised me anything, but I was sure that since we loved each other, marriage was only a matter of time.

One evening, he invited me to his cottage outside town. I agreed without thinking, convinced that now, after all this, he was bound to me for good. These dinners at the cottage became regular. Eventually, it was obvious I was pregnant.

I broke the news to Robert. He was delighted. Knowing it would be impossible to hide my condition for long, I asked when wed marryId just turned eighteen, old enough to wed.

Did I ever promise to marry you? he replied, answering my question with another.

I didnt. I wont marry you. Im already married, he continued, still calm.

But what about the baby? What about me?

Youre young. Youre healthy. Anyone could sculpt a statue of you. Just take academic leave. Carry on with your studies till it shows, and then youll come stay with us. My wife and I will take care of you. Weve not managed to have children. Shes older than me. When you give birth, well take the child. How its all sorted isnt your concern. Im not nobodyIm well connected at the city council. My wife runs a department at the local hospital. So dont worry about your baby. After youve recovered, go back to university. Well even pay you for your trouble.

Back then, no one had heard of surrogacy. I suppose I was the first, though I never planned it. What else could I do? Go home and disgrace my family?

Until I gave birth, I lived with Robert and his wife in their big house. She never came near meperhaps out of jealousy. I had the baby at home, with the midwife there. Everything was proper. I didnt nurse my daughter; she was taken away immediately. I never saw her again. A week later, I was discretely sent off. Robert gave me money.

I went back to university. After that, got a job at the factory. They gave me a room in the workers hostel. Started out as a junior, then ended up chief supervisor.

I had lots of friends, but never marrieduntil you appeared. By then I was twenty-eight, and though I hadnt wanted marriage, it seemed necessary.

The rest you know. Weve had a comfortable life, swapped cars three times, house always full, garden looked after. Holidays every year. Our factory survived the nineties because the tractor parts we made were unique. The whole place is still fenced off with barbed wire and guard towers.

We got early retirement. We have everything. No children, and thats just fine. When I see what children are like these days I finished.

We havent lived well together, Peter retorted. I did love you and tried my whole life to thaw your heart. Never managed. Alright, we didnt have children, but you never showed any tendernessnot even for a kitten or puppy. My sister needed help for her daughter, but you wouldnt let them stay the week.

Today your daughter came to youand how did you greet her? Your daughter! Flesh and blood, and you Honestly, if we were younger, Id think of divorce, but its too late now. Its cold beside you, Margaret, really cold, said Peter, sadly.

I was a bit alarmed; hed never spoken to me so harshly before.

That single visit from my daughter disrupted my peaceful life.

Peter moved out to our country cottage. Hes lived there ever since. At the cottage, hes got three dogs he rescued, and countless stray cats.

He comes home rarely now. I know he visits Elaine and her familyhes met all of them, absolutely adores the great-granddaughter.

Soft-hearted, always was, I think to myself. Let him live however he wants.

I still havent found even a whisper of desire to get to know my daughter or her family.

I holiday alone by the sea, relax and recharge, and Ive never felt better.

Looking back, I suppose my warning to others would be: your heart cant take back what lifes already taken away. You can move on and carve out comfort, but you may find warmth doesnt always returnnot even at home.