Violet was at the kitchen window, chewing stale toast with marmalade while peering out at the neighbour’s garden. It was a grey, rainy morning, matching her mood these past few weeks. Through the glass, she caught sight of a familiar figure – Edith Burns trudging towards the flats, weighed down by heavy shopping bags.
“Mum, it’s your neighbour struggling with her shopping again,” Violet called into the living room, where Margaret Miller sat leafing through an old magazine. “Shall I pop out and help?”
“Why call her my neighbour?” Margaret muttered without looking up. “She’s a stranger. She’s got a son, let him help.”
Violet winced but stayed quiet. Margaret had become prickly lately, like a hedgehog you shouldn’t touch. It felt strange, remembering how she used to be the first to offer help to anyone in the building having a hard time.
“Her son works in Germany, Mum, you know that,” Violet said softly, pulling on her jacket. “I’m just nipping to the shops anyway. I’ll give her a hand with the bags.”
“Off you go then, Saint Violet,” Margaret grumbled. “You’ll look after everyone else and forget all about me.”
Violet stopped at the door, looking back at the woman she’d called Mum for over forty years. Wiry thin, grey hair pulled into a tight bun, Margaret looked especially small in that armchair. Her wrinkles seemed deeper, and her hands shook slightly as she turned the pages.
“Can I pick you anything up?” Violet asked gently.
“Don’t need a thing. Go on then, if you’re going.”
On the landing, Violet met Edith, who was catching her breath, looking worn out.
“Mrs. Burns, let me help you with that,” Violet offered, taking one of the bags.
“Oh, bless you, love!” Edith sighed with relief. “Just not my usual self lately. Suppose it’s age.”
They took the stairs slowly, resting on every landing.
“How’s your Margaret keeping?” Edith asked cautiously. “Haven’t seen her about much lately.”
“Oh, bit up and down, you know,” Violet replied vaguely. “Good days, not so good days.”
“I understand. My sister was much the same…” Edith trailed off, but Violet knew what she meant.
After helping Edith with her bags, Violet returned home. Margaret was still in her chair but wasn’t reading anymore. Just staring blankly at the wall.
“Mum, fancy a cuppa?” Violet suggested, taking off her coat.
“Mum…” Margaret repeated, a strange note in her voice. “You call me Mum.”
Violet froze. Something in her tone was off.
“Well, yes, Mum. What else?”
“But I’m not your mum,” Margaret said quietly, turning towards her. “I’m nothing to you.”
Violet felt everything tighten inside. There it was. What she’d been dreading for months. What she’d avoided seeing when Margaret looked at her sometimes with confusion.
“What d’you mean, Mum?” Violet knelt beside her, taking her hand. “Course you’re my mum. My real mum.”
“No,” Margaret shook her head stubbornly. “I remember now. I remember. You’re not my girl. You’re… you’re a stranger.”
A lump rose in Violet’s throat. She knew this day would come. The doctors warned the dementia would progress, the forgetting would happen more. But she hadn’t been ready for Margaret to remember *this*.
“Mum, listen to me,” Violet began, keeping her voice steady. “You’re right. You didn’t have me. But you raised me. You loved me. You *are* my mum.”
“Raised you…” Margaret frowned, as if struggling to recall. “Yes, raised you. They brought you… so little. Cried all the time, wouldn’t eat.”
“Yes, Mum. I was three.”
“Three…” Margaret repeated. “Where’s your real mum then? Where is she?”
Violet closed her eyes. This was the conversation she’d steered clear of her whole life. Margaret had never given details, and Violet never asked. It had been enough to have a mum who loved her.
“Don’t know, Mum. You never told me.”
“Never told you…” Margaret thought hard. “Perhaps it was for the best. Nothing good in that tale.”
Violet waited, scarcely daring to breathe. Margaret was silent a long time, then spoke up suddenly.
“She was my mate. Your mum. Alice, her name was. We were at college together, then worked at the same factory. Beautiful, she was. Happy. Fellas were like moths to a flame.”
Violet listened, holding her breath. For the first time in forty years, she learned about her birth mother.
“Married young, had you. But her husband… He was a bad lot. Drank, hit her. She left him, but where could she go with a child? Crashed with one mate, then another. Then she met another bloke, asked her to marry him, but he didn’t want kids.”
“And she gave me away?”
“Brought you to us. Said, ‘Margaret, help me out. Just while I get on my feet.’ But she…” Margaret hesitated, as if unsure whether to say it.
“What, Mum?”
“Went off with that man. Promised she’d be back for you in six months. She never came.”
Violet felt tears spill down her cheeks. She’d always suspected something like that, but hearing it was pure pain.
“Then what?”
“Then I knew you were my girl. Stayed up nights when you were poorly. Taught you to walk, to talk.” A tearful smile touched Margaret’s lips. “Your first word was ‘Mum’, and you said it looking at me. Remember being so chuffed. Thought, there’s my daughter.”
“You were always my mum,” Violet whispered, hugging her. “My only one. My best one.”
“Was…” Margaret echoed. “Now I’m a stranger to you. The memories are leaving, Violet. I feel them going. Today I remember, tomorrow I might forget you, even myself.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not, when it’s true?” Margaret pulled back slightly, looking Violet in the eyes. “Listen to me properly. While I still remember, I need to say something important.”
Violet nodded, wiping her tears.
“Never regretted taking you. Not once. Not when money was tight, not when times were hard. You were the best thing in my life. Understand?”
“I understand, Mum.”
“And if I forget you… if I call you a stranger… don’t you take it to heart. That’s the illness talking, not me. In here,” she tapped her chest, “you’ll always be my girl.”
Violet couldn’t hold it in anymore and sobbed outright. Margaret stroked her hair, like when she’d fallen as a child and scraped her knees.
“Don’t cry, love. We’ve got life in us yet. We’ll keep fighting this rotten thing.”
Days passed. Margaret recognised Violet sometimes, looked puzzled at others. But mostly, she did know her. Violet took time off work, deciding to stay close.
One evening, sipping tea in the kitchen, Margaret suddenly asked:
“Did Alice ever come back? For her daughter?”
Violet choked on her tea.
“Alice?”
“Your mum. Promised she’d be back for you.”
“No, Mum. She didn’t come.”
“Odd,” Margaret said thoughtfully. “Or maybe it’s for the best. You’re mine now. Why’d you need another mum?”
“I don’t need anyone but you,” Violet whispered.
“You’re right. And I don’t need anyone but you.” Margaret held out her hand across the table, and
Yeah, so the next morning, Dorothy was up before dawn, cracking eggs and humming. Valerie padded in, rubbing her eyes from the smell of toast and realising it’s been ages since Mum had felt well enough to cook. ‘Morning love,’ Dorothy chirped, sliding perfectly fried eggs and tomatoes onto Valerie’s plate. ‘Your favourite, dear.’ Valerie took a bite, this simple breakfast feeling huge. She looked at Mum, actually *Mum* today, her face clear and focused, and murmured, ‘Thanks, Mum.’ ‘What for, pet?’ Dorothy asked, pouring the tea. ‘For being my mum,’ Valerie said, her throat tight. Dorothy gave that crinkly-eyed smile Valerie’s known forever, the one that feels like coming home. ‘And thank heavens,’ Dorothy said softly, patting her hand, ‘for such a wonderful daughter.’ Sitting there, Valerie truly knew it didn’t matter one jot who gave birth to her; this woman who’d loved her through thick and thin, who’d put plasters on her knees and held her when she cried, who worried over exams and celebrated her triumphs, *she* was her real mum. The best mum anyone could ask for, full stop. You know? And life carried on like that for a while, good days where they’d natter over a cuppa just like old times, and tough days where Valerie was just a kind stranger, but the love, deep down, somehow still held fast.
