When I was 24, I made the hardest decision of my life: I left my two daughters with my mother. The eldest, Emily, was five, and little Sophie no older than three. I worked twelve-hour shifts and had no one to watch them, not a penny to rub together, and their father had long since vanished into thin air. I hadnt the faintest idea how to keep going. My mother told me shed take care of them until I got back on my feet, and, young, terrified, and desperate, I agreed, clinging to the thought it would only be for a couple of months. But, as luck would have it, months became years.
At the start, I went every Saturday and Sunday to see them. They were still quite young and didnt understand why I wasnt sleeping in the same house. Each visit was an odd mix of hugs and awkward questions, the kind that made my stomach twist:
Why arent you staying?
Why do you sleep somewhere else?
When are you coming back?
Mum would soothe them by saying I was working ever so much, but truth be told, I watched as they slowly began to call her Mum without even realising it.
By the time Emily turned eight and Sophie was six, they didnt seem to look for me as they used to. Theyd give me a half-hearted hug before scampering off back to my mother. Id stand awkwardly in the doorway, feeling more like a guest than a parent. One afternoon, Sophie tumbled over as she was playing, and when I tried to pick her up, she yanked her hand away and shouted, I love Mum! meaning my mother, not me. That was the moment when I realised something had snapped, never to be mended.
The years ticked by, and I did everything I could think of to win them back: new clothes, surprises, sweets, outingsanything. But every time I came round, theyd offer a quick hello and carry on playing. My mother, without meaning to, made all the decisions: school, jabs, homework, permission slips. I was the one bringing things, but I was never the one who counted.
They grew up seeing me as the aunt who brings shopping, not the woman whod given birth to them.
When they started school, it became even harder to swallow. At parents evenings, the teachers spoke only to my mum. I got the classic, Are you their aunt, then? Neither of my daughters corrected them.
Once, I tried to sign a school slip, and Emily whispered,
No, you cant. Mum has to sign it.
That day, I locked myself in the school loo and cried silently, so no one would hear me.
When they were older, I tried to explain why I wasnt there. I told them how Id lived, what Id had to do to keep our heads above water, how Id struggled. They listened quietly, but nothing shifted.
Emily said she wasnt sure whether to thank me or blame me, because I honestly dont feel anything at all now.
Sophie, always the blunt one, just said,
You werent there. There isnt a feeling for something that doesnt exist.
Today, Im 61. My daughters speak to me, they drop in for Christmas and Birthdays, give me a hug but Mum isnt a word they use. Im part of their life, but not in the place Id always imagined.
And although I know I cant turn back the clock, it still aches. It aches to see their lives have gone on perfectly wellwithout me.
