“You’re Still My Mum”
“Mum, did you ever want to be an artist?”
Emily sat at the kitchen table, clutching a thin paintbrush. On the watercolour paper before her, a hesitant but tender lilac branch took shape—soft purple strokes trembling as if afraid to smudge.
“I did,” Sarah smiled, standing by the stove. “But I was nine, and I decided I’d rather be a doctor. To help people.”
“Did you change your mind later?”
Sarah reached for the kettle, avoiding eye contact. These conversations always unsettled her. Too much lay beneath them—old dreams, unfulfilled hopes, choices made with logic, not heart.
“Yes. Life just… turned out that way.”
When Sarah adopted Emily, she was thirty-three. By then, she’d weathered a storm: infertility, a divorce that left her hollow, and endless advice from friends—“accept it,” “try again,” “just adopt.” She hadn’t wanted to. Not out of selfishness, but fear—would she have enough love? Then, at the foster home, she saw Emily—a slight girl with braids, sketching flowers in a corner. When Emily looked up, her eyes held such weary sorrow that Sarah felt it like a knife to the chest. A year later, Emily called her Mum.
Now Emily was ten. She attended the local school where Sarah taught literature. Colleagues and parents admired Sarah—“that teacher who adopted the girl from care.” But praise wasn’t what she sought. All she wanted was to give Emily a life where the past never haunted her.
“Mrs. Thompson, if you’d like Emily to enrol here, we’ll need the application forms. And copies of her documents. Including her birth certificate.” The receptionist at the prestigious academy peered over her glasses, stern but not unkind.
“Of course,” Sarah nodded, steadying her voice. “We’ll have everything ready.”
She’d prepared it all in advance. Emily’s new surname—hers—was neatly printed, no hint of adoption. Not that it was a secret, but Sarah didn’t want Emily’s past to invite questions or pity. She knew how cruel children could be, how a single word could cut deeper than intended.
That evening, they baked an apple pie. Emily peeled the apples with an artist’s focus, thin coils of skin falling into the bowl. She measured sugar carefully, as if afraid to disturb some unseen order.
“Mum, does the new school have an art club?”
“Yes. A very good one. And drama. And a swimming pool.”
“What if they don’t take me?”
Sarah studied her daughter. Emily didn’t look up, but her fingers froze over the bowl.
“They will, love. We’ll make sure of it.”
The phone rang on Saturday morning. Sarah stepped into the garden to answer—indoors, the noise felt too loud. The woman’s voice on the line was hushed, as if weighed down by years.
“Is this Sarah? I’m… Emily’s mother.”
The world seemed to shrink. Sarah gripped the porch railing, suddenly aware of everything—a speck on her coat, a crack in the pavement, her own laboured breath.
“What do you want?”
“I… I’m not asking for anything. I just wanted to know how she is. Could I… even just see her?”
“She doesn’t remember you,” Sarah said, sharper than she meant. “She has a new life. Don’t ruin it.”
“I understand. I’m sorry.”
The line went dead.
When Sarah returned inside, Emily stood by the stairs. Silent, but her eyes were watchful, like a kitten catching an unfamiliar sound.
“Who was that?”
“Wrong number,” Sarah lied, the words sticking in her throat. “Breakfast is ready.”
Days later, the school called. Emily had fought a classmate—utterly unlike her. Sarah sat in the staff room opposite the teacher while Emily waited outside.
“She hit a boy,” the teacher adjusted her glasses. “Said he insulted her.”
“How?” Sarah’s grip tightened on her bag.
“Emily can explain. But Mrs. Thompson… children sometimes repeat what they hear at home.”
In the corridor, Emily sat stiffly, staring at the floor. When Sarah approached, she whispered:
“He said I don’t have a real family. That I’m ‘not his level.’ And… that you’re not my mum.”
“Who told him that?”
“I don’t know. But he knew.”
That night, Sarah lay awake, staring at the ceiling. For the first time, her lie felt like a hairline crack in glass—invisible until pressure split it wide. She remembered Emily’s first “Mum,” their wobbly bike rides, the nights Emily cried before trusting this was home. Sarah had wanted to shield her, but the truth, it seemed, was stronger.
The next day, the woman—Louise—called again. She asked to meet. Sarah hesitated, but something—exhaustion from lying, or instinct—made her agree.
“Fine. No drama. And Emily stays out of it.”
They met in the park under ancient linden trees. Louise was younger than Sarah expected—early thirties, with tired eyes and hunched shoulders, her fingers fidgeting with her scarf.
“I know I’ve no right… But back then, I was alone. Scared. No one told me there were other choices. I spent three years in rehab. I’ve changed. I work, I don’t drink. I’ve got a flat. But… I dream of her. Often. I thought… maybe just once, from a distance…”
“And then what? Say, ‘Hi, I left you, but now I want cuddles’?” The words spilled out before Sarah could stop them.
“No. Just… to see her. That’s all.”
Sarah studied her. Not an enemy—just another woman shackled by the past. Against her better judgment, she said:
“Tomorrow. Four o’clock. By the school bench. We’ll walk past. Don’t approach her. Don’t speak. Just… look.”
Louise nodded like a chastened child, and Sarah felt an unexpected pang of pity.
On the way home, Emily stopped suddenly.
“Mum… did I have another mum? A real one?”
Sarah’s heart hammered, but she sat on the bench by their door.
“Love… I didn’t mean to lie. I thought you were too young.”
“I’m not mad. But kids say things. I wanted to know what’s true.”
“Do you want me to tell you everything?”
“Yes.”
They sat for a long time. Sarah spoke—no blame, no grand speeches. She explained how Emily came to her, how her birth mother couldn’t care for her but might regret it now. Emily fiddled with her coat sleeve, then asked:
“Is she… nice?”
“I don’t know. I think she’s trying.”
“Can I meet her?”
Sarah squeezed her daughter’s hand, warm in hers.
“If that’s what you want.”
The meeting lasted two minutes. Louise waited by the school, pretending to check her phone. Emily walked beside Sarah, quiet but alert. Then she let go and approached the bench.
Sarah’s feet rooted to the spot. Emily looked at Louise and said:
“I’m Emily. I paint lilacs. I like apple pie. And my mum’s right there. You… can look. But not for long.”
Then she walked back.
Louise sat trembling. Sarah joined her, silent, then admitted:
“She’s wiser than both of us.”
Louise wiped her eyes. “Everything for Emily. Just for her.”
Then she left without looking back.
At home, Emily painted a new lilac branch, her strokes surer, the purple bold and even.
“Mum… you’re not upset I talked to her?”
“Upset? I’m proud of you.”
Emily nodded, then—without glancing up—asked:
“Can we bake a pie?”
Sarah smiled, warmth flooding her chest.
“Absolutely, love. Absolutely.”
