Mum, You’re Still My Mum
“Mum, did you ever want to be an artist?”
Lily sat at the kitchen table, gripping a fine paintbrush. On the watercolour sheet beneath her hand, a shaky but tender lilac branch was taking shape—each stroke trembling as if afraid to bleed.
“I did,” Sophie smiled, stirring something on the stove. “But I was nine, and I decided I’d rather be a doctor. To help people.”
“And then you changed your mind?”
Sophie reached for the kettle, avoiding eye contact. She always dreaded these conversations. Too much lurked behind them—old dreams, unrealised hopes, choices she’d made with her head, not her heart.
“Yeah. Life just… happened.”
When Sophie adopted Lily, she was thirty-three. By then, she’d been through a lot: 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 children’s home, she saw Lily—a skinny girl with plaits, hunched in a corner, sketching flowers. Lily looked up, and in her eyes was such grown-up sorrow that Sophie’s chest ached. A year later, Lily called her *Mum*.
Now Lily was ten. She went to the local primary where Sophie taught English. Colleagues and parents admired her—”that teacher who adopted the girl from care.” But Sophie didn’t want praise. She just wanted Lily to have a life where no one dredged up the past.
“Ms. Hart, if you’d like Lily to attend our school, you’ll need to complete these forms. And submit her birth certificate.” The woman in the posh academy’s office adjusted her glasses, her tone crisp but not unkind.
“Of course,” Sophie nodded, steadying her voice. “We’ll have everything ready.”
She’d prepared it all in advance. Lily’s new surname—hers—was neatly printed, no hint of adoption. Not that it was a secret, but Sophie refused to let Lily’s past invite pity or questions. She knew how cruel children could be—how a single word could cut deeper than intended.
That evening, they baked an apple pie. Lily peeled apples with an artist’s focus, thin spirals of skin curling into the bowl. She sprinkled sugar like she was handling something sacred.
“Mum, does that new school have an art club?”
“It does. A brilliant one. And drama. And a pool.”
“What if they don’t want me?”
Sophie looked up. Lily’s fingers hovered over the bowl, her gaze fixed on the counter.
“They’ll want you, love. We’ll make sure of it.”
The call came on Saturday morning. Sophie stepped into the garden to answer—indoors, her voice felt too loud. The woman on the line sounded distant, like she was speaking through years.
“Is this Sophie? I’m… I’m Lily’s mother.”
The world narrowed. Sophie gripped the railing, suddenly hyperaware—a speck on her coat, a crack in the patio, her own shallow breath.
“What do you want?”
“I… I’m not asking for anything. I just wanted to know how she is. Could I… see her? Just once?”
“She doesn’t remember you.” Sophie hardened her voice. “She has a new life. Don’t ruin it.”
“I understand. I’m sorry.”
*Click*.
Back inside, Sophie didn’t notice Lily lingering by the stairs. The girl was silent, but her eyes were watchful—like a kitten hearing a strange noise.
“Who was that?”
“Wrong number,” Sophie lied, the words sticking in her throat. “Come on, breakfast is ready.”
Days later, the school called. Lily had hit a classmate—completely unlike her. Sophie sat in the staff room, fists clenched, while Lily waited outside.
“She struck a boy,” the teacher said. “Claims he insulted her.”
“How?”
“You’ll hear it from Lily. But Ms. Hart… children often parrot things they hear at home.”
In the corridor, Lily stared at her shoes. When Sophie crouched beside her, 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?!”
“Don’t know. But he *knew*.”
That night, Sophie lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Her lie felt like a hairline crack in glass—tiny, but ready to shatter. She remembered Lily’s first *Mum*, their wobbly bike rides, the nights Lily cried before trusting this was home. She’d wanted to shield her, but the truth was stronger.
The next day, the woman—*Emma*—called again. Sophie hesitated, but exhaustion or intuition made her agree. “Meet us. No drama. And don’t approach Lily.”
They met under the oaks in the park. Emma was younger than Sophie expected—early thirties, with tired eyes and a frayed scarf she kept twisting.
“I’ve got no right… but back then, I was alone. Scared. No one told me there were options. I spent three years in rehab. Got clean. Have a job, a flat. But… I dream about her. Thought maybe, just once, I could… see her.”
“And then what? Say, ‘Hey, I left you, but now I want cuddles’?” Sophie hadn’t meant to snap.
“No. Just… see her. That’s all.”
Sophie studied her—not an enemy, just another woman carrying regrets. Finally, she sighed. “Tomorrow. Four o’clock. By the school gates. Don’t speak to her. Just… look.”
Emma nodded like a scolded child, and Sophie felt an unexpected pang.
On the walk home, Lily suddenly stopped. “Mum… did I have another mum? A real one?”
Sophie’s pulse spiked, but she guided Lily to a bench. “Love… I didn’t mean to lie. I thought you were too young.”
“I’m not mad. But kids say stuff. I wanna know what’s true.”
So Sophie told her—gently, without blame. About Emma, who couldn’t care for her but might regret it now. Lily fiddled with her coat zip, then asked:
“Is she… nice?”
“Don’t know. But she’s trying.”
“Can I see her too?”
Sophie squeezed her hand. “If *you* want to.”
The meeting lasted two minutes. Emma lingered near the school, pretending to wait for a bus. Lily walked beside Sophie, then suddenly let go and approached the bench.
Sophie froze. She wanted to yell, *Stop*, but her feet wouldn’t move. Lily stood before Emma and said:
“I’m Lily. I paint lilacs. Love apple pie. And my mum’s right there. You can… look. But not for long.”
Then she walked back.
Emma’s shoulders shook. Sophie sat beside her, silent, then said: “She’s wiser than both of us.”
Emma wiped her face. “Everything for Lily. Just for her.”
And left without turning back.
At home, Lily painted a new lilac branch—her strokes surer, the purple bold.
“Mum… you’re not cross?”
“About what?”
“That I talked to her.”
“No. I’m proud of you.”
Lily nodded, then, still painting, said: “Let’s bake a pie?”
Sophie grinned, warmth flooding her chest.
“Absolutely, love. Absolutely.”
