I was eleven when my mother decided it was time to leave. My little sister, Mum and I all lived in my grandparents house on the edge of Oxford. One grey afternoon, she crammed two bags full of clothes and announced she was moving in with a man from Cambridge, three hours away, across the winding Thames. I started crying great, choking sobs. I begged her to tell me what would happen to us, whether we were going with her, or if wed be left behind for good. She promised it would be just for a year that shed work, scrimp and save, and come back for us. She hugged me tight and told me I had to trust her.
To start with, she really did keep in touch. Letters arrived regularly, addressed in her careful handwriting. I kept every one, safely tucked in a battered shoebox under my bed. I cant quote them word for word now, but the message was always the same: that she missed us, that she was working hard, that shed soon be home. Sometimes shed post a little money twenty pounds here, fifty there for bills or to help out around the house. Nan and Grandad would make sure everything was taken care of. I counted the months, waiting for that promised year that never arrived.
Eight years passed. Eight years of growing up with her gone. I taught myself to finish my homework, looked after my little sister, helped Nan and Grandad at hospital appointments, and muddled my own way through problems meant for adults. Through it all, the letters and money trickled in, but she never once came back for us.
Then, out of the blue, she turned up one morning. No warning. By then, I was nearly grown. For a hopeful moment, I thought at last she would take us with her. I sat her down and asked when we were leaving. She looked me in the eye and said No she wouldnt take us. Life had been much harder than I could ever imagine, the place shed found herself in wasnt fit for children, and things hadnt worked out at all as shed hoped. She stayed a few days, then left again.
Since then, Ive only seen her a handful of times. Sometimes a whole year would pass without so much as a phone call. Sometimes two. When I got married, she wasnt there at the church. Said she couldnt make the journey. Shes not in a single photograph.
In the end, I stopped waiting. I stopped saving the letters. I stopped counting the broken promises. What we had faded into the odd visit, when she passed through town.
Now, I finally understand something I fought so long to accept: the person who shattered my heart the most wasnt some partner, or a friend, or a stranger on the street. It was my own mother. I never expected perfection. All I wanted was for her to keep the promise she made, the day I was eleven years old.
