13November
The intercom buzzed, a gruff voice demanding to be let in. Dont make me stand out in the cold! Open the door at once! I pressed the release button and stepped away.
Five minutes later my mobile rang. An unknown number flashed on the screen; I let it go to voicemail. It rang again, and again. By the tenth ring I finally answered I knew she wouldnt give up.
Ma! I heard my mothers voice, sharp and impatient.
Whats the matter, Mother? Youre being cruel, she launched. Ive nowhere to turn. Victor left me, sold the house, and now Im scrambling for a room to rent! She went on, Can you imagine? Your mother, a respectable teacher with a university degree, reduced to wandering someone elses flat
She was talking about Victor, the man shed fled to another town for twentyfive years ago, leaving me, then eight, with my father.
Youre grown, Ethel, and Mum has a right to her own happiness, shed said back then.
I remember standing in the hallway in my nightgown, watching her apply a bold, scarlet lipstick in front of the mirror. She looked stunning.
I asked when shed be home. She smiled politely and said shed call sometime. I pressed, asking if she could take me with her. She repeated the clichéd line about personal happiness and how I was an adult now, capable of managing without her.
Lets be straight, I said coldly into the receiver. What do you need?
A long silence stretched, only her heavy breathing breaking it.
Ethel, why are you? she muttered. Im not some beggar Im still your mother.
Ah, mother, I laughed. The one who abandoned me. Lets skip the sentiment, shall we? How much?
I need a decent flat, at least a onebedroom, she said. And some money to live on about five thousand pounds to start with.
Blimey, I thought, shes making big requests.
Im afraid youve the wrong address, I replied, I cant help you with that.
Come on then, her tone turned demanding. Ive heard you have
I smirked. Shed heard something.
Listen, Mum, I said, voice icy, You made your choice twentyfive years ago. You chose Victor, a new life, and your own happiness. I stayed with Dad, who worked two jobs, attended every parentteacher meeting, helped me with homework and sat by my bedside when I was ill. He never remarried because he feared a stepmother would hurt me.
Ethel! she snapped impatiently. But I called to wish you happy holidays
Twice a year, five minutes flat. How are you, dear? Keep up with school. Bye, remember? I let the silence settle.
When I was ill, I continued, you recall? I was fourteen, spent two weeks in the hospital. Dad called you, begged you to come, but you said Victor had important business and you couldnt leave him.
Silence.
My graduation, I pressed. You promised to be there. I chose a dress, hoping youd see the woman Id becomepretty, successful, a medalist. You didnt show up because Victors daughter from his first marriage had a wedding.
Ethel, you cant be like that she finally muttered, ashamed. I was young, foolish
You were thirtyfive, Mum, not eighteen, I snapped. Dad died three years ago in a workrelated heart attack. He never gave up his second job, even after I started earning enough to support him.
I heard her sniffling through the handset, but my heart stayed stonecold. Shed taught me never to melt into tears.
Victor left you, right? Found someone younger? Or just grew tired of you? Whatever. You suddenly remembered you have a daughteran successful one. Convenient, isnt it?
Youre heartless, Margaret. I dont even recognise you! she shouted.
How can you not recognise me when you never raised me? You dont know I love chamomile tea, that Im terrified of spiders to the point of hysteria, that I suffered a miscarriage two years ago and was bedridden for three months, that I divorced because my husband cheated and I couldnt forgive him.
Ethel she whispered.
And you know what? I earn well. I own a threebedroom flat, a car, a solid bank account. Those fifty thousand pounds are nothing to me. Yet I wont give them to you, because that would betray Dads memorythe man who truly was my parent.
But Ill end up on the streets! she wailed.
No, you wont. Im not a saint, but the world isnt devoid of decent folk. Youre still young, you have hands, legs, a head, education, experience, old contacts. You could work as a nanny, cleaner, security guard Dad never shied away from any job for my sake. What have you done that he didnt?
She broke down, crying louder, but her tears didnt stir me.
Let me tell you a story, I said suddenly, not knowing why. When I was twelve I wrote you a fivepage letter, spilling how much I missed you, how I wanted to spend the holidays together, how I dreamed of the three of us you, me and Dadbeing a family again. Childish, of course.
Dad gave me your address and I mailed it. I waited every day by the mailbox. A month later your postcard arrived: Ethel, I got your letter. Not a good time for a visit. Study well. Mum. The line was deadsimple.
The handset fell silent.
What did I realise then? I asked myself quietly. That I have no mother. Theres a woman who gave birth to me, but theres no mother. And I accepted it. Thanks to Dad, who was always there. I grew up without a mother, learned to cope, survived. And now you want me to let you back into my life? On what grounds?
Im ill, Ethel, she whispered hoarsely. I have diabetes, high blood pressure, my hearts failing. Youre my last hope. Without you
Ill pay for your checkup at a good clinic, I replied briskly after a pause, and cover any medication you need. Thats all. Dont call again. Dont show up. You once had a chance to be a mother to me, but you turned it down twentyfive years ago. There wont be a second chance.
The lesson I took from that night: we cannot expect forgiveness or support from those who have long abandoned us, no matter how much they beg. True strength lies in recognising when to close the door and walk on.
