**Two Mothers, One Heart**
My mother Natasha passed away when I was just two years old. I only knew her from photographs, but I never forgot her. Yet all my life, I called another woman “Mum”the one who came into our home and stayed forever.
I dont remember the day she arrived. Mum Grace seemed to have always been therepetite, softly rounded, with eyes as dark as coal and a smile that could warm even the greyest English afternoon.
“Mum Grace,” I called her.
“Gracie,” Dad would say fondly.
No one ever hid the fact she wasnt my birth mother, but my heart accepted her without question. I believed Mum Natasha, before leaving, had asked God to send me a guardian. And He sent Grace.
Mum Natashas sisters and grandmother often took me to visit. They never missed a chance to ask:
“Does she make your breakfast? Does she hug you? Does she take you for walks?”
I stayed silent. Back then, I didnt know how to say their questions hurtthat I didnt need proof of Mum Graces love. Now I understand: they wounded my devotion to her. But she loved me just as much as if shed given birth to me herself.
She never stopped me remembering Mum Natasha. Instead, she held my hand and took me to church.
Wed step into the cool, dim chapel, candles flickering before the icons. She always bought twoone for health, one for remembrance.
“This ones for you, love, that God keeps you safe and happy. And thisfor Mum Natasha, that Heaven cradles her gently.”
Id watch her cross herself, whispering prayers after her.
“Mum, can Mum Natasha see us?” Id ask quietly.
“She can, darling,” shed reply, smoothing my hair. “Souls dont die. They live with the Lord. And when we pray, she hears and rejoices.”
After the service, wed always request a memorial hymn. As the vicar sang, Mum Grace would murmur, crossing herself:
“Eternal rest, Natasha see how we cherish your little Emily.”
Leaving the church, shed smile through tears.
“See, love? Youve two mums. One in Heaven, one here. But we both love you just the same.”
We lived in a village where everyone knew Mum Grace. She worked as a cook for the harvest crews, always hurrying to work with quick, light steps.
“Wherere you off to, Grace?” neighbours called.
“Oh, same as alwaysgot to keep things moving!” shed answer.
She returned just as briskly, barely over the threshold before calling:
“Emily, how was your day? Had tea? Done your schoolwork?”
Then came the hugswarm, tightkisses on my forehead, cheeks, nose.
“This nose is my favourite!” shed whisper, pressing a kiss to it.
When she baked scones, she always saved me a bowl of dough.
“Here, my little helperpractice with this.”
“Will they taste nice?” Id ask, flour up to my elbows.
“Course! Youve got golden hands, just like Mum Natasha.”
Her scones were gloriouswith clotted cream, with jam And she herself was like fresh breadwarm, golden, comforting.
When I struggled at my first job, she soothed me.
“Mum, I keep messing up nothings right,” Id sigh.
Shed take my hands in hers, work-rough but gentle.
“Emily, who doesnt stumble? Mistakes teach you. Jot things downI did the same with recipes. Youll learn. Just dont lose heart.”
When my son was born, Mum Grace stood all night outside the hospital. April chill bit the air, but she never left.
“Mum, why wait in the cold?” I asked later.
She smiled that special smile.
“Where else would I be? I prayed beneath your windowfor strength for you, angels for your boy. My heart was in that room with you.”
Then one morning, Dad called.
“Love Mum Grace is gone.”
I couldnt believe it. How could such light vanish?
Today, I turn the pages of an old album. Photos of Mum Natasha and Mum Grace weave together like threads in a tapestry. And I knowGod didnt leave me an orphan. One mother gave me life, the other gave me love. Thats a debt only the heart can repay.
*Sometimes, love isnt in the blood, but in the hands that hold you.*
