**Two Mothers, One Heart**
My mother, Natasha, passed away when I was just two. 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. It felt as though Mum Gail had always been there. Petite, soft-spoken, with eyes as dark as coal and a smile that could warm even the dreariest English afternoon.
“Mum Gail,” Id call her.
“Little Gail,” Dad would say fondly.
No one ever hid the fact she wasnt my birth mother. But my heart accepted her completely. I believedsomehowthat Mum Natasha had asked God to send me a guardian. And He did.
Mum Natashas sisters and my 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 quiet. Back then, I didnt know how to say their questions hurt. Now I understandthey resented my love for Mum Gail. But she loved me no less than if Id been her own.
She never stopped me remembering Mum Natasha. Quite the oppositeshed take my hand and lead me to church. Wed step into the cool, dim nave, where candles flickered before the icons. Shed buy two: one for health, one for remembrance.
“This ones for you, love,” shed whisper, “so God keeps you safe and happy. And this ones for Mum Natasha, so Heaven stays bright for her.”
Id watch her cross herself and murmur the prayers after her.
“Mum, can Mum Natasha see us?” Id ask quietly.
“She can, love,” shed say, smoothing my hair. “Souls dont die. They live with the Lord. And when we pray, she hears us and smiles.”
After the service, wed always light a candle for the departed. When the vicar sang, *”Eternal rest grant unto her,”* Mum Gail would cross herself again and whisper, “God keep you, Natasha look how well we care for your little Emily.”
Then, stepping outside, shed smile through tears. “See, love? Youve two mums. One in Heaven, one here. And we both love you just the same.”
We lived in a village where everyone knew Mum Gail. She worked as a cook at the local farm, always hurrying to work with quick, light steps.
“Wherere you off to, Gail?” the neighbours would call.
“Work, of course! No time to dawdle,” shed laugh.
She came home just as fast. The moment she crossed the threshold, shed call, “Emily, how was your day? Have you eaten? Done your schoolwork?”
Then came the hugswarm and tightkisses on my forehead, my cheeks, my nose.
“This nose is my favourite!” shed tease, kissing it.
When she baked scones, she always saved a bit of dough for me. “Here, my little helperpractice with this.”
“Will they taste nice?” Id ask, flour up to my elbows.
“Course they will! Youve got your mum Natashas touch.”
Her scones were divinegolden, buttery, sometimes with a hint of rosemary. And she was like bread herselfwarm, comforting, always there when needed.
When I stumbled at my first job, shed soothe me. “Mum, I keep messing up nothings right,” Id sigh.
Shed take my hands in hers. “Emily, who doesnt make mistakes? Thats how we learn. Write things down if you must. I did the same with recipesscrawled them in my notebook till I got them right. You will too. Just dont lose heart.”
When my son was born, Mum Gail stood all night outside the hospital. It was April, the air sharp with spring chill, but she wouldnt leave.
“Mum, why wait in the cold?” I asked later.
She smiled that quiet, radiant smile. “Where else would I be, love? I prayed beneath your windowfor God to strengthen you, for angels to rock your boy. Even if I couldnt be inside, my heart was.”
Then one morning, Dad called. “Love Mum Gails gone.”
I couldnt believe it. How could light like hers just vanish?
Today, I flip through an old album. Photos of Mum Natasha and Mum Gail weave together like threads in a tapestry. And I realiseGod didnt leave me orphaned. One mother gave me life; the other taught me how to live it.
