25November
I slammed the door of the flat and shouted at the intercom, Dont make me stand out in the cold! Let me in this instant! I hit the release button and stepped back from the panel.
Five minutes later my mobile buzzed. An unknown number flashed on the screen. I ignored the first call, then another, and another. By the tenth ring I finally picked up; I knew she wouldnt give up so easily.
Emma! my mothers voice burst out.
Really, Mom? Youre being so harsh. Im coming to you with my whole heartno one else can help me now. Victor dumped me, sold our flat, and Im forced to scrounge for a room! she wailed. Can you imagine? Your mother, an educated teacher, now wandering in other peoples homes
She was talking about Victor, the man she left a quartercentury ago to move to another city, abandoning me, then an eightyearold, with my father.
Youre a grownup now, Blythe, and I have a right to my own happiness, she had told me then. I remember standing in the hallway in my nightgown, watching her apply a bright scarlet lipstick in front of the mirror. It was fashionable, and she looked striking.
I asked when she would return, and she, with a sweet smile, said she would call sometime. I then asked if I could come with her. She repeated the same refrain about personal happiness and that I was already an adult who could manage without her.
Lets be straight, I said coldly into the receiver, what do you need?
A long silence stretched; only her heavy breathing could be heard.
Blythe, why are you Im not a beggar she mumbled. Im still your mother
Yes, mother, I laughed. The one who left me. Lets skip the sentiment. How much?
I need a decent flat, at least a onebedroom and some money for living maybe five hundred pounds to start, she said.
I thought, Good grief, her demands are something else.
Im afraid youve the wrong address, I replied, I cant help you.
Theres no way her voice turned demanding. Ive heard you have
I smirked. Shed heard
Listen, Mum, I said, you made your choice twentyfive years ago. You chose Victor, a new life, and your own happiness. I was left with Father, who worked two jobs, attended every parentteacher meeting, helped me with my homework, and sat by my bedside when I was ill. He never remarried because he feared a stepmother would hurt me.
Blythe! she snapped impatiently. But I called you, wished you happy holidays
Twice a year, five minutes each. How are you, dear? Studying? Good luck. Bye. Remember?
She fell silent.
When I was sickdo you recall? I was fourteen, spent two weeks in the hospital. Father called you, asking you to come, but you said Victor had important business and you couldnt leave him.
Silence.
My graduation you promised to be there. I even picked out a dress, hoping youd see the successful, medalwinning girl Id become. You didnt come because Victors daughter from his first marriage was getting married.
Blythe, you cant be like that she finally muttered, ashamed. I was young, foolish
You were thirtyfive, Mum, not eighteen! I snapped. Father died three years ago from a heart attack at his second job, which he never quit even after I started earning enough to support us.
I could hear her sniffle on the line, but my heart stayed stonecold. She had taught me never to melt into tears.
Victor left you, right? Found someone younger? Or just tired of you? It doesnt matter. But you suddenly remembered you have a daughtera successful daughter. Convenient, isnt it?
Youre cruel, Olivia, she shouted. Heartless. I I dont recognise you!
How can you not recognise me when you never raised me? You dont know I love chamomile tea, that spiders send me into a panic, 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.
Blythe she whispered.
And you know what? I earn well. I own a threebedroom flat, a car, a decent bank balance. Those five hundred pounds are peanuts to me. I could help you, but I wont, because that would betray Fathers 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 people. Youre still young, you have hands, a mind, education, experience, old contacts. You could become a nanny, cleaner, security guard Father never turned his nose up at any work for me. What do you have that he didnt?
She began to sob, yet her tears moved me not a jot.
Want to hear a story? I said, halfamused. When I was twelve, I wrote you a long letterfive pagesabout how much I missed you, how I wanted to spend the holidays with you, how I dreamed that the three of us you, me, and Fathercould be a family again. Childish, of course.
I got your address from Father and mailed it. I waited every day at the postbox. A month later your postcard arrived: Blythe, I received your letter. Its not a good time for a visit. Study well. Mum.
The line fell silent.
What did I realise then? I whispered to myself. I have no mother. Theres a woman who gave birth to me, but not a mother. I accepted that. Thank Father, he was always there. I grew up without a mum, learned to survive. And now you want me to let you back into my life? On what grounds?
Im ill, Blythe, she said suddenly, voice thin. I have diabetes, high blood pressure, a rattling heart. Im your last hope. Without you
Ill pay for a private checkup and any medication you need, I replied dryly after a pause. Thats all. Dont call again. Dont show up. You had a chance to be a mother twentyfive years ago; you turned it down. There wont be a second chance.
