Vicky stood for what felt like an eternity, phone in hand. Her mother’s voice echoed in her ears — damp, desperate, like the rain that just wouldn’t let up.

Vicky Thompson stood still, phone pressed to her ear. Her mothers voice drifted into the roomwet, desperate, like rain that refuses to let up.

She didnt know what to feel. Sorrow? No. Anger? Not either. It was more a hollow emptiness.

The same empty space that Megan had carved into her when shed said, Youll be sleeping in the kitchen.

And yet her heart hammered faster.

Youve driven me out, the voice said, like a dog.

The words cut her memory clean, as if a knife had sliced through a childs backpack that held two books and a single shirt.

Fine, come in, Vicky finally replied. But only for a short while.

The next morning Megan arrived, looking ragged, dark circles under her eyes, dragging a large suitcase behind her.

Vicky opened the door and, for a heartbeat, the two women met each others gaze. They stood like strangers who had once been close, now unsure how to bridge the gap.

Nice work on the flat, Megan said, looking around the bright London apartment. Its cosy.

Yes, Vicky answered evenly. I made it cosy myself.

They sat at the kitchen table.

Megan sipped her tea in tiny mouthfuls, as if afraid it might scald her.

I never thought it would end like this, she began. James passed away everything went to his kids. They sold the flat. They told me, Youre not our mother.

Her voice cracked. I thought of them as my own

What about me, Mum? What did you think I was? Vicky asked.

Megan lifted her eyes, and for the first time they held fear.

Dont start, love. It was hard then I didnt know what to do.

No, Mum. Life wasnt hard. You were. I was just a burden.

A heavy silence settled between them like a thick curtain.

Megan swallowed, saying nothing.

Weeks slipped by.

Vicky tried not to argue, but Megan slowly began to act as if the flat were entirely hers. She rearranged the cupboards, washed the dishes properly, moved the furniture.

Then she started coming home from the market with bags.

I bought a rug. Yours just wont do.

This is my home, Vicky said.

Dont be petty, Im only trying to help!

And Vicky felt again like that little girl who never quite fit anywhere.

One evening, after Vicky returned from work, the kitchen smelled of fresh biscuits.

Ah, youre here! Megan beamed. We have guests.

At the table sat a elderly man with a shiny bald head and a thin, greying beard.

This is Simon, Megan introduced. An old acquaintance of mine. He helps me out sometimes.

In my flat? Vicky asked coldly.

Dont start. Were just having dinner.

No, Mum. Tomorrow youll be eating somewhere else.

Megans face went pale.

Youre kicking me out?

No. Im just reminding you that I once slept in that kitchen because of your choices. Im not a child any more.

The next morning Megan silently packed her things.

Vicky leaned against the doorframe, her fingers trembling but her face calm.

Where will I go? Megan whispered. No ones waiting for me.

Just as I wasnt waiting for you, Vicky replied.

Megan paused.

I didnt understand

I understood. It just didnt matter to you.

Megans shoulders shook.

I was a bad mother, she said softly. But Im still human.

I know, Vicky answered. Im human too. Not the child who always feared you.

When the door closed, Vicky sank onto the sofa. Her hands felt warm, as if after a long battle.

Sunlight flooded the room, and the air cleared suddenly.

She stood, opened a cupboard, and pulled out an old box.

Inside were childhood drawings, postcards, a photograph of herself, her mother, and her grandmotherher grandmothers arms around them, smiling.

If she were here, Grandmother would say, You must learn to forgive. But Vicky thought, Im tired of living with a pain that needs forgiveness.

She placed the picture in the ashtray, watching the image of her mother dissolve into ash.

A week later a letter arrived.

Vicky, Im sorry. Im not looking for excuses. I just want you to know I love you, even if Im not good at showing it. Thank you for not shutting the door on me straight away. Perhaps one day youll open it againnot for me, but for yourself.

Vicky read it several times, then smiledtruly, for the first time in years.

She stepped onto the balcony, breathed in the crisp air, and called a womens shelter.

Good afternoon. I have a spare room. Perhaps someone needs a place to stay?

Yes, came the reply. We have a woman whose relatives drove her out.

Vicky closed her eyes.

The circle completed, but this time it turned a different way.

She set the kettle on, pulled fresh sheets from the cupboard.

In this new home someone would hear, for the first time, Youre welcome here.

And that time, there would be no conditions, no fear, no hurtonly love.

Sometimes the hardest part of healing is learning that forgiveness is not about letting the other person back in, but about freeing yourself to live without the weight of resentment.