A Mother for Little Alena.

My mother raised me alone, and as far back as I can remember, I was the unloved child. That feeling of being unwanted settled on me from the earliest days. No one ever punished me without cause; I was always fed and clothed well, and the toys I asked for seemed to appear in my hands. Yet my mothers indifference was something I could feel against my skin, a weight that pressed heavily on my heart.

I grew up gentle and exceedingly sociable, constantly seeking my mothers attention in my youthtrying to kiss her, to cling, to hug. She would calmly turn me away and go about her own business. I never felt a single embrace or kiss from her.

Among the neighbours and at school the family was held in good regard; Mum attended every school meeting, kept an eye on my health, took me to the seaside at Brighton and even to the circus in London. Only I knew that all of this was performed out of duty, without any warmth, without a smile. I tried hard to earn praise, studied harder than anyone else, behaved impeccably. Yet no praise ever came from my own mother.

As a child I naively thought this was normal, that everyone was treated the same. As I grew older I began to see children who were loved and praised, who were scolded and corrected, who at least received a reaction. I started to wonder why I was different, and, it seemed, I found an answer.

I barely knew my father. In my memory he was a tall man with large hands and a kind smile, who would lift me high, up to the sky, spin me round, and we would laugh together. We looked alike, as if I were a copy of him. In my room, beneath the mattress, an old worn photograph of him cradling a oneyearold me had lain hidden for years. As I grew, I became more and more his likeness. Perhaps Mum is still angry at Father, I told myself, and thats why she looks at me with such fury.

Mum often watched me in silence, her gaze long and cold, saying nothing. Father had left when I was about three; only the child support payments reminded me that he existed somewhere, working, living, but never once thinking of his daughter. I forgave him long ago.

It was incomprehensible why I harboured such a grudge against my mother. Outwardly I seemed to accept her treatment, yet inside the resentment grew like an icy block, pressing painfully on my heart and filling it with chill.

When the final school bell rang, I stood in my white lace aprons, searching the crowd for Mum. She had been present only at the opening ceremony, received a word of thanks from the headmaster for raising a wellbehaved daughter, and then vanished into the sea of faces. I watched, jealous, as other parents hugged their children, posed for photographs, while tears of bitterness threatened to spill.

Then university came. I was immensely proudgetting a place on a grant in such fierce competition seemed impossible, yet I had done it. Mum took the news calmly, without a smile, without any hint of pride. She only asked whether the college had a hall of residence and where I would live.

Having had enough, I packed my things, first staying with a friend and then pleading for a spot in the dormitory.

Years passed, and the distance between my mother and me grew until we barely spoke, a fact that bewildered my husband and my motherinlaw, Mrs. Whitaker, who had become my true family. My own mother never attended my wedding; she merely sent a respectable sum of money and a dry card of congratulations.

Mrs. Whitaker taught me the tricks of running a household and, more importantly, love. We would sit together over tea in the kitchen, talking of everything. She could simply reach out, hug, and show genuine compassion. Within a month after the wedding I began calling her Mum.

My birth mother seemed to have dissolved into solitude, finally finding the peace of loneliness she coveted. She never called first; she did not visit when I was discharged from the maternity ward with my son. Even the baby pictures I sent her she never opened, ignoring my messages. I kept silent, but often wept quietly in the bathroom at night.

Mrs. Whitaker saw it all, saw my reddened eyes and swollen face, and sighed heavily.

When my son, my little grandson, and I went to wish my mother a happy birthday, she took the present, thanked us curtly, and slammed the door shut, not even letting us step over the threshold. Mrs. Whitaker, ever caring, gathered her resolve and drove to my mothers house herself, determined to speak the truth no matter what.

There the whole story emerged.

My father, Arthur, had taken to drinking heavily almost immediately after my wedding. Yet my young husband, George, could not bear the thought of destroying his family. After months of wild excess he returned home cradling a child in his armsa baby born to one of his mistresses who had not survived childbirth. He brought the child into our home as his own.

What a woman feels in such a circumstance is hard to describe. Raising a child who is not yours, yet loving him sincerely, is a torment. I genuinely tried, almost succeeded, but George eventually left, disappearing in an unknown direction, leaving behind a daughter he no longer needed.

What was a young, abandoned mother to do with that child? Send him to a childrens home and try to rebuild her own life? Have more children of her own? What would people say? Fearful of judgment, I gave up my own aspirations for Althea, sacrificing my personal life.

All my life I tried to love the girl, but each time I looked at her faceso much like my traitorous husbands I realised I still loved him, while the child was merely a sad copy of him.

When Mrs. Whitaker returned home, Althea and her little boy were already asleep, intertwined on the large family bed. My husband was away on business, and the child had happily moved into the parental bedroom.

Mrs. Whitaker sat quietly on the edge of the bed, watching the two she loved. She tucked the grandson in with a blanket, gently smoothing Altheas dishevelled hair. How to tell her everything? Should the truth even be spoken?

Althea, feeling the unfamiliar touch, opened sleepy eyes and looked at the woman.

Sleep, my dear, sleep, the motherinlaw whispered, planting a soft kiss on Altheas forehead before slipping out and closing the door behind her.