Her Mother’s Red Coat

Are you hurting, Mum? I asked, voice trembling.

Its nothing, love. Go to bed, youve got exams tomorrow. She smiled, but the pain in her eyes was a raw ache that seeped straight into me. At seventeen, I truly believed I could surrender my own life just to keep hers alive.

Did you take your pills? Maybe a cup of peppermint tea, or just a glass of water? You look dreadful. I pressed a damp strand of hair away from her forehead. It was a lie born of love, a desperate attempt to shield her from worry. I already knew the truth; no deceit could hide it now. If I were five, I might have believed and calmed myself, but the sight of her fading, dimming gaze was unbearable.

Yes, I muttered, clenching my teeth hard enough to bite my own lip.

The orange glow of the bedside lamp bathed her face in a soft light, making her look almost youthful; the fine lines around her eyes softened, her skin taking on a gentle peach hue like autumn leaves. The pain lingered somewhere left of her solar plexus, deep in her lower lung. Trying to look natural, I rested my hand over the blanket, exactly where the tumor grew inside her, devouring her from within. I thought of our bodies as concentrated energy, all of us woven from the same matter that makes up the universe.

In my mind I imagined the illness spilling into my hand as glowing particles, climbing up my arm and settling in my chest. I would take it for myself, lock it in a strong prison and never let it go. My mothers life was infinitely more precious than my own. There was no one in the world kinder, brighter, or purer of heart than she was.

She gave me a tender smile, her eyes briefly clearing. I took it as a sign that my desperate, strange method might actually be working.

What now?

Alright, Im leaving. Goodnight, Mum.

And sweet dreams to you, love.

She attended my graduation ball, battling excruciating pain. Adjusting the petals on my flower bracelet, she whispered, Dont look at me with such sorrow. Ill be there at your wedding, I promise.

A month later she was gone. The world shrank to the size of a tennis ball, and I stood alone upon itcompletely isolated. Cosmic winds tossed me through the hollow corridors of existence, as if the home that had always sheltered me had collapsed, walls crumbling to dust that drifted through every intersection. For the first time I felt the icy breath of hurricanes, whirlwinds and barren wastelands that my mother had once kept at bay. The ruthless wind of early adulthood tried to knock me down at every uncertain step, forcing me to plant my feet firmer, think clearer, set sharp goals and never look back.

I enrolled at university and moved to Manchester. My father, Tom Harper, still sent money and moral support, though by then he had a new family. His new wife wasnt thrilled that, on top of the alimony he paid for years, he still contributed a sizeable sum for me. Still, his help was a lifeline and I accepted it gratefully. I spent five years in a student hall, returning to the flat I once shared with Mum only for winter breaks and brief summer visits. In the summer I rented a room in the city and took odd jobs. My classmates all went home to their parents; I simply had nowhere to go.

Even now, being in our old house without her feels like a raw wound. I placed Mums photographs on every shelf, hung them on the hallway and kitchen walls. She stared at me from every corneralive, joyous, full of sparkmaking the loss a little easier to bear, as if she never truly left, just moved to another town in spirit.

The gifts shed given me over the years became priceless. Id sit on the sofa, surround myself with photo albums, and, out of habit, dial her number. The line only returned a mechanical female voice: The subscriber is unavailable. Please try again later. Id stare at the framed picture on my desk, the one of us together, and leaf through albums of her childhood, hunting for resemblances that revealed hidden traits. Id load an old cassette into the player: her laughing, singing, dancingso vivid, so elegant, so soft. My mother was beautiful. She was, is, and will forever be with me.

Do you remember, Mum, how after your divorce we cramped into that tiny room? You gave me two white rats, and they multiplied so fast we had to catch their countless babies from every crack and rush them to the pet shop, giving away the ones that werent taken.

And the little crow we rescued from the orange neighbourhood tomcats jaws? He lived with us, grew feathers, flew away, but sometimes slipped through the window, perched and cawed, Caw! Im here! and wed feed him a crust of bread from our hands.

Do you recall the day I tore a piece from that childrens picture book of sweets because we had no money for candy? That evening you bought us the most beautiful cake in the world.

Do you remember digging through Grandmas old wardrobe and finding that tiny icon with a photo of us tucked inside? Grandpa said she prayed for us each night.

You know, Mum, how often, now as an adult, I pass shop windows and, seeing something that would have delighted you, I picture you smiling at it. Yesterday I saw a sleek red coat in a display and instantly thought of youhow you loved red and outfits that highlighted the waist. Now I buy those things for you in my dreams, taking you shopping, spoiling you with everything you never could have while you were alive.

Artist Andre Conrad

You gave me so much, Mum, with a boundless love that still lives inside me, reminding me that only your physical shell has faded, while your soul soars above the clouds, watching over me, whispering the right answers. That presence still fuels me, gives me strength to keep living and find joy in each new day. Sometimes the ache is overwhelming, a wild, unbearable yearning to press against you, to feel your familiar scent and warmth, to the point where I want to scream with longing. In those moments I swear I can see you clearlyyour face, smile, hair, hands, the silk, almost translucent scarf, even the faint trail of your perfume. I suddenly understand that youre still here, your love still shielding me, guiding me forward. You were always proud of me, even when there seemed no obvious cause for pridejust because I was your daughter.

Every weekend I remind my husband, Mark:

Call your mother, ask how shes doing, if shes alright.

He wasnt used to it at first; for him, parents were a given, always nearby, ready to help.

When we visit his parents, I always buy gifts for his mother and persuade Mark to give them to her in my name. She blushes, touched by the attention, unaccustomed to a grown sons care. It fills me with warmthshe is a mother, his mother, irreplaceable just as you once were to me. I never intruded on her heart or tried to replace my own mother, but one day I asked her advice about lingering health worries, and she erupted, Why didnt you tell me earlier? Why keep it hidden?

I didnt want to burden you with my troubles, I replied.

What burden? Youre now my daughter, and I am yours. Your own mother may be gone, but I am here now.

I wept remembering her words. After years of deep loneliness, I finally had someone I could truly call mother. I became her daughter, yet no one will ever call me my little bird again. And thats how it should be.

The word mum is shortjust four letters, two of them the sameand yet it holds the most fundamental meaning for any human being.