Her Mother’s Scarlet Coat

Scarlet coat of my mother

Are you hurting a lot, Mum?

Not at all, Poppy. Go to bed.

I watched her and could not believe it. She was in paindeep, aching pain that seemed to seep into me. At seventeen I truly believed I could give my own life if it meant keeping hers alive.

Did you take your tablets? Would you like some peppermint tea or just a glass of water? I can see youre unwell.

My dear, you should be sleeping. Tomorrow you have two exams. Have you revised everything?

I gently pushed a strand of damp hair from her forehead. It was a lie born of love, a lie to shield the one I loved from worry. I already knew the truth; I could not be fooled. If I were five, I might have believed it and calmed down, but the sight of her dimming eyes cut me to the bone.

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

In the soft glow of the orange nightlamp, her face seemed almost youthful, the fine lines around her eyes less pronounced, her skin taking on a peachy hue like autumn leaves. The pain sat somewhere left of her solar plexus, low in her lung. Trying to look natural, I rested my hand on the blanket right over the spot where a tumor was eating her from within. I thought of our bodies as vessels of concentrated energy, all of us made from the same matter that weaves the universe.

I imagined the illness flowing into my hand as glowing specks, climbing my arm and settling deep in my chest. I would take it for myself! I would lock it in a sturdy cell and never let it go. My mothers life was far more precious than my own. No one on earth had a heart kinder, brighter, or purer than hers

She looked at me with a tender smile, and for a brief moment her gaze seemed clearer. I told myself this was my success, that my desperate, strange method was finally working.

So what?

Alright, alright, Im leaving now. Good night, Mum.

And sweet dreams to you, my love.

She made it to my graduation ball, battling excruciating pain. Adjusting the petals on my floral wristband, she whispered softly:

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 on it alonecompletely solitary. The winds of the cosmos tossed me, lost and unmoored, through every corner of existence. It was as if the home that had always protected me suddenly collapsed; its walls turned to dust blown across every crossroads, and I, utterly defenseless, felt for the first time the chilling breath of hurricanes, tornadoes and barren wastelands that my mother had always shielded me from. That ruthless wind of early adulthood tried to topple me at every uncertain step, forcing me to walk steadier, think more logically, set clear goals and never look back.

I enrolled at university and moved to the county town. My father, John, helped me financially and tried to offer moral support, but by then he had a new family, and his wife, Susan, resented the extra sums he still sent my way on top of the alimony he paid. Still, his assistance was a huge lifeline, and I accepted it. I spent five years in a student hall, returning to the flat I once shared with my mother only for the winter holidays and a brief summer break. In the summer months I rented a room in town and found parttime work. All my classmates went home to their parents, and I had nowhere to go.

Even now it is hard to be in our house without her. I have placed her photographs on every shelf, hung them on the hallway and kitchen walls. She watches me from everywherealive, joyous, full of spirit. It makes the loss a little easier to bear, as if she never truly died but simply moved to another city.

The gifts she gave me over the years have become priceless. I sit on the sofa, surround myself with the photo albums we filled together, and, out of habit, dial her number. No ringback comes. A dry female voice informs me that the subscriber cannot take the call and suggests trying later. I stare at the framed picture on my desk, the one of us together. In the albums are her childhood photos; I scour them for resemblances, each time discovering new details I had never seen. I pop a cassette into the old player: my mother laughing, singing, dancingcompletely alive. She was elegant, feminine, gentle. My mother was beautiful. She was, is, and will always be with me.

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

Do you recall how we rescued a little crow from the jaws of a ginger street cat? It stayed with us, grew strong, feathered out and flew away, but would sometimes slip through the window, bob its black head and squawk, Caw! Im here! and we would feed it a slice of bread from our hand?

Do you remember how, as a child, I tore a piece from a picture book of sweets because the illustrations looked delicious and I had no money for candy? That evening you bought us the most beautiful cake in the world.

Do you remember how we emptied Granddads old wardrobe and found a tiny icon behind a photograph of us? Granddad later said she prayed for both of us every night

You know, Mum, how often I, now an adult, pass shop windows and, spotting something interesting, think how much you would have liked it? Yesterday I saw an elegant scarlet coat in a display and instantly imagined you beaming with delight. You always loved red and garments that highlighted the waist. Now I buy those things for you in my dreams, Mum. I take you shopping in my mind, splurging on everything you adored but could never afford while you were alive.

Artist Andrew Cook

You gave me so much, with a love so boundless that it still lives inside me, reminding me that only your physical shell has faded, while your soul soars above the clouds, watching me from there, still guiding me. I still feel your support, and it gives me strength to keep living and to find joy in each new day. Sometimes the ache becomes overwhelming, a wild, unbearable longing to press my face to yours, to feel your familiar scent and warmth to the point where I want to scream from grief. In those moments I swear I see you clearly: your face, smile, hair, hands, the silklight scarf you always wore, even hearing the faint trail of your perfume. I suddenly understand, with crystal clarity, that you are still here, and your love continues to guard me, helping me move forward. You were always proud of me, even when there seemed no special reason to be, proud simply because I was your daughter.

Every weekend I remind my husband:

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

He didnt get used to it right away; for him parents are a given, always present and ready to help.

When we visit his parents, I always buy gifts for his mother and persuade my husband to give them to her on my behalf. She blushes modestly, touched by the attention, because she isnt used to her adult son showing such care. It fills me with warmth and joy After all, shes a mother, his mother, just as irreplaceable as you once were to me. I never intruded on her heart or tried to replace my own mother, but one day I dared to ask her advice about health worries that had haunted me for years. She became genuinely upset and exclaimed:

Why didnt you tell me sooner? Why keep it hidden?

I didnt want to burden you with my troubles.

What burden? Youre my daughter now, and Im yours. Your own mother may be gone, but Im here for you!

I wept afterwards, recalling her words. After years of deep loneliness, I finally had someone I could truly call Mum. I became her daughter, yet no one will ever call me my little bird again. And thats fine.

The word Mum is shortjust four letters, two of them repeatingbut within it lies the most fundamental meaning for any person.

Lifes greatest lesson is that love does not die with the body; it lives on in the memories we keep, the habits we inherit, and the hearts we open to new people. It is the unseen thread that binds past, present and future, guiding us forward even when the world feels as small as a tennis ball.