З життя
Хвороба матері приголомшила Юлю: Як таке могло трапитися?
Мамина хвороба стала для Юлі справжнім потрясінням. Як це мама захворіла? Мама ж не може захворіти! Вона найсильніша! Найздоровіша! Мама завжди з усім справляється!
Того ранку Юлі зателефонувала сусідка мами по під’їзду. Юля ще спала і не відразу почула дзвінок.
– Юля! Ледве до тебе додзвонилася! Чому ж ти трубку не береш?
– Хто це? – засмикана Юля не одразу зрозуміла.
– Це Люда! З 32-ї квартири, сусідка твоєї мами.
– Ааа, доброго ранку… – Юля схопилася з ліжка. – А що трапилося?
– Юлько, маму твою “швидка” забрала вночі.
– Як? Що сталося?
– Серце, Юль… Вона ж уже не така молода.
Ось так раптово з’ясувалося, що мама вже не молоденька. У лікарні, куди Юля приїхала, як тільки змогла, до матері не пустили. Сказали, що поки до неї не можна.
– Принесіть їй речі, бо вона навіть зібратися не встигла, – мовила молода лікарка. – Приїжджайте до вечора. Можливо, дозволять відвідати.
***
Юля взяла відпустку «з особистих причин» і вирушила до матері. На свій сором, вона не могла похвалитися, що часто відвідувала маму. Усе була зайнята. Робота, спроби налагодити особисте життя, спорт, зустрічі з друзями… Час зараз такий, що встигнути все просто неможливо.
А коли Юля дзвонила, мама завжди говорила: «Юлько, займайся своїми справами! У мене все чудово! Сиджу, чаюю з варенням!» І Юля заспокоювалася. Уявляла, як мама задоволена і щаслива сидить на своїй світлій кухні, дивиться телевізор і п’є чай з варенням. Все добре в мами!
Коли мама вийшла на пенсію, Юля іноді намагалася допомогти грошима. Але мама завжди припиняла ці спроби.
«Не треба! – казала вона. – Мені вистачає! У мене все в порядку!» Мама виховувала Юлю сама. І Юля якось звикла до думки, що мама може з усім справитися. Завжди активна, позитивна, не сумує.
– Навіть якщо все погано, вранці ти повинна зробити зарядку і причепуритися, – вчила мама. – Тоді сили і настрій з’являться!
Мама Юлю вчила, що життя дуже добре і справедливе. І можна вирішити будь-яку проблему, якщо, звісно, не вішати носа і не сумувати.
Юля вірила, що у мами все добре. І навіть якщо з’являються якісь проблеми, вона з ними легко справляється.
Іноді, звісно, Юля приїжджала до матері. Але рідко. В основному, коли треба було вирішити справи в тому районі, де жила мама. Залетіла на пару хвилин, навіть не залишалася чай пити. Обійме маму, поцілує і знову біжить по своїх справах.
«Біжи, моя хороша, біжи! – напуття давала мама. – У тебе справи важливі. А поговоримо потім. По телефону».
Мама ніколи не скаржилася на якісь складні проблеми. З усім вона справлялася абсолютно самостійно. Не те що Юля.
Десять років тому, коли Юля розлучилася з ініціативи чоловіка, вона була в повній депресії і не розуміла, як жити далі. І мама кожного дня приїжджала. Юля тоді навіть на роботі взяла відпустку за свій рахунок. Усе лежала і думала, що тепер нічого хорошого в її житті не буде.
І мама стала приїжджати кожного ранку. Їхала через ціле місто автобусом. А приїхавши, змушувала Юлю встати і зробити зарядку. Потім снідали і починали прибирання. Мили підлоги, витирали пил, шукали старі і непотрібні речі, викидали їх. Потім йшли в магазин і купували їжу рівно на один день. Потім готували і розмовляли про все, крім Юлиного розлучення.
І через місяць Юля ожила. А мама перестала до неї їздити.
Юлині подруги часто скаржилися на своїх батьків. Мовляв, ниють, намагаються виховувати, скаржаться на те, що життя стало гіршим, ніж у часи їхньої молодості.
Юлина мама ніколи не скаржилася. Жодного слова про проблеми зі здоров’ям, невдоволення політикою чи сучасною молоддю.
Коли одного разу Юля пожалілася, що зараз вся молодь застрягла в смартфонах, мама посміялася і сказала, що у кожного часу є свої особливості. І все проходить.
«Були часи, коли жінкам забороняли читати, – сказала вона. – Але і це минуло. Зараз жінка, яка читає, у пошані».
Юля завжди вважала свою маму наймудрішою і найсильнішою жінкою у світі. І, як би це не звучало безглуздо, мабуть, безсмертною.
А тепер ось мама захворіла.
Коли Юля відчинила двері до маминої квартири, раптом усвідомила, що не була тут уже кілька років. Як слід не була. Щоб увійти, озирнутися, посидіти…
Квартира застаріла. Та і не дивно. Мама ж ремонт робила років 15 тому. Юля зайшла на кухню. Чистенько. Мама, звісно, не допускає безладу і бруду. Але ось дверцята в шафці відходять. А тут стільниця відкололась. І кран капає. А на стелі величезна пляма. Очевидно, сусіди заливали, а мама нічого не сказала…
Юля відкрила холодильник. Баночка варення, картопля і яйця. Дивно, адже мама завжди любила добре поїсти. І Юля добре пам’ятала, що у мами завжди була якась випічка, супи… Невже грошей бракує? Або сил?
Юля зайшла в спальню і відчинила шафу. На вішаках два плаття. Мама їх купувала ще років десять тому. На полицях штопані-перештопані колготи, старенька білизна. А мама ж завжди була модницею і говорила Юлі, що жінка навіть вдома повинна виглядати гарно.
Далі ванна кімната. На стіні тріщина, а поруч з нею величезний тарган. На гачку старенький рушник. У мильниці обмилок.
Юлі похололо серце. А вона ж вірила, коли мама говорила, що грошей вистачає. Яка ж дурна! Кому зараз може вистачити пенсії? І на що? На те, щоб не померти з голоду?
Юля почала збирати мамі речі в лікарню. Старенький халатик, нічна сорочка з дірочками, білизна… А потім передумала. Взяла тільки білизну.
«Інше своє привезу, – вирішила вона. – Все одно розмір один. Але моє хоч симпатичне… І предмети гігієни нові куплю».
Коли Юля приїхала до мами ввечері, її пропустили. Мама лежала слабенька, бліда, але в очах горіло веселощами.
– Юлько, ти що надумала? – засміялася вона, коли побачила, що Юля привезла свої речі. – Навіщо?
– Бо я дурна, мамо, – відповіла Юля. – Думала, тобі всього вистачає, а насправді… І вона раптом почала плакати.
– Юля, хвилюватися мені не можна! – поплескала її по руці мама. – Так що не плач.
– Після лікарні до мене переїдеш! – всхлипувала Юля. – Щоб на очах у мене була.
Мама мовчала і веселилася дивлячись на Юлю. І в її очах читалося, що нікуди вона, звісно, не переїде.
***
Маму виписали через два тижні. Лікар намагався ще на тиждень затримати її, але хіба Юлину маму затримаєш?
– Мам, переїжджай до мене, – просила Юля. – У мене місця вистачить. Я переживаю за тебе.
– Я в порядку! Не потрібно мене опікати!
Що ще можна від Юлиної мами очікувати?
Але Юля для себе зробила висновки. Стала дзвонити мамі кожного дня і приїжджати раз на тиждень. І не просто так, а з продуктами. Допомагала прибирати, готувати їжу.
Оновили мамі гардероб. Купили нову постільну білизну, рушники та інші домашні дрібниці.
Мама, звісно, спочатку чинила опір. Казала, що Юлі потрібно займатися своїм життям, а вона якось сама впорається. Але Юля більше на цю вудку не піддавалася.
Мами в віці вони ж, як діти. За ними потрібен постійний догляд.
THE MOTHER-IN-LAW Anna Petrovna sat in the kitchen, watching the milk quietly simmer on the stove. Three times she’d forgotten to stir it, and each time she remembered too late: the froth would rise and spill over, and she’d wipe the stovetop in irritation. In those moments, she realized: it wasn’t about the milk. Ever since her second grandchild was born, it was as if everything in the family had gone off the rails. Her daughter grew weary, lost weight, and spoke less. Her son-in-law came home late, ate in silence, and sometimes retreated straight to the bedroom. Anna Petrovna noticed all this and thought: how could anyone leave a woman alone like this? She spoke up—first gently, then with more edge. At first to her daughter, then to her son-in-law. But she began to notice a strange thing: after her words, things in the house didn’t get lighter—they got heavier. Her daughter defended her husband, her son-in-law grew more withdrawn, and she herself went home with the feeling she’d once again done the wrong thing. That day, she went to the vicar not for advice, but because she simply had nowhere else to go with these feelings. ‘I suppose I’m just a bad person,’ she said, not looking at him. ‘I do everything wrong.’ The vicar was sitting at his desk, writing. He put down his pen. ‘Why do you think that?’ Anna Petrovna shrugged. ‘I wanted to help. But it seems all I do is make everyone angry.’ He looked at her kindly, without judgment. ‘You’re not a bad person. You’re tired. And very anxious.’ She sighed. That felt like the truth. ‘I’m scared for my daughter,’ she said. ‘She’s so different after giving birth. And him…’ she waved a hand. ‘It’s like he doesn’t even notice.’ ‘And do you notice what he does?’ asked the vicar. Anna Petrovna thought. She remembered last week, when he quietly washed the dishes late at night, thinking no one noticed. Or on Sunday, when he took the pram out for a walk, even though it was clear he just wanted to lie down and sleep. ‘He does things… I think,’ she said uncertainly. ‘But not the way he should.’ ‘And what is “the way he should”?’ asked the vicar calmly. Anna Petrovna wanted to answer right away, but suddenly realized she didn’t know. In her head: more, more often, more attentively. But specifically what, she couldn’t say. ‘I just want it to be easier for her,’ she said. ‘Then say that,’ the vicar responded gently. ‘But say it to yourself, not to him.’ She looked up at him. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘I mean that right now, you aren’t fighting for your daughter—you’re fighting with her husband. And fighting means tension. Everyone gets tired of that. You. Them.’ Anna Petrovna was silent for a long time. Then she asked: ‘So what should I do? Pretend everything’s fine?’ ‘No,’ he said. ‘Just do what helps. Not words, but actions. And not against anyone, but for someone.’ On the way home, she thought about this. Remembered how, when her daughter was little, she didn’t lecture her but just sat beside her when she cried. Why was it different now? The next day she showed up without warning. Brought soup. Her daughter was surprised, her son-in-law awkward. ‘I won’t stay long,’ Anna Petrovna said. ‘Just came to help.’ She watched the children while her daughter slept. Left quietly, without saying a word about how hard things must be or how they ought to live. A week later, she came again. And a week after that. She still saw her son-in-law wasn’t perfect. But she began to notice other things too: how carefully he lifted the youngest, how he tucked a blanket around her daughter at night, thinking no one saw. One day, she couldn’t help herself and asked him in the kitchen: ‘Is it hard for you right now?’ He looked surprised, as if no one had ever asked him that. ‘It’s hard,’ he said after a pause. ‘Really hard.’ And that was it. But after that, something sharp disappeared from the air between them. Anna Petrovna realized: she’d been waiting for him to change. But what needed to change was herself. She stopped discussing him with her daughter. When her daughter complained, she didn’t say, ‘I told you so.’ Just listened. Sometimes she took the children so her daughter could rest. Sometimes she called her son-in-law to ask how he was. It wasn’t easy. It was much easier to get angry. But slowly, the house grew quieter. Not better, not perfect—just quieter. Without the constant strain. One day her daughter said: ‘Mum, thank you for being with us now, not against us.’ Anna Petrovna thought about those words for a long time. She realized something simple: peace isn’t when someone admits they’re wrong. It’s when someone is the first to stop fighting. She still wished her son-in-law was more attentive. That wish didn’t go away. But living alongside it was something more important: wanting peace in the family. And every time the old feelings came up—indignation, bitterness, the urge to say something sharp—she asked herself: Do I want to be right, or do I want life to be easier for them? The answer almost always told her what to do next.
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The Recipe for Happiness… Everyone in the block watched as new tenants moved into the second-floor flat—a family headed by the manager of the local factory workshop, an important business in a quiet English market town. “Why do you think they chose to live in these old red-brick flats?” wondered retired Mrs. Nina Andrews aloud to her friends. “With his connections, surely they could have landed a place in a new development.” “Don’t judge by your own standards, Mum,” chimed in her thirty-year-old unmarried daughter Anna, sporting bright makeup. “Why would they want something new when these Victorian terraces have high ceilings, grand halls, spacious rooms, and a massive balcony—like in a country house. Besides, they got a phone line the very first week—not everyone in our block even has a phone; just three out of the nine flats!” “You’re always gabbing on the phone!” scolded her mother. “You’re a nuisance to the neighbours. And mind you don’t start pestering the new lot—they’re proper and busy people.” “Oh, they’re not so serious! They’re young, and they have a little girl—nine years old, Natasha,” Anna replied, giving her mum a wounded look. “They’re practically my age, just five years older at most.” The new neighbours turned out to be polite and cheerful—Lydia worked as the school librarian, Ivan had been at the factory for ten years. Anna became the neighbourhood news source, chatting with the ladies in the courtyard each evening as her mum listened in. “How do you already know all this, Anna?” they would tease. “Oh, I pop in to use their phone! Unlike some people, they actually let me,” Anna retorted, referencing the times neighbours refused to open their door, suspecting she’d yak away for ages to her girlfriends. So Anna befriended the newcomers and made herself at home, often calling friends and colleagues for long chats, showing up in new outfits or cosy dressing gowns, clearly hoping to grow close to the family. One day, she noticed Ivan pointedly closing the lounge door when she entered to use the phone. The same thing happened again and again. Anna would flash a smile at Lydia and peek into the kitchen to thank her after her calls, but Lydia would just nod and politely ask her to shut the door on her way out. “I can’t—my hands are covered in flour,” Lydia would explain. “Our lock snaps shut on its own—it’s French.” “Oh, what are you baking now? More pastries? You always have something fresh coming out of the oven… I never learnt to bake,” Anna gushed. “Just making some sweet cheese buns for breakfast, but I won’t have time in the morning—that’s why I’m baking now,” Lydia smiled, turning back to her dough. Anna grimaced and left, annoyed her friendship wasn’t warming up. Later that evening, Ivan said, “Listen, Lyds, I know it’s awkward to refuse her, but our phone is permanently tied up every evening and my mates can’t get through. It’s not fair.” “Yes, she’s gotten a bit too comfortable, coming in as if she lives here and gossiping away,” Lydia agreed. That same night, Anna showed up again—dressed to the nines, made up, and perched on the hallway chair chatting away. After ten minutes, Lydia asked, “Anna, will you be long? We’re expecting a call.” Anna nodded and hung up but pulled a chocolate bar from her pocket and grinned, “I brought treats! Come on, let’s have tea—my treat for getting to know you.” She laid the chocolate on the kitchen table, but Lydia hesitated. “No, please—take it away. Natasha has allergies; she can’t have sweets. In our house, chocolate is a strict no-go.” “What? But I was just being kind,” Anna blushed, stung. “No need for grateful gifts, and do us a favour: don’t come by so often—unless it’s for a real emergency, the doctor or fire brigade. That’s different. Even in the middle of the night, we’d understand. But just for chatting… best not,” Lydia managed politely. Anna took her chocolate and left without a word, feeling slighted, and convinced herself Lydia must be jealous of her youth or charm. “She knows I’m younger, prettier—that’s why she snubbed me,” Anna griped to her mum. “I only wanted to be friendly, but she wouldn’t even pour me a cup of tea—and I brought my own chocolate.” “Silly girl,” Mrs. Andrews sighed. “You shouldn’t force your way into someone else’s home. If they don’t want your calls, that’s their right. They’re a decent family, not a public drop-in centre, and you were firmly shown the door. Don’t make it about jealousy—find yourself a husband and get your own phone, then let your neighbours come calling on you!” Anna’s last attempt at getting close was to pop round with a notebook to ask Lydia for her cheese bun recipe. “Could you give me your sweet cheese bun recipe? I really should learn…” “Better ask your mum,” Lydia replied, surprised. “Our mums know lots—I always just mix by eye, I don’t use strict measures. My hands know what to do. Sorry, I’d really better dash.” Anna blushed again and trudged home. She knew her mum’s battered old recipe book was in the kitchen, full of handwritten gems—salads, pies, even fish terrine. Half the book was devoted to cakes and baking. But Anna didn’t fancy baking, and her mum had long since given it up due to her blood pressure. Still, Anna retrieved the notebook, leafed through indifferently, then found the recipe she needed, surprising her mother. “Are you actually planning on baking?” Mrs. Andrews gasped. “Why does that surprise you?” Anna snapped the book shut. “Has something happened with Slava? I thought you’d parted, just like all your other beaus.” “Why would you think that? He’ll come running back whenever I want,” Anna grumbled. “Well, then why not want it?” her mother chuckled. “And what recipe are you after? I’ll help if you like.” “I can manage,” Anna replied quickly. A few days later, when her mum got back from her evening walk, the smell of baking greeted her. “Good Lord, what’s that? Pies baking? You must really be in love,” her mother exclaimed. “Don’t shout so the whole block hears! Come in and have a taste. They’re cheese buns, traditional ones.” The kettle steamed, the table was set, and a plate of golden cheese buns awaited. “You’ve still got it,” her mum said. “We haven’t baked together in ages and I thought you’d forgotten—but you did it. Well done.” “Don’t just say that—tell me honestly. Are they all right?” “You’ve got a tongue, haven’t you? Try one!” her mum laughed. Anna flashed back to her Dad—those were his words: “It’s edible.” The highest praise. “Right then, I’ll invite Slava round for tea soon—serve him these. Think he’ll like them?” “He’ll love them! I won your Dad by baking these—he was besotted with both the buns and me,” her mum grinned. “Keep baking and invite him. I’ll go watch telly at the neighbour’s—good to see you finally have your priorities straight. You won’t win hearts just by dressing up and curling your hair.” Soon, Slava became a regular visitor. The rows faded, Anna spent more time in the kitchen, with Slava helping and their laughter echoing through the flat. When Anna told her mum they’d registered for marriage, Mrs. Andrews nearly wept with joy. Anna blossomed, slimming down before the wedding. Slava teased, “You’ve stopped baking! Will you make a cake for our wedding at least?” For the home wedding, Anna, her mother, and aunt spent two days preparing festive dishes, though there’d only be about twenty guests—all family. The newlyweds moved into their own big room in the three-bedroom flat. That year, telephones were finally installed for all households. Anna, now content, called everyone at first, but always kept her chats short: “Sorry, Rita, got to dash—my dough’s rising and Slava’s heading home. Bye!” She hurried to the kitchen, where the dough was lifting under its own yeasty cloud. Anna was expecting, her maternity leave just a month away, but the young wife never rested—she cooked, she baked, keeping her husband happy. She adored cheese buns, especially homemade, and so did he—after all, what could be sweeter than a home filled with warmth, laughter, and the smell of baking?
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“How Can You Refuse to Look After My Son’s Child?”: An English Mother-in-Law’s Outburst – Family Tensions Flare as Rita Stands Her Ground on Parenting, Work–Life Balance, and Respect in a Modern Blended Family
How can you say you wont take care of my sons child? My future mother-in-law had blurted out, unable to...
I Shouted From the Window: “Mum, Why Are You Up So Early? You’ll Catch Cold!” — She Turned, Waved Her Shovel in Greeting: “I’m Doing This For You Lot, You Lazybones.” — And The Next Day My Mum Was Gone… Even Now, I Can’t Walk Past Our Old Garden Without Heartache… Every Time I See That Path, My Heart Clenches As If Someone’s Gripping It. It Was On The Second Of January I Took That Photo… I Was Just Passing By, Noticed The Footprints In The Snow — And Stopped. Snapped A Picture, Not Really Knowing Why. Now, That Photo Is All I’ve Got Left From Those Days… We Celebrated New Year’s As Always, All Together As A Family. Mum Was Up Early On The 31st, As Usual. The Smell Of Frying Burgers And Her Voice In The Kitchen Woke Me Up: “Love, Get Up! Help Me Finish The Salads, Or Your Dad Will Scoff Half The Ingredients Again!” I Came Down In My Pyjamas, Hair All Over The Place. She Was By The Cooker In Her Favourite Apron With Peaches — The One I Gave Her In School. Her Cheeks Were Rosy From The Oven And She Was Smiling. “Mum, Let Me At Least Have Coffee First,” I Moaned. “Coffee Later! First, The Salad!” She Laughed, Tossing Me A Bowl Of Roast Veg. “Chop It Fine Like I Like — Not Fist-Sized Chunks Like Last Time.” We Chopped And Chatted About Everything Under The Sun. She Told Me About New Year’s In Her Childhood — No Fancy Salads, Only A Herring Under Its Coat And The Tangerines Her Dad Brought Home Especially. Soon Dad Brought In The Christmas Tree — Huge, Nearly To The Ceiling. “Ladies, Come Admire The Tree!” He Announced Proudly. “Dad, Did You Chop Down The Whole Forest?” I Gasped. Mum Walked In, Threw Her Hands Up: “It’s Lovely, But Where Will We Put It? Last Time Was Smaller.” Still, She Helped Us Decorate. My Sister Lera And I Hung Up The Lights, Mum Dug Out The Old Decorations From My Childhood. I Remember Her Picking Out The Little Glass Angel. She Whispered, “I Bought This For Your First New Year, Remember?” “I Do, Mum,” I Lied. I Didn’t, Not Really, But I Nodded. She Glowed Because I Remembered That Angel… My Brother Arrived Later, As Usual — Laden With Bags, Gifts, And Bottles. “Mum, Got Proper Champagne This Year! Not That Sour Stuff From Last Time.” “Oh, Love, Just Don’t Let Everyone Get Plastered,” Mum Laughed, Hugging Him. At Midnight, We All Went Outside. Dad And My Brother Set Off Fireworks, Lera Squealed With Joy — And Mum Stood Beside Me, Arm Around My Shoulders. “Look, Love, Isn’t It Beautiful?” She Whispered. “What A Wonderful Life We Have…” I Hugged Her Back. “The Best One, Mum.” We Drank Champagne Round The Bottle, Laughed When A Firework Whizzed Towards The Neighbour’s Shed. Mum, A Little Tipsy, Danced In Her Woolly Boots To “Rockin’ Around The Christmas Tree,” And Dad Swept Her Off Her Feet. We Laughed Ourselves To Tears. On The First Of January, We Lounged All Day. Mum Cooked Again — This Time Dumplings And Jellied Meat. “Mum, Stop Already! We’re Going To Burst!” I Moaned. “Nonsense, You’ll Finish It — New Year Celebrations Last A Week,” She Brushed Me Off. On The Second, She Was Up Early Again. I Heard The Door, Peeked Out — There She Was In The Garden With Her Shovel. Clearing The Path. Old Puffy Jacket, Scarf Tied, Working Carefully: From The Gate Right Up To The Steps — Narrow, Straight. Piling Snow Beside The Wall Like She Always Did. I Called Out The Window: “Mum, Why So Early? You’ll Freeze Out There!” She Turned Back, Waved Her Shovel: “Otherwise You Lazy Lot Will Walk Through Snowdrifts All Spring! Go On, Put The Kettle On.” I Smiled, Went To The Kitchen. She Came In Half An Hour Later, Cheeks Rosy, Eyes Bright. “All Done, Nice And Tidy,” She Said, Sitting With Her Coffee. “Came Out Well, Didn’t It?” “Yes, Mum. Thank You.” That Was The Last Time I Heard Her Sound So Full Of Life. On January Third, She Woke And Whispered, “Girls, My Chest Feels Odd. Not Bad, Just Uncomfortable.” I Got Worried At Once. “Mum, Shall We Call An Ambulance?” “Oh, Don’t Fret, Love. I’m Just Worn Out. Cooked And Dashed About So Much. I’ll Rest, It’ll Pass.” She Lay Down, Lera And I At Her Side. Dad Went To The Chemist For Some Pills. She Even Joked, “Don’t Look So Gloomy, I’ll Outlive The Lot Of You.” Then She Turned Pale. Clutched Her Chest. “Oh… I feel awful… Too Awful…” We Called An Ambulance. I Held Her Hand, Whispered, “Mummy, Hold On, They’re Coming, It’ll Be Fine…” She Looked At Me, Barely Audible, “Love… I adore you all… I hate to say goodbye.” The Paramedics Came Quickly, But… There Was Nothing They Could Do. A Massive Heart Attack. It All Happened In Minutes. I Sat On The Hall Floor And Howled. I Couldn’t Believe It. Just Yesterday She Danced Beneath The Fireworks, Full Of Life — Now… Barely Steady, I Went Out To The Garden. The Snow Hardly Falling Anymore. And I Saw Her Footprints. Those Same Small, Neat, Straight Prints From The Gate To The Steps And Back Again. Exactly Like She Always Left. I Stood And Stared At Them For Ages. I Asked God, “How Can It Be That Yesterday A Person Walked Here — And Today, They’re Gone? The Footprints Remain, But She Doesn’t.” Maybe I Was Dreaming, But It Seemed Like On The Second Of January She Went Out For The Last Time — To Leave Us A Clear Path. So We Could Cross It Without Her. I Didn’t Let Anyone Shovel Those Prints Away, Asked Them All To Leave Them. Let Them Stay Until The Snow Covers Them For Good. That’s The Last Thing She Did For Us. Her Everyday Care Shone Through Even When She Was Gone. A Week Later, Heavy Snow Covered The Path. I Keep That Photo Of Mum’s Last Footprints. Every Year, On The Third Of January, I Look At It — And Then Out At The Empty Path By The House. And It Hurts To Know That Somewhere Under All That Snow, She Left Her Last Steps. The Ones I’m Still Following…
I remember that chilly January morning I leaned out the window and called, Mum, what are you doing up so...