You Don’t Belong Here, Mum

The door didnt swing open straight away. Anne Whitaker managed a brief breath, but the thin sweat gathering on her forehead kept dripping in uncomfortable streams across her eyebrows and down her nose. From the hallway came a surprised gasp, then the click of a lock, and finally her daughter stepped into the entryway.

Mother? Good heavens How did you haul all those bags? Why didnt you say you were coming?

The tall, sunkissed girl, her face set in a puzzled expression, was Verity, a daughter Anne hadnt seen for more than a year. When a trip to her parents cottage in the Yorkshire Dales finally became possible, Anne, spurred by a justified worry, decided on a long journey.

Its the way Im built, Verity I never come emptyhanded, she answered, pulling the two suitcases through the doorway in a jerky motion. Verity didnt offer to help; perhaps she was still stunned, perhaps she simply hadnt gathered herself yet. She leaned toward one of the handles, tugged the bag away from the threshold so they could pass.

Lord, did you stuff a whole boar in that suitcase?

Her voice was smooth as polished stone, lacking any joy, only confusion and irritation. She didnt hug her mother, merely glanced helplessly at the second piece of luggagea bulging, oldfashioned wheeled trunk that sat awkwardly on the polished floor like an artifact from another era.

Anne took a tiny step forward, her fingers trembling from the effort, fidgeting with the clasp on her coat strap.

Im sorry, Verity I brought a few things: jam for our Vennie, ajika as you like it, all grown in the garden with your father, she said, her voice breaking from the recent physical strain and tinged with guilt.

Verity sighed, the sound deep and weary, and shifted her gaze from the trunk to her mothers crumpled dress, the crooked scarf, the tiny beads of sweat on her upper lip.

Without waiting for a suggestion, Anne dropped onto the nearest whiteleather settee, sitting up straight in the oldfashioned way, her tired hands folded on her knees. The journey had exhausted her. The train from London to York had lasted twentyeight hours, followed by a squeeze onto the underground with the cumbersome trunk that kept getting stuck at the barriers.

But she never showed up emptyhanded. Never. Especially after a year apart.

Did you change your phone number? Anne exhaled, looking around. Ive called for four days, nothing. Fathers blood pressure spiked on day two, on day three I was a wreck, my heart was in my throat. By the fourth day I thought Id have to buy a ticket. I booked three days later, and you were still out of reach. Our souls felt out of place, and then I trudged all the way to your London flat Whats wrong with your phone? You cant toy with us old folk. Were already seventyplus, havent you forgotten? And here I am, lugging these bags.

Verity turned her eyes away, a faint pink blooming on her alwaysconfident face. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

Its all fine, Mum. I just changed the number, got caught up, forgot to tell you she rushed, swallowing the last words.

And Vennies number didnt answer either.

I switched that too. Were on a new provider now.

Sitting on the stiff settee, Anne couldnt help but admire her daughter. Verity the longawaited, cherished little girl after two wayward boys was now the centre of her world.

Her thoughts drifted to her sons. The eldest, Max, lived across the Atlantic in the United States, having left years ago for work. He called only on big holidays. His grandchildren existed only in photos on her phone. Sometimes she imagined their voices, their laughter, but the pictures never formed clear images; they were too far away.

Are you feeling alright, Mum? Veritys voice startled her from the melancholy.

No, love, just daydreaming. Im just taking a breather, Anne replied with a faint smile. Hows little Venny?

Hes at football now, should be back any minute. Could you fetch him?

Just a moment, Ill have a glass of water.

Verity padded to the kitchen, while Anne lingered a little longer in her memories. Her middle son, Alex, lived in a city up north, but they saw each other rarely. His wife, Nell, never quite clicked with Anne. The young woman was sharptongued and demanding. Anne tried: knitting dresses for the granddaughters, baking cabbage pies, bringing pickles. Yet nothing seemed right the dress style, the simple pie, the countryfolk gifts. She never fought, just swallowed the sting, smiled, and prayed that Alexs marriage would be happy and peaceful.

The deepest ache was for Verity. Nine years ago shed married Ilya, a hardworking lad from a nearby town. After baby Vennie was born, something went wrong. They returned to the family home, but soon after, leaving their oneyearold son with Nicholas, they fled to the capital for study and work, saying the country felt suffocating.

Hows Venny now? Hes grown, I imagine? Anne asked, sipping water, her heart tightening with that familiar pang.

Big as a horse, Mum. The coach loves him. Only, she trailed off, turning away as if fixing a vase.

He still asks when well visit Grandma Anne and Granddad Colin in the village. He says it smells of apples and pies there, not like the carsmell here, she whispered.

Anne closed her eyes, recalling every night Venny, already taken from her by his mother, had cried into the phone, begging to come home. He no longer cries. She remembered her husband, Nicholas, silently smoking on the porch, wiping away a manly tear. Theyd given that boy all their simple love, only to have him whisked away like a piece of luggage, with no explanation.

He should be with his mother, she had argued then, more to herself than to her husband. Its right.

On the train, watching the countryside flash by, Anne tried to picture her grandson. If his father Ilya was tall and sturdy, perhaps Venny had inherited that height. Nicholas had always wanted a photo of him, saying, Wife, get a lot of pictures, it gets lonely here. He would have rushed to the city, only to fall ill a week before Annes departure, returning pale but stubborn.

Can you manage on your own? I cant sit here in limbo, my heart is aching, Nicholas had muttered while packing the jam jars.

Ill manage, he rasped, adjusting the blanket. Just make sure everythings alright for Verity. My gut tells me shes drifting away for a reason.

Get up, Mum, Ill feed you something! Verity called, leading her mother deeper into the flat. I just bought noodle soup and meatballs. Oh, heres Venny! she exclaimed as the front door clicked.

The door swung open, revealing a lanky tenyearold with a sports bag slung over his shoulder. Seeing his grandmother, his eyes widened, then he kicked off his trainers and bounded forward, wrapping his arms around her.

Grandma! Youre here!

Anne clutched his warm, autumnwindscented body tightly, tears spilling down her cheeks unbidden.

Careful, youll crush me, he laughed, holding her close, his grin wide and unabashed.

Look at you now, huge! she choked, smoothing his tousled hair, running a rough hand over his sunkissed cheek. I knitted you a little green sweater with reindeer maybe its still small. I missed the mark again.

Itll be fine, Ill finish it, he replied cheerfully, hugging her again. Ive missed you.

Now Anne sat at a glossy table, trying to satisfy her hunger with a single meatball. The brothlight, almost transparent, with delicate noodle strandsdisappeared without a trace of fullness. She stared wistfully at the plate, where five petite meatballs lay untouched, bought from the supermarkets readymeal aisle. She hadnt had time to cook.

Do you want more, Mum? Verity asked politely, though the warmth was missing from her tone as she rose to clear the dishes.

No, love, thank you, Im full, Anne lied, feeling a betraying hollowness under the spoon. I have no appetite after the road.

She surveyed the kitchen: sleek appliances, stylish furniture, fresh décor. Vennys room boasted a computer, a guitar, a trendy sport corner. Verity wore an expensive housecoat, gold earrings glinting. No need was evident hereonly a different rhythm, different rules.

Full to the brim, yet still hungry, she thought wryly. Back home the table always broke, even when money was tight. Here perhaps city folk live halfheartedly?

Venny, finishing his portion, looked up at his grandmother.

Mum, why did you only eat one meatball? Theyre tasty! Give Grandma another, shes just back from the road! his voice was earnest and urgent.

Verity froze with the plate in her hands, a faint crease forming on her flawless forehead.

Venny, dont lecture grownups. Grandma says shes full.

But she he fell silent under his mothers stern gaze.

Anne quickly placed a gentle hand on his hair.

All right, sweetheart, Im really full. Thank you.

Inside, a sting rose. The childs blunt honesty exposed an invisible wall Anne had felt from the moment she arrived. Everything was beautiful, correct, but somehow sterileboth the food and the relationships.

Mum, you look tired. Lets get you a couch in the sitting room, Verity suggested, already hauling the suitcase of her mothers belongings. Tomorrow well sort through your supplies.

Anne nodded and followed her daughter, thinking that tomorrow she would quietly slip a slice of homemade bacon and a crust of her own breadbrought from the villageout of the suitcase, and eat it by the window, watching the alien city below. Today Verity had barred her from rummaging through the provisions, insisting they didnt eat that heavy homecooked food.

Silence in the empty flat pressed against her ears. The next two days Anne was left to herself, like an unwanted trinket on a shelf. Verity rushed out each morning, shouting Lunch in the fridge, heat it up. Venny disappeared between school, football, and friends, chasing the last warm days of autumn.

A tension hung thick between mother and daughter, unspoken and heavy. Anne tried to keep busy: polishing the shiny stove, straightening Vennys things, but she felt superfluous, a disturbance in the pristine space.

On the third day, Verity returned from work and, without preamble, said, Mum, Ill book a ticket for you. Its peak season, you never know if therell be a seat.

Anne was startled, as if hit by a sudden blow.

What season? Is it summer down south? Ive just arrived, Verity her voice trembled. But perhaps youre right, dear.

She handed over the paperwork, her heart aching. She had promised Nicholas shed return in a week and a half, planning to wander with her grandson, make homemade soups and pies, give Verity a break. Instead, the cheap supermarket meals seemed to reflect a life where workers, under meager wages, could barely care.

Verity, after buying the ticket, brightened.

Oh, Mum, a sideroom by the loo would be perfectnever mind! Youve had a proper stay here. What else can you do? In two days youll be home!

Perhaps youre right, Anne whispered, almost a sigh.

The thought of just two more days kept Veritys spirits up. One evening, passing the halfopen door to Vennys room, Anne paused unknowingly. Verity lay on her sons bed, whispering tiredly,

Hes bothering me, turned the volume up, I asked gently if shes gone deaf

Then Vennys voice floated in.

Mum, when will Uncle Victor be back? He promised to help with the robot, we need to finish it.

Soon, love. As soon as Grandma leaves, well

Air left Annes lungs in an instant. She leaned against the cool wall to keep from collapsing. Hot, bitter tears streamed down her lined cheeks uninvited.

She entered the room, the oncepacked suitcase now empty. Venny emerged, surprised.

Mum? Where are you going? he asked, bewildered.

Anne could not find the words. She felt like a redundant piece to her own family. She fled the unfamiliar city toward the station, the clamor of traffic and the echo of her daughters pleas fading behind her. She never managed to explain why she was running awaytoo painful to say she was a burden, that some Uncle Victor now mattered more than she did.

At the station she spent the night wrapped in a shawl that smelled faintly of home. She exchanged her ticket for a fivehour early morning service, opting for a lowerberth compartment. The rhythmic click of wheels coaxed quiet sobs, lest fellow passengers hear.

The train pulled into her tiny hometown station at dawn. Waiting on the platform, shivering from the cold, was Nicholas. When he saw her, his face broke into a grin.

Annie, Im so glad youre here! Ive been lonely. Look at you, youve shrunk! he joked, taking her thin suitcase.

For the first time in days Anne managed a genuine smile through tears, because someone still waited for her. She realized that even as lifes directions shift, the love of those who remember us never truly fades. The lesson lingered: when we feel out of place, the simple act of being remembered is enough to restore our sense of belonging.