Two Mums, One Heart
My mother, Natasha, passed away when I was just two. I only knew her from photographs, but I never forgot her. Yet all my life, I called another woman “Mum”the one who walked into our home and stayed forever.
I dont remember the day she arrived. It felt like Mum Gloria had always been there. Petite, round-faced, with eyes as dark as coal and a smile that could warm even the dreariest English afternoon.
“Mum Gloria,” Id call her.
“Little Gloria,” Dad would say fondly.
No one ever hid the fact she wasnt my birth mother. But my heart accepted her without question. I believeddeep downthat Mum Natasha, before leaving, had asked God to send me a guardian. And He sent Gloria.
Mum Natashas sisters and my grandmother often took me to stay with them. They never missed a chance to ask:
“Does she make your breakfast? Does she hug you? Does she take you for walks?”
I stayed silent. Back then, I didnt know how to say their questions hurt. Now I understandthey doubted my love for Mum Gloria. But she loved me just as much as if Id been her own.
She never stopped me remembering Mum Natasha. In fact, shed hold my hand and take me to church herself.
Wed step into the cool, dim chapel, where candlelight flickered before the icons. Shed buy two candlesone for health, one for remembrance.
“This ones for you, love, so God keeps you healthy and happy. And this ones for Mum Natasha, so she rests easy in Heaven.”
Id watch her cross herself and whisper the prayers along with her.
“Mum, can Mum Natasha see us?” Id ask quietly.
“She can, love,” shed say, smoothing my hair. “Souls dont die. They live with the Lord. And when we pray, she hears us and smiles.”
After the service, wed always light a candle for the departed. When the vicar sang “Eternal Rest,” Mum Gloria would cross herself and murmur:
“Rest in peace, Natasha see how were looking after your little Emily.”
Then, stepping outside, shed smile through tears:
“See, love? Youve got two mums. One in Heaven, one here. But we both love you just the same.”
We lived in a village, and everyone knew Mum Gloria. She worked as a cook for the harvest crews, hurrying to work with quick, bustling steps.
“Wheres the fire, Gloria?” the neighbours would tease.
“Work wont wait!” shed laugh.
She came home just as fast. The second she crossed the threshold, shed fuss over me:
“Emily, how was your day? Did you eat? Homework done?”
Then came the hugswarm, tight, peppered with kisses on my forehead, cheeks, even my nose.
“This nose is my favourite!” shed whisper, kissing it.
When she baked scones, she always set aside a little dough just for me.
“Go on, my little helper, heres your bit. Practice makes perfect!”
“Will they taste nice?” Id ask, flour up to my elbows.
“Of course! Youve got golden hands, just like Mum Natasha.”
Her scones were heavenlybuttery, soft, sometimes with a hint of garlic. And she was like bread herselfwarm, comforting, wholesome.
When I struggled at my first job, shed soothe me with patience.
“Mum, I keep messing up nothings working,” Id sigh.
Shed take my hands in hers, rough from work but always warm:
“Emily, who doesnt make mistakes? Scribble notes if you must. I didnt learn to cook overnight eitherwrote every recipe down. Youll get there. Just keep your chin up.”
When my son was born, Mum Gloria stood outside the hospital all night. It was April, the air sharp with spring chill, but she wouldnt leave.
“Mum, whyd you stay out in the cold?” I asked later.
She smiled that special smile of hers:
“Where else would I be, love? I prayed under your window, asking God to keep you strong and the angels to rock your boy. Even if I couldnt be inside, my heart was with you.”
Then one morning, Dad called:
“Love Mum Glorias gone.”
I couldnt believe it. How could light like hers just vanish?
Now, flipping through our old photo album, I see pictures of Mum Natasha and Mum Gloria side by side, like threads in the same tapestry. And I realiseGod didnt leave me an orphan. He gave me one mother for life, and another for love and faith.
