Forty Years Under My Mother’s Wing—and the One Escape I Now Regret
My name is Lucinda. I turned forty this year—an age when a woman ought to stand on solid ground: family, career, certainty in tomorrow. But my story is not like that. All these years, my life unfolded in a cramped terraced house on the outskirts of Sheffield, bound tightly to my mother, Margaret Anne. We were like conjoined twins: breakfast together, supper together, watching telly side by side, discussing the news, even breathing, it seemed, in unison.
She often said to me with unsettling tenderness:
“Luci, dear, if things didn’t work out with a man—no matter. We’ll manage just fine, the two of us, growing old together. I’d stay with you till I’m a hundred—better company than any man. We’ll sit in the park, two old dears in tartan shawls, and folks will smile just to see us.”
It might have been bearable, had it been care. But it was a trap, a cage I’d been locked in since girlhood, when my first sweetheart was so thoroughly chased off by Mother’s disapproval that he fled without a backward glance. After that, no one stayed.
I stopped trying. I settled into the role of the eternal daughter. Evenings were tea and biscuits, days were bookkeeping at the local primary school. No men, no excitement, just weariness and routine. Until I met *him*.
Edward Grayson. A stern, quiet constable. We met at a parent-teacher meeting—his nephew attended our school. He didn’t look at me like some worn-out spinster, but as a woman. I felt it in his gaze, the way he carried my bag, the careful way he tucked a stray curl behind my ear. At first, I was afraid. Then I fell—recklessly, childishly.
“Lucinda,” he said one evening, “let’s marry. Life’s better shared, even when it’s hard. I need you. I want us to be a family. A daughter, maybe—with your eyes.”
I didn’t believe it. Such things didn’t happen to me. But I said yes. That spring, when even the air seemed alight with love, I broke the news at home.
“Mum,” I said, pouring her tea, “I’m getting married. Edward wants me with him. But I’ll visit often—you won’t be alone.”
She set her cup down, spilling half onto the tablecloth. Her face paled, her eyes widened.
“Lucy… are you ill? Have you lost your senses? Why throw your life away? Domesticity will crush you—you’re too delicate! Men are all the same—they play their games, then cast you aside. Are you really abandoning me in my old age?”
She collapsed into her armchair, clutching her chest. I scrambled for her medicine, rang for an ambulance. I sat by her bedside all night, watching her sleep. But that was only the first act of the play called *Guilt.*
Every day brought fresh accusations: *”I raised you, and now you discard me!”* *”Could you really trade me for some stranger?”* *”He’ll leave you, and I’ll be alone…”*
Edward lasted a month. Then he said:
“Lucinda, either we live properly as a family, or I walk. I love you, but this isn’t how it should be.”
I left. In the dead of night. In my dressing gown, with just a small knapsack—because Mother had hidden my things. Because I couldn’t take it anymore. Because I needed to breathe.
Edward took me in, held me, warmed soup on the stove. We began our life together. It wasn’t easy. He was stern, reserved, often late from work. Sometimes with whisky on his breath. Grumbled if supper wasn’t to his liking. Sometimes I cried—into my pillow, so he wouldn’t hear.
And Mother… She doesn’t call anymore. Only through mutual friends do I hear: *”My blood pressure’s dreadful, and my daughter’s a traitor. Left to die alone in my dotage.”*
Sometimes I dream of her sitting by the window, waiting. Sometimes her voice echoes in my head. It aches. I miss her. I blame myself. I want to go back.
Edward doesn’t object. He’s reasonable. He even said, *”If you like, she can move in. There’s room.”*
But I still don’t know how to tell her. Maybe at Christmas. I’ll bring a card, bake her favourite mince pies, kneel at her feet—and beg forgiveness.
Because nothing is worse than being free and miserable. And if my escape was a mistake—I’ll admit it. Because I still love her. My mother.