A Past That Won’t Let Go
Daniel is twenty now. He lives in Manchester, studies part-time, works at a garage, and builds his life, barely thinking about his hometown of Sheffield, where it all began. His mum, Linda, watches his progress with pride—and pain. She missed too much. Now that her son’s grown, she feels a guilt that time can’t ease, no matter how she tries to justify it.
She often thinks back to how things were. More than once, she’s tried to make sense of her choices. It never worked. Then one day, Linda finally gathered the courage to talk to Daniel properly. She invited him over for the weekend, baked his favourite scones, sat him down at the kitchen table, and, wringing her hands, said:
“Forgive me, Dan… for everything. I was a terrible mother.”
He stayed quiet. Forced a tight smile and replied,
“I had a normal childhood.”
But both knew it was a lie. His childhood had been cold, lonely, filled with silent resentment and the bitter hope for warmth that never came.
Daniel was a quiet, obedient boy. He never threw tantrums, never asked for much. He just waited—for the day his mum might hug him, notice him, praise his drawings or his top marks. Instead, he heard sharp words, frustration, or worse, indifference. Linda would snap, shouting, calling him a “burden,” a “mistake.” Yet he still reached for her—for love, for recognition, for the one word he needed most: “love.”
And truthfully, she didn’t love him. Or maybe she just didn’t know how. Life had been cruel to her early on. At fifteen—pregnant. The boy fled, her own mother screamed at her, friends turned away. Linda was alone.
“Your own fault,” her mother spat through tears. “Now feed your mistake yourself.”
Her nan promised help, but only stepped in when Linda collapsed from exhaustion. The baby cried nights, Linda fumed, locking herself in the bathroom to sob where no one could hear. The child was her punishment, a weight she couldn’t shake.
Life wasn’t kind. Money was tight. Linda scrubbed stairwells, hauled heavy bags, then cleaned houses just to scrape by. She was tired. Bitter. Dropped out of school. Lost all joy. And still, the child grew, needed, cried, fell ill. She fed him, clothed him—but gave nothing of herself. He was in her way. And she never hid it.
When Daniel turned five, his nan died suddenly—a stroke. The house turned silent, empty, terrifying. Linda feared the future but didn’t change. If anything, she shut down more. She worked, studied part-time, trained as an accountant to escape poverty. Money came. Stability too. But warmth for her son never did.
Seventeen. Daniel left for Manchester. Got into uni, moved away—and for the first time in years, Linda breathed easy. Freedom, at last. Yet the empty flat brought no relief. She caught herself wondering: *Where is he? Has he eaten? Will he manage?* For the first time, something ached in her chest. Too late.
He called, told her how he was doing. She listened, surprised, tried to soften her replies. When he visited, she found herself glad—not that he was back, but that he’d forgiven her. Without words. Just by being there. He built that bridge himself, brick by brick.
And now, years later, Linda finds the strength to say it all. That she hated, raged, wished to run. That she couldn’t cope. That she didn’t love him as she should’ve. That all this time, she hid behind duty, never learning to be a mum.
And there he sits, steady, grown, saying the words that break her heart:
“I had a normal childhood.”
But there’s no anger in his voice. Just tiredness. And forgiveness. Because he’s grown up. Because he’s strong. And because he’s learned to love—even the one who couldn’t love him back.
