I Kept My Promise, Mom

Nobody knew where my mum came from.

I didn't know either.

But I knew one thing for certain—every time my mom, Lorna, talked about leaving this place, my father, Gideon, would beat her senseless.

The neighbors would scold her too, calling her ungrateful.

"Gideon saved your life," they'd say. "You owe him everything."

Our village sat at the end of a winding mountain road, three hours from the nearest proper town. Most families had lived here for generations, never venturing beyond the glen except for essential supplies. Many old folks couldn't even read English properly.

Women here didn't question their men. That was just how things were.

Gradually, Mum stopped mentioning leaving.

Until the lockdown ended, and I went back to university.

Two months since restrictions lifted. Everyone said things were back to normal.

But nothing felt normal at home.

"Mum, the lockdown's over," I told her that morning, spreading jam on my toast. "You can go outside now."

"No, it's still dangerous," she flinched and said. "Gideon says I shouldn't."

I watched her carefully. Something was wrong with that answer.

We were too isolated, too remote. Most people here didn't even have proper internet until last year, when the government finally ran cables up the mountain.

"Mum?" I said quietly. "What is the world outside like?"

I wanted to ask her so many things. Where did she come from? Why did she sometimes know things she shouldn't know?

But Gideon's voice boomed from the living room, and she immediately tensed up.

"Nothing," I said. "Just... be careful today."

She nodded and turned back to washing the same plate for the third time.

At the weekend, when I got home, she was scrubbing the kitchen floor again.

"Mum, you already cleaned—"

"It has to be perfect," she said without looking up. "He'll be angry if it's not perfect."

The front door crashed open.

Gideon stumbled in, reeking of whiskey and cigarettes. His eyes were bloodshot, unfocused.

"Where's my dinner?"

Mum shot to her feet. Water from the bucket splashed everywhere.

"It's ready, Gideon. Just needs heating."

"It better be." He swayed against the doorframe. "Had a good day today. Won three hundred pounds at cards."

My stomach dropped. He'd been gambling again.

Gideon grabbed Mum's arm. His thick fingers dug into her thin flesh. She winced but didn't pull away.

"You remember what I told you about being grateful?" His voice carried that dangerous edge. "I saved your life up on that mountain. Found you bleeding, nearly dead. Brought you home when nobody else would take you."

"I remember," Mum whispered.

"Say it."

"Thank you for saving me."

"Louder."

"Thank you for saving me, Gideon."

From the next room, Hester's voice drifted out—Gideon's mom: "That's right, dear. You should be grateful. My son's a good man. Gave you a home when you had nothing."

I remembered the times when I was younger, when Mum would whisper about wanting to leave. How Gideon would drag her to the back room, and we'd hear her crying for hours afterward.

How Mrs. Abernathy and the other neighbors would shake their heads.

"Ungrateful woman," they'd mutter. "Gideon saved her life, and she wants to run away."

After enough beatings, enough lectures, Mum had learned to stay quiet.

But I'd seen something in her eyes during those early years. Something that looked like Nova.

Now that Nova was nearly dead.

I couldn't sleep.

Around midnight, I got up to use the bathroom and saw Mum sitting on the closed toilet lid, writing something.

"Viral load exceeds projected threshold," she muttered under her breath. "Mutation frequency… impossible to stabilize… this shouldn't—"

She froze. Her pen stopped mid-stroke.

Slowly, her head lifted, as if she had suddenly realized someone was watching her.

"No. No, no," she whispered, shaking her head. She snapped the notebook shut and clutched it to her chest. "I'm not supposed to know this. I don't… I don't know anything."

The next morning, while Mum was in the shower, I snuck into her room.

The drawer stuck, then gave way with a soft scrape.

Inside, beneath hairpins and old receipts, I found a torn piece of plastic and part of an ID card.

The photo was damaged, but I could make out part of a woman's face. Younger, healthier, but definitely Mum's features.

Below the photo, in official university lettering: "Dr. M—"

The rest was torn away.

Who was my mom really?