MUM

ERICA

ERICA

The air in my old neighborhood still tasted like salt, dust, and cheap exhaust. But as I walked down the unpaved alleyway leading to my childhood home, the heavy weight in my chest wasn't from the heat. It was from the suffocating, unbearable guilt.

Everyone in this city seemed to know the truth now. The high court knew I was back. The news outlets were printing my face on the front pages as the brilliant defense attorney who defeated a syndicate cartel. Andrew knew about our six-year-old twin boys, Leo and Lucas. Even the dark underworld of this metropolis knew that I held the power to protect or ruin billions of dollars.

Everyone knew. Everyone except the woman who had given up her entire youth to raise me.

My sweet mum.

I was all she had left in this cold, dangerous world. My father, Mark, had been taken from her by the dark syndicate wars decades ago, and six years ago, I had vanished into thin air like a ghost. I had convinced myself that keeping her in the dark was protecting her, that if she knew where I was, her traditional heart would force her to go straight to Andrew to "fix" things. But standing in the narrow alley, looking at the familiar bent wooden fence, I realized how selfish my fear had really been.

It was time. It was time to bring her home to stay with her family, with me and the two grandsons she had never been allowed to hold.

I stopped right in front of the gate, and tears instantly blurred my vision, spilling over my eyelashes and running down my hot cheeks.

My heart shattered into a million jagged pieces.

She was still living in the bamboo house.

The structure sat there like a forgotten ghost from my past. The weathered bamboo walls had turned a dark, mossy gray, leaning slightly to the left under the heavy weight of time. The corrugated iron roof was patched with rusty tin sheets, and the wooden front door looked so fragile a strong gust of wind could knock it off its hinges. It was, without a doubt, the oldest and most dilapidated house in the entire area. Surrounding neighbor plots had slowly upgraded to brick walls and modern metal gates over the years, leaving my mum’s little bamboo shelter looking like a stark, painful reminder of poverty.

"Oh, Mum..." I choked out, wiping my wet cheeks with the back of my hand.

It broke my heart in ways I couldn't even explain. But beneath the sorrow, a sharp, confusing knot tied itself in my stomach.

Why?

Why was she living like this?

I had not abandoned her. Every single month for six long years, I had sent massive, untraceable offshore wire transfers straight into her bank account. I had sent enough money for her to demolish this decaying wooden structure, buy a prime piece of land in the clean suburbs, and build a modern concrete mansion with a manicured lawn. I had sent enough money so she would never have to touch a faded apron or swallow dusty air ever again.

Yet, here it was. The exact same bamboo house.

I took a deep breath, pushing open the squeaky wooden gate, and stepped onto the packed dirt yard. The silence around the house was heavy and absolute. I walked up the two uneven stone steps leading to the porch, my designer heels clicking softly before I consciously took them off, holding them in my hand so I wouldn't make noise.

I slowly pushed the front door open. It wasn't even locked.

The interior smelled exactly the same as it had six years ago, stale lavender, damp wood, and faint herbal tea. The afternoon sunlight filtered through the thin cracks in the bamboo walls, casting golden lines across the worn wooden floorboards.

And there she was.

My mum was lying on the small, faded brown sofa in the tiny living room. She looked so small under the light cotton bedsheet. Her dark hair was heavily streaked with silver now, pulled back into a loose, messy bun. Her face looked thinner, the lines around her eyes deeper, carved by six years of endless worrying and quiet tears. She was breathing softly, fast asleep.

A lump lodged itself in my throat. I stood there near the doorway, paralyzed by a flood of love and grief. I didn't want to wake her up. I didn't want to startle her fragile heart out of a peaceful sleep, so I decided to wait. I stepped quietly into the small corner dining area, setting my handbag down on the old wooden table.

While waiting for her to wake up on her own, I took the chance to look around the humble space. Nothing had changed. The same plastic flowers sat in a glass vase on the windowsill; the same old clock ticked rhythmically on the wall.

Then, my eyes caught the small wooden chest of drawers sitting in the corner near her sewing machine. The top drawer was slightly ajar, a piece of crisp white paper sticking out from the side.

Curiosity pulled me toward it. I stepped over lightly and slid the drawer open a bit wider.

I reached in and picked up the paper. As my eyes scanned the bold, elegant letterhead at the top, my breath hitched in my throat.

It was an official bank confirmation statement from Lord Andrew’s personal private estate foundation.

My fingers began to tremble. I shuffled through the neat stack of papers hidden beneath it. Document after document, date after date, spanning all six years I had been gone.

Andrew.

He had been sending monthly upkeep money to my mum all the while I was away. Millions upon millions of dollars had been deposited directly into her account from his primary offshore funds, starting from the exact week I vanished from the city. He hadn't just searched for me; he had quietly taken on the financial responsibility of taking care of my mother, ensuring she would never lack a single thing while he hunted down every lead to find me.

A cold shudder ran through my body. He had protected her financially, quietly watching over her from the shadows without ever forcing her out of her home.

My eyes moved to another small folder tucked beneath Andrew’s bank statements. It was a worn, blue bank ledger book containing my mum's primary account details and recent transaction balance sheets.

I flipped the ledger open, my eyes racing down the balance column.

My heart stopped beating.

The numbers stretched across the page, forming an astronomical, dizzying total. Billions of dollars sat in that single account.

None of it was touched.

Not a single cent.

Every single wire transfer I had painstakingly sent from Panama over the last six years sat completely untouched in that account. And right alongside my money, every single million-dollar allowance Andrew had deposited over the years remained pristine, unspent, and accumulated down to the last decimal.

She hadn't spent my money. She hadn't spent Andrew's money. She had lived in this decaying bamboo house, wearing faded aprons and eating humble meals, sitting on a mountain of generational wealth that could have bought half the city.

A wave of overwhelming emotion washed over me. Tears spilled freely from my eyes once more, blinding my vision as I clutched the bank ledger against my chest.

Oh, Mum... why? Why would you live like a beggar when you were sitting on an empire?

In my emotional haze, as I tried to slip the ledger back into the drawer, my elbow accidentally brushed against a ceramic porcelain teacup sitting on the edge of the dresser.

Clatter!

The teacup tumbled off the edge and shattered into pieces against the hard wooden floorboards, the sharp sound echoing like a gunshot in the quiet room.

"Ah!" I gasped, dropping to my knees instinctively to grab the larger pieces.

"Erica?"

A breathless, trembling voice cut through the silence.

I froze. My breath caught in my lungs. Slowly, painfully, I lifted my head from the floor.

My mum was standing up near the couch. The bedsheet had fallen to her feet. She was staring at me, her wide dark eyes filled with absolute shock. Her hands were shaking violently at her sides, her pale lips parted as if she were seeing a ghost manifest out of the golden sunlight.

For three agonizing seconds, neither of us moved. She didn't ask how I got inside. She didn't ask where I had been for six long years. She didn't ask about the clothes I was wearing or the expensive purse on the table.

"Erica!" she cried out—a raw, gut-wrenching sob that tore straight from the bottom of her soul.

Before I could even stand up properly from my knees, she rushed across the small room. Her weak, trembling arms wrapped tightly around my neck, pulling me against her chest with a desperate, frantic strength. She buried her face in the crook of my neck, weeping bitterly, her whole body shaking violently as her tears soaked straight into the silk fabric of my blouse.

"My baby... my baby girl... you came back... God, you came back to me," she sobbed, kissing my hair, my cheeks, my forehead over and over again like she was trying to convince herself I was real.

I locked my arms around her waist, burying my face into her shoulder, weeping just as hard. The scent of her—the safe, warm scent of my mother—washed over all the hardened edges I had built around my heart over six years of struggle and law school and mafia threats. In her arms, I wasn't the feared corporate attorney. I was just her little girl.

"I'm sorry, Mum... I'm so sorry I left you... I'm so sorry," I sobbed into her neck, holding her as if she might disappear if I let go.

We stayed like that on the dusty floor for a long time, holding each other and washing away six years of grief with our shared tears.

Finally, after her heavy sobs turned into soft, hiccuping breaths, I gently pulled back slightly, cupping her frail, weathered cheeks in my hands. I wiped the wet tears from her face with my thumbs, looking straight into her soft, loving eyes.

I looked around at the dark bamboo walls, then pointed at the open drawer where the untouched bank ledgers sat exposed.

"Mum..." I asked, my voice cracking with pure emotion, "why did you not fix your house?"

My mum looked at the papers in the drawer, then turned her gaze back to my face. A small, painfully sweet, sad smile touched her lips. She reached up and placed her warm, calloused hand over mine.

"Erica, my sweet child," she whispered softly, her voice thick with tears. "What would I do with a big, golden palace if it was empty? What would I do with millions of dollars when the only treasure I ever wanted in this life was missing?"

A fresh tear slipped down her cheek, but her eyes shone with absolute love.

"Every time a notification came for those offshore transfers, I knew you were alive somewhere out there," she continued, her thumb gently stroking my cheek. "And every time Andrew’s men brought those bank slips, I knew he was still keeping his promise to watch over me while looking for you. But I swore to God... I promised myself that I would not touch a single penny of that money until my daughter walked back through that front door to spend it with me. I didn't want a mansion, Erica. I just wanted my family back."

My breath hitched, my heart swelling with so much love and reverence it felt like it would burst out of my ribs.

I leaned forward and pressed my forehead against hers, closing my eyes.

"Your family is back, Mum," I whispered, smiling through my tears. "And you don't have to wait another second."

I pulled back and took her hands in mine, looking at her with a fierce, joyful light in my eyes.

"Pack a small bag, Mum. You are coming home with me today. You're leaving this bamboo house behind forever."

My mum blinked, confused. "Home? Erica, where are we going?"

I smiled, a warm, proud feeling washing through me as I thought of the bright, beautiful future waiting for us on the other side of the city.

"To my penthouse," I said softly, squeezing her hands tightly. "And Mum... there are two very special, handsome six-year-old boys named Leo and Lucas waiting at home... desperate to finally meet their grandmother."

My mum’s eyes went wide, her gasp filling the quiet room as fresh, joyous tears welled up in her eyes. And for the first time in six years, the heavy dark shadows over our lives vanished, replaced entirely by the bright, unyielding warmth of home.