Helen Bridges wasn't a mother. She never wanted to be one, so much so that when she ended up pregnant with Mary, she cried her soul out and cursed that demon inside her. It was a fling, a curiosity she had for men with darker skin. It wasn't meant to be serious but rather teach her how to become a proper lover. She chose to leave Jamaica once the bad news fell upon her. She chose to deliver that "thing" in the secrecy of a coven so she could abandon "the thing" to the nuns. She never looked back and hoped for that creature to die in its infancy.
She lived her best life as a single bachelorette. A beautiful and rich blonde woman who was clever enough to navigate the cruel world of the 1920s British empire. All would have been well if the spies she sent after Mary's traces had not found the woman. Mary... that child was still alive and became a young woman. A black woman whose features betrayed the debauchery her mother partook in. It was decided that Mary had to be dealt with.
Mary? Oh, she had been a mother. It only lasted 30 minutes before her son Paul, died in her arms but she became a mother, too young to understand what was going on. Too miserable to handle the loss of her son. So Mother's Day was also her day. She was a mother, of one child who was no more and the child she embraced as her own. Charlie, Tom's child was now her own son. She was a mother, so on this day, she intended to celebrate it as such. Charlie brought him a bouquet and wrote a poem he read to her. How could she not be happy? How could she not be? Happy Mother's Day to her.
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