The Whole of Me

This story is by Marion Bolton and was part of our 2025 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

The Whole of Me

Now, where’s the box of old photos? Mum said it was up here. I was looking for a photo of me as a little girl. I was on my mum’s hip, touching the locket she has worn round her neck for as long as I can remember. It was a lovely photo of Mum —the best I’d seen —and I wanted to keep it. So, there I was in the attic looking for the box. I made a path through the clutter and rubbish accumulated over the years. At last, right at the back was the box of photos. I pulled it from its place in the shadows and opened it. I peered in at the higgledy-piggledy pile of photos inside.  Sitting cross-legged on the creaky, uneven floorboards, I settled down for a few hours’ trip down memory lane.

I picked up a small pile of photos and started thumbing through them. I picked one up and turned it over.  ‘Tammy and Mum’ was written on the back. It was of me with Gran. Gran lived next door to us, and I spent a lot of time in and out of her house. I loved being with her. The next one was of us on holiday, and Gran was there too, of course. I picked up another one and then another and then…..and then…..and… Wait a minute, what’s this? The photo I picked up this time had been cut in half. Why? Why would someone do that? I looked at it more closely and saw it was of me. I was a tiny baby lying in the crook of my mum’s right arm, but the photo had been sliced in two, and there was only half of Mum. I wondered who had been in the other half? My guess was that it was Dad, and it was a family photo.

Dad had died when I was 2 years old of cancer of the oesophagus. When I was older, Mum told me I was a daddy’s girl, and I was inconsolable. She said I was, perhaps, too young to understand and was, therefore, unable to grieve properly. That, she thought, must be why I had this emptiness inside me. It was a strange feeling, like I had a hole in my heart that couldn’t be filled. Apparently, Dad and I were inseparable, and he would swing me around and throw me high up in the air. I laughed and giggled as I landed in his strong arms. Of course, I don’t remember all this, but Mum used to tell me these stories, and I was glad to hear them. But the feeling of emptiness and loss persisted, and I don’t remember a time I didn’t have it. The hole in my heart never mended. I felt like I was in a constant state of mourning.

I ran my index finger down the sliced edge and wondered who had done it. It must have been Mum. She must have taken Dad’s death very hard to have done such an odd thing. She often told me how much she loved and missed Dad. I looked at the photo again. I would talk to her about it. With the half of a photo clutched in my fingers, I descended the creaky, wooden steps from the attic to the landing on the second floor. I stopped and listened. Mum was clattering around in the kitchen. I went down the next flight of stairs, my footsteps deadened by the soft carpet, to the ground floor, and made my way towards the sounds.

“Hi Mum,” I said. ”I’ve found this.” I showed her what I had in my hand. Was it my imagination, or did she blanch?

“Where did you find that?” she said. Her voice had an edge to it. She didn’t seem enamoured that I’d found it.

“Upstairs in the attic,” I said. “Do you know what happened to the other half?” I tried hard to keep my voice steady. I sat at the table and fiddled, unthinking, with her locket.

“Oh!” I said, realising what I had in my hand. “You’ve taken your locket off. You never take your locket off.”

“I’ve been cleaning it.” Her voice was level with an unmistakable hint of tension. I wondered why. It was strange.

“Is my baby hair in here? Can I see it?” I said, and not waiting for an answer, I clicked the locket open. Inside was a little lock of black hair. I stared at it.

“I thought you said I had fair hair as a baby; this is black.” I looked at her just in time to see a tear slip down her face.

“Mum? What’s going on?  … Mum? What is it? Whose hair is it?” My heart was pounding; I could hear it in my ears. I waited, fear gripping my heart. She had sat down hard on a chair, and was looking at the half photo, gently stroking it with her forefinger.

“Has Dad got anything to do with this hair?” I was mystified.

“Dad?” she said, looking a bit dazed.

“Yes. Dad. It was Dad you cut from the photo, wasn’t it?” A thought suddenly struck me. What if it was my dad, but it was a different man from the man I knew as Dad? My world began to rock with uncertainty.

Mum got up and walked out of the kitchen door. She made her way upstairs. I waited for her to come back, my fingers drumming on the table. Everything was hushed….except the constant drum, drum, drum. After what seemed like an age, she came back down the stairs and into the kitchen. In her hand was the bookmark from the book she kept by her bed.

“I keep this in my book. It’s the last thing I see every night.” She said, looking sadly at it.

“Never mind the bookmark.” I gave a dismissive flick of my hand. “What about this photo?”

“I should have told you sooner, but I couldn’t find the words.” She held out the bookmark.

“Go on. Take it.”

I reached out, took it, and glanced at it. In that split second, something caught my attention. It was the other half of the photo. It had been trimmed to leave only the two figures. There was half of Mum, and in the crook of her left arm was another baby.

And I knew. Before she even opened her mouth.

“She’s your twin sister,” she said softly. Understanding flooded through me.

“Mum,” I said, reaching out and taking a hand from her face. “What happened? Tell me. I need to know.”

“Her name’s Amy.” She took out her hankie and wiped her nose. “When she was born, she needed medical attention.” She sat, the hankie balled up in one hand, the forefinger and thumb of the other hand teasing out a corner. Then, playing with the silkie cloth, stammering at first, she poured out the whole story.

“I suffered from post-natal depression. I could barely look after you, let alone this poor little soul. She had complex congenital problems that needed specialist care. I was so bad Dad had to deal with you. He would take you to the hospital when he visited Amy. I improved over time, but when your dad died, it was decided I wasn’t well enough to look after her, so she went to a nursing home. They knew I could never cope if she came home, and I felt so guilty I couldn’t bring myself to visit her. I stopped talking about her and never went to see her. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t know how to cope.” Mum had her head in her hands, crying copious tears; I sat there, stunned. All this time, I had a twin sister. All the loneliness, the emptiness, the big hole in my heart, it all made sense now.

I looked at Mum. She seemed small and vulnerable, and she looked at me expectant, resigned, waiting to see what I would say, what I would do. I knew I needed Amy to make me whole, but what could Mum cope with? It was her needs versus mine. I looked at her and suddenly understanding flooded through me; she needed her as much as I did, so I gambled.

“I want to see her,” I said. “And I want you to come with me.”

“No. I can’t. I can’t,” Her voice was a mixture of fear and panic. I shrugged. I couldn’t make her.

Two days later, as I left to go and see Amy, she came to me.

“I’ll come,” she said.

We stood at the nursing home door, and she put her hand in mine like she was the child. We looked at each other; I squeezed her hand.

“Ready?”

She nodded, and together we opened the door to the future.