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‘Are you sure you’re ready for this?’

Helen was sitting on the bed with Viyan, regarding the young mother with real concern.

The rescued worker had hardly slept last night, riven with pain, consumed by nightmares, Helen often having to hurry from her spot on the hard floor to tend to her traumatized companion.

Having spent over two years in captivity, the young mother was clearly finding liberty hard to handle – unable to rest, unable to get comfortable, unable to relax.

Both rose at the crack of dawn and, over coffee and rolls, the root cause of Viyan’s anxiety became clear.

Helen had struggled to get much out of her guest the previous night, but now in stumbling, broken English, Viyan revealed the full extent of her trauma.

Her arduous journey to the UK, her imprisonment on a remote farm, the backbreaking labour and, most shockingly, the inhumane violence.

Helen was devastated to learn of Selima’s gruesome murder, but oddly it was not this, nor the violence meted out to her, which troubled Viyan the most. It was thoughts of those left behind that consumed her.

Helen now learned that Viyan had left her family in Turkey – her mother tending to Viyan’s young children, Salman, Defne and Aasmah.

When she’d left them to come to the UK, they’d been living in a dangerous, unsanitary refugee camp, relying on aid handouts to survive, running the gauntlet of local hostility and the overt prejudice of government officials.

It was a desperate situation, the thought of which obviously tortured Viyan.

She’d had no contact with them since she left Turkey two years ago, no idea whether they were still living, still together, still safe.

She’d been allowed no phone at the farm, no method of communication whatsoever, so first thing this morning she’d asked to borrow Helen’s phone, promising to pay her back for the call when – if – she could.

Helen dismissed that idea out of hand, taking time to help Viyan navigate her unfamiliar device.

Viyan knew her mother’s number off by heart and was desperate to FaceTime her, desperate to find out if her children were alive and well.

This was pain of a different kind, worse even than the broken bones and heavy bruising she’d sustained, her uncertainty, her frustration, but above all, her hope causing her real anguish.

As she dialled, Helen offered up a silent prayer that all would be well, fearing how Viyan would react if the worst had come to pass.

Helen suddenly realized how invested she was in the happiness of Viyan and her family, how she wanted more than anything for them to be reunited again. For their story to have a happy ending.

The phone continued to moan in her hands, desperately seeking a connection. Then suddenly it went quiet, as if the call had been cut off, before unexpectedly bursting into life, the suspicious face of an aged woman filling the screen.

‘Mama?’ Viyan gasped, holding her hand to her mouth in shock, as tears filled her eyes. ‘Mama?’

Viyan could barely speak and now Helen saw the elderly woman react, her expression transforming from concern to shock and then to tearful elation.

‘Viyan,’ she moaned, lifting her eyes to the heavens in thanks. ‘Viyan, Viyan …’

Helen watched on transfixed, as mother and daughter stared at each other, overcome by emotion, their relief, their love plain to see.

Conversation was stuttering and largely impenetrable to Helen as she spoke no Turkish and both women seemed to be finding it hard to make themselves understood, thanks to the bad connection and flowing tears.

And yet, even though the words made little sense to Helen, she could read these women, watching on in delight as Viyan insisted that she was alive, she was safe, she was still in the UK.

Her aged mother, who was not in great shape herself, was clearly horrified by the bruising on her daughter’s face, gesturing with agitation towards the screen, but Viyan waved her concern away, smiling and laughing even, to Helen’s enormous relief.

Now some more familiar words cut through.

Salman, Defne, Aasmah, Viyan appealing for news about her children.

Once more, Helen held her breath, but moments later she heard cries of delight, as Viyan’s mother urged her grandchildren to join her.

Once more, Viyan fell silent, her hand clasped to her mouth, as the three children jostled to appear on screen.

‘Defne, Aasmah, Salman …’

The words tumbled from her mouth, Viyan’s cheeks now stained with tears.

She had clearly dreamed of this moment, had perhaps thought it would never happen, yet here she was, staring at her beautiful children.

Defne was tall and dark, like her mother, wearing a pretty yellow polo shirt, whilst Aasmah was shorter, more diffident, but with a winning smile.

And then there was Salman, just a baby when Viyan had left her homeland, but now a confident toddler, sporting a well-worn Nike t-shirt emblazoned with Kylian Mbappés face, something he seemed inordinately proud of.

Viyan threw words at them, terms of endearment, affection, of happiness and relief, before the well ran dry, the overjoyed mother turning to Helen, speechless, tearful but totally content.

It was a sight to melt any heart and Helen beamed back at her, her own eyes brimming with tears.

For a moment, the two women stared at each other, sharing their relief, this unexpected triumph, then once more the onslaught began, the emotional children peppering their mother with questions, chief amongst them, Helen presumed, when she might be coming home.

At this point, Helen withdrew, keen to give Viyan and her family the privacy they needed.

Tiptoeing out onto the landing, she nevertheless paused in the doorway to look back, drinking in the scene one last time.

Viyan was oblivious to her presence, utterly absorbed in an impassioned conversation with her children.

Her features had come alive, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks full of colour, staring longingly at her offspring.

It was an image of total devotion and unquestioning love.

It was a sight which moved Helen deeply, but also troubled her.

If she had her baby, would she too feel such overwhelming love, such joy?

If so, the thought of willingly sacrificing such an opportunity seemed utterly crazy.

Who wouldn’t want that? Who wouldn’t want something that lifts your heart and defines your mission beyond question every single day?

Helen didn’t feel ready for it, had no clue what to do, but surely it couldn’t be beyond her?

Maybe it was the emotion of the morning, maybe it was fatigue, but for the first time in her adult life, Helen found herself wondering if perhaps she was ready to be a mother.