**Monday, 4th March**
My daughter Lucy is a force of nature. My husband and I raised her in peace and quiet—our cottage in the Cotswolds never echoed with shouting or arguments. But Lucy inherited my mother’s temperament—fiery, loud, and utterly stubborn. Nan had a way of getting what she wanted, could take offence at the slightest thing, and never listened to a soul. Lucy never knew her, yet she might as well have been her mirror image. And it breaks my heart.
Lucy can’t stand criticism. Any advice goes in one ear and out the other, or worse, she takes it as a personal attack. For years, my husband and I tried to guide her, but our words might as well have been thrown at a brick wall. By nursery, she’d already mastered the art of manipulation, charming her way into whatever she wanted with an angelic smile. She only ever heard what suited her, never what she needed to. The slightest correction brought tears and tantrums. Her teenage years were pure torment. I feared she’d fall in with the wrong crowd, start smoking, or—God forbid—end up pregnant. That didn’t happen, but she wore us down to the bone.
When Lucy left school, she announced she was grown now and would live on her own. She packed a bag and rented a flat in central London with a friend. Uni was abandoned—money mattered more, she said. For two years, we barely saw her. Rarely answered calls, never visited. I aged a decade with worry, lying awake waiting for that midnight call from hospital or police. Then, suddenly, she started dropping by on weekends—first now and then, then more often. We’d have tea, skirt around the past, and I dared hope the storm had passed.
I tried teaching her to cook, to manage a household, but she’d snap, “I know what I’m doing!” Soon, it turned out she was seeing a lad—Oliver. Steady, kind-hearted, he had a knack for defusing her outbursts with a joke. With him, Lucy seemed happier, calmer. They married, and I breathed easier, thinking she’d finally settled. How wrong I was.
Their honeymoon phase lasted months, if that. Lucy’s old self resurfaced. After every row with Oliver, she’d turn up on our doorstep, staying the night. Knowing how she hated advice, I bit my tongue, watching from the sidelines. Once, she swore she’d never go back to him—only to reconcile days later, as if nothing happened. I kept my mouth shut, terrified of shattering whatever fragile peace they had.
But Oliver’s patience wasn’t endless. One day, after yet another fight, Lucy came home to a note. He’d left, suggesting divorce. That day, she screamed until her voice cracked. As if losing her husband wasn’t enough, she was sacked from her job. For two weeks, I nursed her like a child—cooked meals, sat up talking, trying to distract her. Then, one evening, I walked in to find her with a suitcase.
“This is your fault!” she spat before I’d even shut the door.
“Hello, love. What’s happened? What’ve I done?” I stammered.
“Oliver left me, and you just let it happen! You saw how he was, you could’ve stopped him!” she shrieked.
“You never listened to a word I said. Always ‘I can handle it myself,’” I reminded her.
“You gave up after one try and just watched my marriage fall apart!” Every word cut like glass.
“Don’t you dare! I’m not to blame for your rows. You’re grown—you made your choices. How is any of this on me?”
“Oh, it’s never on you, is it? Thanks for *nothing*! I was right to leave after school. Wish I’d never come back!” With that, she slammed out so hard the windows rattled.
I stood there, stunned. All those days, I’d cared for her, stayed out of her life—just as she’d asked. And yet, to her, I’m the root of every disaster. My girl never grew up. Still looking for someone to blame. My heart aches that she thinks me a failure of a mother. But I’m done pleading my case. Her life, her choices.
So why does it hurt so much?
