Thirty-Seven and One Day: When It’s the Mother Who Grows Up
I woke before the alarm. Outside, a dull, heavy silence hung over the city, as if someone had draped a damp cloth over it. The air was frozen, cold—even inside, the walls seemed to hold their breath. So did I. I just lay there, certain something had shifted. Something had already changed; I just didn’t know what yet.
Almost mechanically, I reached for my phone. 6:04. One notification. Emily. I opened it.
*”Good morning, Mum. I’ve gone to Manchester with James. Please don’t look for me. I’ll call.”*
That was it. No *”love you,”* no *”sorry,”* no emoji. Like a receipt from a cash machine. Like a statement showing my entire account—the account of my motherhood—had been emptied.
I read it again. Ten times. Not because I didn’t understand. Because I was trying to live through it—as if each rereading might undo it. My heart tightened, like someone was slowly squeezing it from the inside with icy fingers.
Emily. Seventeen. Final year of sixth form. The girl who read Sylvia Plath, baked Victoria sponge cakes, hated Brussels sprouts, and always wore a black hairband on her wrist. She had a way of laughing with her eyes. The quiet around her was warm, never suffocating. All of that existed. And now—it didn’t.
I walked to the kitchen. Stood barefoot by the table in an old dressing gown, phone in hand. Didn’t bother with the kettle. Sat down. Stood up. Sat again. My body moved on autopilot, thoughts nowhere to be found. Call? Who? His number wasn’t saved. Just a passing mention: *”James from biology.”* Facebook—a blank profile, a fox for a picture. Somehow, that fox felt like the worst part.
I went to her room. Duvet tossed aside, a note on the desk:
*”Mum, I’m not being cruel. I just can’t be the good girl anymore. I love you. But in my own way.”*
That *”in my own way”*… A gunshot. Straight to a wound that would never heal.
We raise our children as best we can. Shield them—from runny noses, bad crowds, broken hearts. We make chicken soup, check homework, buy winter coats a size too big. Then, one day, we don’t notice when *”don’t catch a cold”* becomes *”just come home alive.”* Any version of her. Just let her come back.
I went to work. Accounts department. On the bus, I stared out the window but didn’t see the streets. In the office, it was Tanya’s birthday. Thirty-seven. Mine had been yesterday. No balloons, no cake, no candles. Just a cheap bottle of wine and a book I never finished.
That evening, I came home. Didn’t turn on the lights. Curled up on the windowsill, wrapped in a blanket, watching the glow from other flats. Someone’s telly flickered. A spoon clinked against a cup. Lives being lived. Mine—a hollow pause.
The next evening, the phone rang.
*”Mum…”*
*”Where are you?”*
*”I told you. Manchester. James’s nan’s place. I’m safe. Not on the streets, don’t worry.”*
*”Come home. Please.”*
*”I can’t. Not yet.”*
*”I don’t know what to do…”*
Silence. Then:
*”Mum, are you even happy?”*
The question winded me. At first, I didn’t know what to say. Then, honestly:
*”I don’t know. Are you?”*
*”I want to find out. I need to know who I am when I’m not trying to be perfect.”*
More silence. Then—the dial tone.
I didn’t sleep that night. Sat at the kitchen table, scrolling through our texts, our photos. Somewhere between March and June, something had snapped. And I hadn’t even noticed. Spreadsheets, sick days, deadlines, the sofa on finance. All *”for her.”* All missed.
A week later, she came back. Not begging. Not in tears. Just walked in, hung up her coat, dropped her rucksack in the corner, and asked:
*”Can I stay here for a bit?”*
I nodded. Didn’t speak. Just hugged her. For the first time—didn’t ask.
We stayed quiet. Ten minutes. Then, softly:
*”I love you. And I get it now—it was hard for you, too. But I still want to leave. Not to run away. Just… to live. My way. Is that okay?”*
It is.
A year’s gone by. Emily rents a room in Bristol. Works at a café. Studies graphic design. Comes home weekends. We eat scones, argue about films, talk. Sometimes we row, but now—we listen.
Thirty-seven and one day. That’s when her grown-up life began. And mine. Too.
