*Life with a Lingering Unspoken Feeling*
“Mum, where are my stuffed toys?” Charlotte quickly scanned her room, which had turned from a cosy nest into something resembling a sterile hospital ward overnight. “And my Kinder Surprise figures from the shelf—they’re gone too!”
“Nicky, I gave them to Auntie Margaret. Her little granddaughter Emily is such a darling. Auntie said she hasn’t let go of the bag with your toys all morning,” Mum called from the other room.
“What? Are you joking? Mum, those are my things! My toys!” Charlotte nearly shouted, tears welling in her eyes as she stormed into the kitchen.
“Good grief, you’re a grown girl, crying over trinkets. I gave them to Margaret—her grandchild gets joy from them. Yours were just gathering dust. Or are you planning to play with dolls at seventeen? Stop carrying on like I’ve given away your whole room!”
“Wouldn’t surprise me if that’s next! I’ll come home to find I’ve been evicted for another niece or some friend’s daughter!” Charlotte snapped before bolting for the front door.
It was always like this. Since turning fifteen, Charlotte had taken odd jobs to avoid asking Mum for extra money for clothes or makeup. But the moment she’d bought her first jeans and jumper with her wages, Mum had ransacked her wardrobe and taken out an entire bag of “useless” clothes.
“Now you’re earning, and Mrs. Thompson’s daughter down the road could do with these. You’ve seen how tight things are for them. Are you really that selfish?” Mum scolded after Charlotte spent an hour searching for her favourite T-shirt.
“Mum, you can’t just do this! These are *my* things! You should’ve at least asked me first!”
“I don’t *owe* you anything—and you, ungrateful girl, have no right to speak to me like that! I bought all this with my own hard-earned money.”
*Does she really not understand?* Charlotte fumed, staring at her half-empty wardrobe. *How can she just hand my things to a stranger?*
The next blow came when Charlotte returned from school to find her bookshelf stripped bare. The book series she’d collected since Year Four was gone.
“Mum, Gran gave these to me—you didn’t even buy them! Why would you do this?” she cried.
“You never read them—what’s the difference? They just gathered dust. They’re children’s books anyway—what use are they to you now? They’d have ended up at the charity shop or kindling for the fireplace.”
“That’s *not* the point! They’re *mine*. Call your friend and get them back!”
“Are you mad? Embarrassing me like that. I’m not calling anyone. I don’t know how I raised someone so petty and greedy—just like your father. He’d fuss over every sock, and now *you*.”
Mum never admitted who got the books. From then on, Charlotte only bought essentials, refusing Mum’s gifts to avoid the guilt trips. She stored her surviving magazines and books at Gran’s and kept new purchases strictly on her own shelf, warning Mum not to touch them. Mum took offence, giving her the silent treatment. “Look at us—counting rags like misers. Next you’ll want separate grocery lists!” she’d huff before shutting down completely.
The final straw was the missing toys. Finding them gone—given to Auntie Margaret—Charlotte couldn’t hold back. She knew where Mum’s friend lived, and despite the “shame,” she marched over to reclaim them. *Let them think what they want. I won’t let my things be given away.*
“Charlie! Where are you going?” Mum shouted after her. “Don’t you dare humiliate me at Margaret’s!”
But Charlotte was already gone. To some, they were just toys—to her, they mattered.
She knocked. The door opened to Margaret, a family friend in her sixties who’d helped Mum find work after the divorce and often babysat little Charlotte.
“Nicky! What’s wrong?” Margaret asked, concerned.
“Hello. No, nothing’s—well, actually…” Charlotte hesitated, sweating with shame, her earlier resolve crumbling. *Am I being selfish?*
“Don’t stand there—come in, love.”
Charlotte sat on the hallway stool, still in her trainers.
“Auntie Margaret… Mum gave you a bag of my toys this morning.”
“Oh yes, thank you! Emily adores plushies. I meant to send something back as thanks—thought your mum would pop by. But since you’re here—”
“Wait, please,” Charlotte interrupted. “I’m so embarrassed to ask this. Mum will be furious, but… I’d like them back.”
Margaret blinked. “But I’ve already given them to Emily. It’d be awkward to take them now.”
“I know how this looks. And I’m ashamed. I don’t need all of them—just two. Auntie, Mum didn’t warn me. Had she asked, I’d have packed them myself—I’m not heartless. But there was an old brown teddy and a knitted doll, tiny, palm-sized. They’re not *just* toys. Dad gave them to me… before the divorce. They matter.” Her voice broke.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Margaret knelt, pulling her close. “Your mum said you didn’t want them. I never meant to overstep.”
Charlotte sobbed uncontrollably.
“Right, come on.” Margaret heaved up, leading her to the kitchen. “Fresh tea’s brewing—calm yourself, and we’ll sort this.”
Clutching her mug, Charlotte stared into the amber tea, remembering Dad. After the divorce, Mum barred visits, but those rare times he came, she’d been radiant. She’d felt a bond she only acknowledged once the last traces of him were gone—even the chance to say goodbye, stolen by a car crash years ago.
Margaret returned with a folded shawl. “Nicky, look—this is over thirty years old. My mother’s gift. The kids tease me—‘Bin it, Nan!’ But I can’t. See the holes?” She laughed wetly. “I keep darning it. ‘Shameful,’ they say, but it’s *her*. When I wear it, it’s like her arms around me.”
Tears glistened in her eyes. “I understand what your things mean. Your dad was a good man—just wrong timing. Don’t blame your mum. She loved him deeply—still does. If not for that crash… Well. I’ll return your toys tomorrow. Let my family judge me—I *get it*. Hold onto what reminds you of love. Fight for it—just don’t forget the living who love you too.” She pressed the shawl to her nose, inhaling wool and memory.
***
At home, Mum leaned against the dresser. Bracing for the “selfish, ungrateful” rant, Charlotte instead found herself enveloped in a fierce hug.
“Forgive me, love,” Mum whispered. “Margaret called… I’m so ashamed. I never realised those toys and books meant so much. Thought you were clinging to childhood.” Now they both cried. “After the divorce, I threw out all your dad’s things. Some I spitefully gave to that drunkard, Barry. Burned the rest in the garden. When he died in that crash… I was *livid*. As if he’d abandoned us on purpose. And now I live with this… unsaid weight. Giving things away eases it. But I’m sorry, darling.”
They talked late into the night—about Dad, their past, Margaret’s shawl. Charlotte’s anger dissolved. For the first time, they spoke not as mother and daughter, but as friends sharing secrets.
“I remember that shawl!” Mum mused. “Wore it to work for years. Never occurred to me a thing could hold a whole life’s love.” She kissed Charlotte’s forehead. “Forgive me.”
“Mum, if it helps, let’s sort old things together—but only give to those who truly need them.” Charlotte sniffled, laughing. “Deal?”
