“Mum, where are my teddy bears?” Emily quickly scanned her room, which had transformed overnight from a cosy nest into something sterile and bare. “And my Kinder egg toys—they were on the shelf! They’re gone too!”
“Oh, love, I gave them to Auntie Margaret. Her little granddaughter Charlotte is such a sweetheart—couldn’t take her eyes off them! She’s been playing with them all morning,” Mum called from the kitchen.
“What? You’re joking, right? Those are my things, Mum—my toys!” Emily’s voice cracked as she stormed in, tears welling up.
“For heaven’s sake, you’re seventeen! Crying over trinkets like a toddler. They were just gathering dust. Auntie Margaret’s girl will actually use them. Or are you still playing with stuffed animals at your age?”
“Well, next time I come home, I won’t be surprised if you’ve given my whole room away to some ‘needy’ niece or friend’s daughter!” Emily snapped before grabbing her coat and slamming the door behind her.
It was always like this. Since she was fifteen, Emily had taken on 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 earnings, Mum had raided her wardrobe, bundling up a stack of “unwanted” things.
“You earn now, and Mrs. Thompson’s girl down the road could use these. You’ve seen how they struggle—surely you don’t mind?” Mum had said pointedly after Emily spent an hour searching for her favourite T-shirt.
“Mum, you can’t just—these are mine! At least ask me first!”
“I don’t owe you an explanation, young lady. I bought half these things with my own money, and here you are, ungrateful as ever!”
*Does she not get it?* Emily fumed later, staring at her half-empty wardrobe. *How can she just hand my things off like they’re nothing?*
The next blow came when she returned from school to find her bookshelf ransacked. The series she’d collected since Year 5—gone.
“Mum, Gran gave me those! Not you! Why would you do this?” she demanded, voice shaking.
“You weren’t reading them. What does it matter? They were just collecting dust. They’re kids’ books anyway—you’re grown now. We’d have burned them at the cottage come winter.”
“It doesn’t matter if I read them or not—they’re *mine*! Call your friend and get them back!”
“Are you mad? The shame of it! I won’t be calling anyone. God knows how I raised someone so selfish—just like your father. He pinched every penny, and now you’re the same.”
Mum never admitted who got the books. After that, Emily kept her things sparse, refusing gifts to avoid the guilt trips. She stored what remained of her magazines at Gran’s and hid new purchases on a designated shelf, warning Mum not to touch them. Mum would sulk for days. “Next you’ll be counting out your own groceries! Is this what we’ve come to?”
The final straw was the missing toys. Finding them gone, handed off to Auntie Margaret, Emily couldn’t stay quiet. She knew where the woman lived. Embarrassment be damned—she’d get them back. “Let them think what they want. I won’t let her give *my* things away,” she muttered, ready to fight the world.
“Emily! Where are you going?” Mum shouted after her. “Don’t you dare shame me by storming over there!”
But Emily was already out the door, anger drowning out reason. To some, they were just toys. To her, they were everything.
She knocked. The door opened to reveal Auntie Margaret, a family friend who’d helped Mum find work after the divorce and babysat Emily years ago.
“Emily! What’s happened?” Margaret asked, concerned.
“Hi… It’s—well, not exactly fine,” Emily stammered, shame burning her cheeks. Her earlier resolve crumbled. Was she being childish?
“Don’t just stand there. Come in, love.”
Emily perched on the entryway bench, still in her coat.
“Auntie Margaret… Mum gave you a bag of my toys this morning.”
“Oh yes! Little Charlotte adores them. I meant to send something round in thanks—thought your mum would pop by. But since you’re here—”
“Wait, please,” Emily interrupted. “I’m… I’m so ashamed to ask this. Mum didn’t tell me she was giving them away. If she had, I’d have chosen things myself—really. But there was an old brown bear and a knitted doll, about this big?” She cupped her hands. “They weren’t just toys. My dad gave them to me before… before he and Mum split. They’re all I have left of him.” Her voice broke.
“Oh, love,” Margaret whispered, pulling her close. “Your mum said you didn’t want them. I never would’ve taken them if I’d known.”
Tears spilled freely now.
“Come on,” Margaret said, heaving herself up. “Let’s have tea and sort this out.”
Cradling her mug, Emily stared into the steaming brew, remembering Dad. After the divorce, Mum had barred visits. Those rare times he’d sneaked over, Emily had clung to him—they’d shared a quiet understanding. But he’d died years ago, leaving only grief and unfinished words.
Margaret returned with a folded shawl.
“Look at this, love. Thirty years old—a gift from my mother. My kids tease me, say it’s fit for the bin. See the holes?” She laughed sadly. “But I keep darning it. Why? Because when I wear it, it’s like her arms around me.”
She wiped her eyes.
“I understand what those toys mean. Your dad was a good man—just didn’t work out. And don’t be too hard on your mum. She loved him deeply. If not for that accident…” She sighed. “I’ll bring your things tomorrow. Let my children judge me—I won’t judge you. Hold onto what keeps loved ones close. But don’t forget: cherish the living too.” She pressed the shawl to her face, inhaling its faded scent.
***
At home, Mum leaned against the dresser, waiting. Emily braced for the usual “selfish, ungrateful” lecture—but instead, Mum pulled her into a fierce hug.
“Margaret called… I’m so sorry, love. I never knew those things mattered so much. I thought you were just… clinging to childhood.” Her voice cracked. “After the divorce, I gave all his things away—some to that drunkard down the road, just to spite your dad. Burned the rest. When he died in that crash, I was *angry*. Like he’d abandoned us again. I’ve lived ever since with… words I never said. Giving things away eases it somehow. Forgive me.”
They talked for hours that night—about Dad, their past, Margaret’s shawl. The resentment melted away. For the first time, they weren’t just mother and daughter, but friends sharing buried truths.
“I remember that shawl! Wore it every winter. Just a rag to me—never guessed it could hold a whole life’s love.” Mum kissed Emily’s forehead. “Let’s gather old things properly from now on—give them to those who *need* them.” Emily grinned through tears. “But *together*, yeah?”
Mum squeezed her hand. “Together.”
That night, Emily learned: some things aren’t just objects. They’re bridges—to the past, to the people we miss, to the words we wish we’d said. And sometimes, keeping a few isn’t selfish. It’s how we keep *love* alive.
