A Life Half-Spoken
“Mum, where are my stuffed toys?” Veronica quickly scanned the room, which had gone from a cosy nest to a sterile space in just one morning. “And the Kinder toy figures from my shelf—they’re gone too!”
“Nicky, I gave them to Auntie Val. Her little granddaughter’s such a sweetheart, absolutely lovely. She said little Katie hasn’t left that bag of toys all morning,” came her mum’s voice from the other room.
“You’re joking, right? Mum, those are *my* things! *My* toys!” Veronica’s eyes welled up as she rushed in, voice rising.
“Good grief, you’re seventeen, crying over bits and bobs. Auntie Val’s got a toddler—let someone actually *use* them. Yours were just gathering dust. Or are you planning to play pretend at your age? Stop bawling like I’ve given your whole room away!”
“Wouldn’t put it past you! Next thing I know, I’ll come home to find some other kid’s moved in—another niece or your mate’s daughter!” Veronica snapped, grabbing her coat and storming out.
It was always like this. Since she was fifteen, Veronica had taken odd jobs to avoid asking her mum for extra cash for clothes or makeup. The moment she’d bought her first proper jumper and jeans with her wages, her mum had rifled through her wardrobe and bagged up a heap of “clutter” for charity.
“You’re earning now, and Mrs. Thompson’s girl on the third floor’s growing like a weed. You’ve seen how tight things are for them. Why’d you have to be so stingy?” her mum had said when Veronica spent an hour hunting for her favourite tee.
“Mum, you can’t just *do* that! They’re *mine*. You should’ve *asked*!”
“I don’t *owe* you a thing, and *you’ve* no right to speak to me like that! I bought half that lot with my own money,” her mum shot back.
*Does she not get it?* Veronica fumed, staring at her half-empty wardrobe. *How can she just hand my stuff off like it’s nothing?*
Next, her bookshelf was bare. The series she’d collected since Year 5—gone.
“Mum, Nan gave me those! *You* didn’t buy them—why would you do this?” she demanded, tears spilling.
“You never read them—what’s the difference? Just dust magnets. And they’re kids’ books, love. You’re nearly grown. We’d only have chucked them in the charity bin or used them for kindling at the cottage.”
“It doesn’t matter if I read them or not—they’re *mine*! Ring your friend and get them back.”
“Have you lost the plot? What a disgrace. I’m not ringing anyone. Dunno how I raised such a selfish little madam. Just like your dad—he’d nag me over every sock, and now you’re at it.”
Her mum never did say who got the books. After that, Veronica only bought essentials, refused gifts to avoid lectures, and stored what remained of her magazines at Nan’s. New clothes went on her own shelf, with strict warnings: *Don’t touch*. Her mum would sulk for days. “Next we’ll be splitting the grocery bill, will we?” she’d mutter before clamming up.
The last straw was the missing toys. Finding them gone—handed off to Auntie Val—Veronica snapped. She knew where the woman lived and, dignity be damned, marched over. *Let them think what they want. I’m not letting her give my things away.*
“Nicky! Where d’you think you’re going?” her mum shouted after her. “Don’t you *dare* shame me by storming round to Val’s!”
But Veronica was already out the door. To others, they were just toys. To her—they were everything.
A wrinkled face answered her knock. Auntie Val had been family friends for years—helped her mum land a job post-divorce, even babysat a young Nicky.
“Veronica? Love, what’s wrong?” Val frowned.
“Hi. No, it’s—well, actually—” Veronica hovered on the step, clammy with shame. Her earlier resolve crumbled. *Was this even right?*
“Don’t just stand there. Come in, have a cuppa, tell me properly.”
Veronica perched on the hallway stool, still in her trainers.
“Auntie Val… Mum gave you a bag of my toys this morning?”
“Oh yes, ta ever so! Katie’s mad for plushies. I meant to pop round with something for you—thought your mum’d collect it. But since you’re here—” She turned to fetch it.
“Wait, please,” Veronica blurted. “I’m… I’m so embarrassed. Mum’ll be furious, but… I need them back.”
Val’s brows shot up.
“But I’ve already given them to Katie. Bit awkward, love.”
“I know how it sounds. And I’m mortified asking. Not all—just a couple. Auntie Val, Mum didn’t *tell* me. If she’d asked, I’d have packed some myself—really. But there was this old brown bear… and a tiny knitted doll, palm-sized? Please understand—they’re not *just* toys. Dad gave them to me before… before they split. They matter. *So* much.” She broke down, face in her hands.
“Good Lord, pet.” Val knelt, pulling her close. “Your mum said you didn’t want them. I’d never have taken them if I’d known!”
Veronica couldn’t stop crying.
“Right, cuppa first.” Val hauled herself up, steering her to the kitchen. “We’ll sort this.”
Clutching the steaming mug, Veronica stared into her tea. She remembered her dad. Post-divorce, her mum barred visits, but those rare times he came—she’d been *happy*. They’d had a bond she’d only *truly* felt once the last traces of him were given away “for good causes”.
Then he’d died. No goodbye. Just endless grief.
Val returned with a bundle.
“Nicky, look at this shawl. Thirty-odd years old—my mum’s gift. Kids tell me to bin it.” She laughed, fingering the holes. “But I keep darning it. ‘Mum’s hugging me,’ I tell ‘em. Won’t part with it.” Tears glimmered in her eyes.
“I *get* why your things matter. Your dad—good man, just didn’t work out. Don’t blame your mum. She loved him fierce. If not for that crash… Well. I’ll bring your toys tomorrow. Let my lot call me daft—*I* understand. Fight for what’s yours, but don’t forget who’s still *here*.” She buried her nose in the shawl’s wool, breathing deep.
***
Veronica found her mum leaning on the dresser. Braced for the usual “ungrateful” rant, she flinched—but her mum pulled her into a crushing hug.
“Sorry, love… Val rang. I’m *so* ashamed.” Her voice cracked. “I never knew those toys meant *that* much. Thought you were clinging to childhood.” They wept together now. “After the divorce… you won’t recall, but I chucked all his things. Gave some to that drunk down the road—what’s-his-name? Scared the kids proper. Did it to *spite* your dad—imagine *that* fool in his suits! Burned the rest at the cottage. After the crash, I was *livid*. Like he’d *chosen* to leave us. Feels like… like I never said what I should’ve. Giving things away—helps ease it. Forgive me, love.”
They talked for hours—about her dad, their old life, Val’s shawl. The anger melted. That night, they weren’t just mother and daughter—they were *friends*, sharing secrets.
“I *remember* that shawl! Val wore it to work every winter. Just a rag to me—never knew…” Her mum wiped Veronica’s tears, kissing her forehead. “Let’s do charity proper—*together* this time.”
Veronica laughed, nose running. “Deal. But *ask* first.”
