**A Trip to the Seaside**
“I won’t allow it, Emily, do you hear me? You’re only eighteen. You don’t understand—” Margaret’s voice kept rising as she argued with her daughter for what felt like hours.
“You’re the one who doesn’t understand. Everyone else is going, but as usual, I’m the exception,” Emily shot back stubbornly.
“Who’s ‘everyone’? Your friend Sophie? Her mother lets her get away with anything—” Margaret stopped herself, realizing she’d gone too far. “Listen, love—”
“Did *you* ever listen when I said I didn’t want anything to do with James? Oh, right, what the child says doesn’t matter. You never heard me out—you just did what *you* wanted. You told me then you wanted to be happy. Well, are you happy, Mum? I’m not a child anymore. I’m an adult. And I want to be happy too. I’m going, whether you like it or not. I don’t need your money.” Tears of frustration glistened in Emily’s eyes.
“That’s *exactly* what I want—for you to be happy, truly happy. But you could make a mistake you’ll regret for the rest of your life. Just think, Emily. There, you’d be completely dependent on Oliver. Are you even sure about him? You barely know each other. And there’ll be no one around if—”
“Don’t worry, I won’t come back *pregnant*,” Emily scoffed.
“We’re not hearing each other.” Margaret sank onto the sofa, exhausted.
She was tired of justifying herself. Her husband had left her with three-year-old Emily, a pittance of child support, and vanished. When she met James, she never expected she could love or trust a man again. All these years, James had tried to step into the father’s role, tried to be Emily’s friend—but she never accepted him.
Margaret remembered when twelve-year-old Emily had glared at James the first time he came over, then asked bluntly when he left:
“Is he moving in with us?”
“Yes. Do you mind?”
“Since when does my opinion matter? You’ll do what you want anyway,” Emily huffed.
Margaret tried to reassure her that James was kind, that she’d see it soon enough.
“You just don’t know him yet. Give it time—you’ll like him.”
“Your daughter’s just jealous,” her best friend, a therapist, had said. “You can’t let her dictate your life. Before you know it, she’ll be grown, married off, and you’ll be alone. A man like James doesn’t come along twice. You don’t have to choose between him and Emily. It’ll settle, just give it time.”
Margaret tried not to neglect her daughter—but she hadn’t been entirely successful. She was drawn to James, while Emily constantly demanded her attention. Torn in two, Margaret watched as Emily, realizing her mother no longer belonged to her alone, began drifting away. Now, here they were—unable to hear each other.
Now Emily was punishing her. Oliver *seemed* like a pleasant, well-mannered lad from a decent family. She had nothing against him personally—but allowing her daughter to go off with him to Brighton?
A boy on his best behaviour for the parents is one thing—but what’s he really like? You only see the tip of the iceberg. What’s beneath that polished exterior?
Perhaps it was easier for the boy’s parents. Margaret had only Emily. They’d barely been apart their whole lives. Now, suddenly, she wanted to jet off with some lad. Of course there’d be wine, of course there’d be sex. Margaret had raised her alone, hovering over her like a hawk. Naturally, it was hard to accept that Emily was grown, that she had a boyfriend, a life of her own.
But she couldn’t keep her leashed forever. Even James thought she should have some freedom. “The girl’s clever, she’ll figure things out.” When Margaret snapped, “If she were *your* daughter, you wouldn’t let her run off to Brighton with a boy,” James had gone quiet, refusing to argue. Of *course* he wouldn’t. Still, she was grateful he didn’t escalate things, that he stepped back—let mother and daughter sort it out themselves.
Fine. She’d have to accept it and pray nothing went wrong.
Maybe she should’ve forgotten about James, forgotten herself, devoted herself solely to Emily—but how could she, when she was only in her thirties, when she still wanted love and happiness?
Now *Emily* wanted to be happy. Now she wouldn’t listen. What could Margaret do? It was easy to advise others—but where your own child was concerned, logic drowned in maternal fear. Every mother wanted to shield her daughter from mistakes. But was *that* the real mistake?
Margaret sighed, weary of her own thoughts, and walked into Emily’s room. Her daughter sat cross-legged on the bed, glued to her phone. “Complaining to Oliver,” Margaret guessed.
“I’m tired of fighting you. Of *course* I’m afraid for you—of course I want to stop you making a mistake. You’re only eighteen… Go. But promise me you’ll call, that you won’t switch your phone off so I can reach you.”
Emily looked up, surprised. Clearly, she hadn’t expected Margaret to cave.
“Fine,” she said flatly.
*”Before, she’d have flung herself at me, called me ‘Mummy.’ Now she acts like she’s doing me a favour.”* Margaret bit back more words, sighed, and left. *”At least we’re not parting as enemies.”*
Later, sitting at the kitchen table, Margaret tried to steady herself.
“Can I take the blue suitcase?” Emily poked her head in.
“Of course. When are you leaving?”
“Tonight—I *told* you.”
Right, of course. *Tonight?* So soon? She hadn’t adjusted to the idea of letting her go. *”God, why am I just sitting here—”* Margaret jumped up, pulled a wad of twenties from the emergency stash, and handed them to Emily.
“Take these. Just in case. Keep them to yourself—don’t tell Oliver. If you want to come home early, you can buy a ticket anytime.”
“Thanks.” Emily took the money, the ghost of a smile touching her lips. “Oliver’s picking me up. Please don’t come out to say goodbye, okay?” Her tone was almost conciliatory now.
Margaret nodded and left. *”Thank God we made peace, at least.”*
“I expected shouting—it’s quiet. You let her go, then?” James walked in, and Margaret flung her arms around him.
“God, I’m glad you’re here. Oh, James, I don’t know if I did the right thing. I’m so worried.”
“Calm down. She’ll be fine. She’s a clever girl.”
Oliver arrived for Emily at half ten.
“You’re responsible for her. Call me, understand?” Margaret fought back tears. She didn’t want to let her go. For a second, she even saw doubt flicker in Emily’s eyes—but it vanished just as quickly.
“Ready?” Emily said, eager to cut the drawn-out goodbye short. Oliver took the suitcase.
“Don’t worry, I’ll return her safe and sound,” he said.
When the door closed, Margaret rushed to the kitchen window. James rested his hands on her shoulders.
“They’ve got into the taxi. *Please* keep her safe…”
“Come on, let’s have some tea,” James said.
***
In the taxi, Oliver slung an arm around Emily, pulling her close, kissing her.
“Stop it!” She shoved him away, shooting a look at the driver’s back.
Oliver sat upright but kept his arm around her.
Maybe she’d been wrong to argue with Mum? She could still back out, go home. But then the taxi stopped, and Sophie and Matt climbed in. The car filled with laughter, and Emily’s doubts melted away. In a few hours, they’d be in Brighton, by the sea…
They booked two hotel rooms. Emily had assumed they’d pair off—but she was still nervous. The moment they were alone, Oliver pulled her towards the bed.
“I thought we were here for the sea—” she began, but his touch made her forget everything. The sea could wait.
Later, they grabbed a bite at a café. The lads and Sophie ordered beer; Emily refused. The heat made her desperate to dive into the waves.
The days flew by. Emily tanned, her skin smooth and glowing. She called or messaged Margaret—*”Sea’s warm as milk. We’re on the beach all day. We’re fine, don’t worry. Love you!”*—even sent a few photos. Staring at them, Margaret almost relaxed. Emily *looked* happy.
Then one evening, the boys rented a boat, announcing it over lunch.
“Seriously? OutAs the taxi drove off, Emily leaned her head against the window, watching the streetlights blur past, wondering if she’d made the right choice—but it was too late now, and all she could do was hope.
