“Did she leave her daughter with me?” The horrifying thought sent a flush of heat through Claire’s body. “No, it can’t be. She’ll come back—she has to.”
Claire returns from work to find a short note on the table from her daughter. Their relationship with Emily had always been rocky, but she never expected her to run away like this. She rereads the note again and again, memorizing every word, yet still feeling she missed something vital, misunderstood some key detail.
Sleep eludes her. The pillow is too firm, the duvet too heavy, the air stifling. She drifts between tears and endless imaginary conversations with Emily, replaying every argument, every rare happy moment.
Exhausted, she finally gets up, switches on the desk lamp, and sits at the table. The crumpled note lies atop her work papers, worn from being handled so much.
For the hundredth time, Claire reads it carefully. No, she’s understood correctly. She can almost hear Emily’s frustrated, accusing tone.
*”I can’t take your control anymore. You’re too strict. I want to live my own life. I’m an adult. You’d never let me go, so I’m leaving while you’re out. I’m fine. Don’t look for me. I won’t come back.”*
No greeting, no signature. “What about me?” Claire whispers, as though Emily could hear. “What if something happens to you? Where do I even send word? Don’t you care about what happens to me?”
Emily probably thinks she’s right. But Claire, as her mother, only wanted her to get an education, find a good job, so that reckless emotions or an unplanned pregnancy wouldn’t derail her future. What mother lets her child do absolutely everything?
Claire married young, still in university. She remembers how quickly love and passion faded under the weight of poverty, cramped dorm life, exhaustion. When Emily was born, it all became unbearable. She and her husband, just as young, stopped understanding each other, argued constantly. Maybe her own mother had been right—maybe she should have ended the pregnancy. But Claire had believed love would conquer everything. Foolish girl.
They divorced three months later. Claire took a leave from uni, moved back in with her parents. Surprisingly, her mother adored Emily despite having pushed for an abortion. She even helped Claire finish her degree while spoiling Emily rotten.
With her parents alive, Claire never struggled. Her mother watched over Emily while she worked—first as an English teacher, then as a translator.
But her love life failed. Her mother urged her to find someone stable, mature. Instead, she met married men who only wanted affairs or divorced men with nothing left to give. Claire avoided such entanglements.
When her parents passed, it was just her and Emily. No one closer. She gave everything to her daughter—only for Emily to reject it. Spoiled by her grandmother, Emily saw Claire as controlling, dreamed of freedom, not education. And now she’s gone.
“I’ll wait. What else can I do? You’ll come back someday. I’m your mother—I’ll forgive you. Just please, let nothing bad happen to you.” Claire sighs, turns off the lamp, and lies down. After half an hour of tossing, she drifts into a restless sleep.
She never adjusts to Emily’s absence. She jumps at every phone call, every sound at the door. On top of office work, she takes on freelance translations, laboring late into the night over journals and articles. She sleeps little. The exhaustion leaves no room for self-pity. She tells herself Emily is fine.
A year and a half later, the doorbell interrupts her work. She rubs her tired eyes, reluctant to pause mid-translation. The bell rings again. She opens the door to a gaunt, weary Emily and gasps, reaching for her—only to freeze at her daughter’s cold stare.
Then she notices the baby in Emily’s arms.
“Is she yours? Let me hold her.” Claire takes the child. “A girl?” She beams. “I’ll put her in the living room while you get settled.”
She lays the sleeping baby on the sofa, admiring her plump cheeks and tiny lips. The slam of the front door takes a second to register. Emily is gone.
Silence. Only a stuffed diaper bag remains by the door. Wet boot prints mark the floor.
Claire yanks the door open. “Emily!” No answer. She rushes to the window—no car, no Emily.
She returns to the baby, still asleep. “Did she leave her with me?” The terrible realization burns through her. “No. She’ll come back. The bag—she left the bag!” She tears through it. Only baby clothes.
The child fusses, then cries. Claire changes her nappy, murmuring reassurance—for herself as much as the baby. In the bag’s side pocket, she finds the birth certificate.
Ivy. Ivy Lauren Taylor. Emily never married—the child has her surname. The father’s middle name? Or just a random choice?
Another note, just as curt: *”Please, just for a little while.”*
At the bottom of the bag, a half-empty formula tin. “Better than nothing,” Claire thinks, rushing to the kitchen.
A new life begins. Claire shifts to full-time remote work to care for Ivy. Exhausting, but she thrives, grateful for purpose.
By three, Ivy starts nursery. Claire fibYears pass, and one spring afternoon, Ivy, now grown, holds Claire’s hand tightly as they watch Emily walk away for the last time, the weight of their fractured family settling silently between them like the setting sun.
