“Did she leave her daughter with me?”—The horrifying thought sent a wave of heat through Valerie. “No, it can’t be. She’ll come back. She has to.”
Valerie returned from work to find a brief note from her daughter on the table. Her relationship with Emily had always been rocky, but she never imagined the girl would vanish like this. She reread the note until the words burned into her memory, yet still, she felt she’d missed something—some hidden meaning she couldn’t grasp.
That night, sleep refused to come. The pillow was too hard, the blanket too heavy, the air too stifling. She wept, then argued silently with Emily, replaying every fight, every rare moment of happiness. Finally, exhausted, she got up, sat at the kitchen table, and flicked on the lamp. The crumpled note lay atop her work papers, worn from handling.
For the hundredth time, she read it. No, she’d understood perfectly. She could almost hear Emily’s voice—sharp, accusing.
*”I’m tired of your rules. You’re too strict. I want my own life. I’m an adult. You’d never let me go, so I left while you were out. Don’t look for me. I won’t come back.”*
No greeting. No signature. “What about me?” Valerie whispered, as if Emily could hear. “What if something happens to me? You’ve left me no way to reach you. Don’t you care?”
Maybe Emily had her reasons. But Valerie, her mother, had only wanted her to get an education, build a career—not throw it all away for some fleeting passion. Were there really mothers who let their children do as they pleased?
Valerie had married young, a university student herself. She remembered how quickly love faded under the weight of debt, cramped dorm rooms, and exhaustion. Then Emily was born, and life became unbearable. Her husband, still a student himself, grew distant. They fought constantly. Maybe her own mother had been right—maybe she should’ve ended the pregnancy. But Valerie had believed love would conquer everything. What a fool she’d been.
Three months later, they divorced. Valerie took a leave from university and moved back in with her parents. Oddly, her mother—who’d pushed for the abortion—adored Emily instantly. She even let Valerie return to finish her degree while she spoiled the child rotten.
While her parents were alive, Valerie never struggled. Her mother was there, Emily watched like a hawk. After graduating, she taught French at a secondary school for two years before landing a translator’s job.
Her love life, though, was a wasteland. Her mother warned her to aim higher, to find a man who had his life together. But the men she met were either married, offering only an affair, or divorced losers looking for a meal ticket. She avoided them all.
When her parents died, it was just her and Emily. No one else mattered. She poured everything into her daughter. And now—apparently—none of it had been wanted. Spoiled by her grandmother, Emily saw Valerie as a jailer. She didn’t want books or a career—just freedom. And today, she’d taken it.
“I’ll wait,” Valerie murmured. “What else can I do? You’ll come back. You’re my daughter. I’ll forgive you. Just… be safe.” She sighed, turned off the lamp, and crawled into bed. It took an hour of tossing before sleep took her—thin, restless, and full of dread.
She never adjusted to Emily’s absence. Every phone jolt, every creak at the door sent her heart racing. She took on extra translation work, filling nights with journals and academic papers, sleeping in short bursts. The exhaustion left no room for self-pity. She told herself Emily was fine.
A year and a half later, the doorbell yanked her from her desk. Reluctantly, she set aside her glasses, rubbing tired eyes. The bell rang again.
She opened the door—and there stood Emily, thinner, sharper, her face hardened. Valerie gasped, rushing forward.
“Emily! Finally—I’ve waited so long!”
But Emily’s cold stare stopped her in her tracks. It was only when her daughter stepped inside that Valerie spotted the bundle in her arms.
“Is that—? Give her to me.” Valerie took the child. “A girl?” She cradled the baby, beaming. “I’ll put her down. You get settled.”
She carried the sleeping infant to the sofa, marveling at her tiny features—the long lashes, the rosebud mouth. Then the front door slammed.
Valerie froze.
Emily was gone.
The flat was silent. Valerie ran to the hallway, finding only a stuffed duffel bag by the door. Wet boot prints on the floor were the only proof Emily had been there at all.
She threw open the door, shouting down the stairwell: “Emily!”
No answer. No footsteps.
She rushed to the window—no car, no Emily. Just empty pavement.
Back in the living room, the baby stirred, fussing in her oversized snowsuit. Valerie undressed her, murmuring lies: “Mummy will be back soon.” A fresh nappy, and the child quieted.
The duffel bag held only baby clothes—and in a side pocket, documents. Valerie’s hands trembled as she read the truth: Emily had abandoned her child.
Iris Leonora Thompson. No father’s name listed. Just Emily’s surname. A scribbled note: *”Please look after her. Just for a little while.”*
That was all.
Valerie dumped the bag, finding a half-used formula box. “At least she left this,” she muttered, rushing to the kitchen.
Her forgotten translations lay untouched.
A new life began. Valerie switched to remote work, devoting herself to Iris, thriving in the chaos. By three, Iris was in nursery, registered under Valerie’s care. To the headmistress, she spun a tale of a traveling mother.
Years passed. Iris, quiet and clever, clung to Valerie. She refused to say “Grandma,” insisting on “Mummy.”
“You have another mummy,” Valerie corrected gently. “I’m your grandma.”
But the girl wouldn’t budge. Finally, Valerie gave in. “Call me Val. Just Val.”
Iris beamed. “Val.”
Emily never returned, never called. As Iris’s first school day neared, Valerie’s stomach churned. What if they asked questions? What if social services got involved?
She visited her old school, now under a frosty new deputy head. But the headmaster remained—a kind-eyed man who listened, then smoothed the way.
Valerie loved Iris fiercely, yet part of her dreaded Emily’s return. She wasn’t lavish with gifts, but her love was unwavering. At parents’ evenings, she glowed with pride.
Iris, sharp beyond her years, made Valerie wonder: Had Emily been like this? No. Emily had hated books, quit piano lessons, lived for parties.
One warm spring afternoon, Valerie stopped at the shops before collecting Iris. They strolled home, the girl chattering about school while Valerie lugged her backpack and groceries.
At the door, fumbling for keys, Valerie froze at a voice behind her.
“Mum.”
She whirled, keys clattering to the pavement. The woman before her was unrecognizable—blonde, polished, draped in designer clothes. Even from a distance, the scent of expensive perfume clung to her.
This stranger was her daughter.
Iris picked up the keys, handing them to Valerie, who noticed Emily studying the girl with unsettling intensity. Though curious, Iris stayed close to Valerie.
“You’re back,” Valerie said flatly, ushering Iris inside. “And I know why.”
Emily smirked. “Not happy to see me?”
“I waited years. Now? You look… comfortable.”
“I live in Portugal. Married.”
They both glanced at Iris.
“Go change,” Valerie said, but Emily cut in.
“Iris, I’m your mum.”
The girl flinched, hiding behind Valerie before bolting to her room.
“Was that necessary?” Valerie hissed.
“Still the expert,” Emily shot back.
“I’m taking her. Once the paperwork’s sorted, we’re leaving.”
The reunion was bitter. That night, Emily boasted of her villa, her pool.
“And the man you left for?” Valerie couldn’t resist.
“Ancient history. When he dumped me, I had nothing. That’s why I brought her to you.”
“So I failed as a mother but passed as a grandmother?”
Emily’s mask slipped. “I was wrong. But she’s mine.”
Valerie’s voice broke. “Did you ever think how I’d manage? She’s my whole life.”
They argued, airing years of resentment. Yet Valerie swallowed her pride—for Iris.
As departure day loomed, Iris asked, “Is Val coming?”
Emily stiffened. “No. You can visit her.”
“Then I’m staying.”
Valerie waited, hoping for an invitation. It never came.
Emily flew back alone after Iris threatened to run. She left screaming promises of court battles.
Eight years later, Emily returned—widowed, penniless, kickedValerie opened the door once more, her arms ready to catch whatever fragments of family life fate would throw her way this time, knowing that love—however imperfect—was the only anchor they had left.
