“Left your daughter with me?”—The awful thought made Val’s blood run cold. “No, it can’t be. She’ll come back. She has to.”
Val had just returned from work when she spotted the note on the kitchen table. Her relationship with her daughter, Emily, had always been rocky, but she never expected the girl to vanish without so much as a proper goodbye. She read the note over and over, memorising every word, yet still felt she’d missed something—some hidden meaning.
Sleep was impossible. The pillow was too lumpy, the duvet too heavy, the room stifling. One moment she wept; the next, she argued aloud with Emily, replaying every row, every rare happy memory. Exhausted, she finally gave up, switched on the bedside lamp, and snatched up the crumpled note again.
Yes, she’d understood it perfectly the first time. She could practically hear Emily’s furious, accusing tone:
*”I’m sick of you controlling me… 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’ll be fine. Don’t look for me. I’m not coming back.”*
No greeting, no signature. “*And what about me?*” Val whispered into the empty room. “*What if something happens to me? You wouldn’t even know where to send the news. Don’t you care?*”
Maybe Emily had a point—sort of. But Val just wanted her to finish school, get a decent job, not throw everything away on some impulsive fling or unplanned pregnancy. Were there really mothers who let their kids do *whatever* they wanted?
Val had married young, a university student smitten with love—until reality hit. Romance fizzled under the weight of unpaid bills, a cramped flat, and exhaustion. By the time Emily was born, it was unbearable. Her husband—another clueless student—became a stranger. Maybe her own mother had been right: maybe she *should* have terminated the pregnancy. But back then, Val had been sure love would conquer everything. Silly girl.
They split three months later. Val took a year off uni, moved back in with her parents. Surprisingly, her mother adored Emily from the start—odd, given she’d pushed for the abortion. She even insisted Val finish her degree while she spoiled the baby rotten.
Life was easy while her parents were alive. Mum handled everything. After graduating, Val taught French for a few years before landing a job as a translator.
Her love life, though? A disaster. Mum said she needed someone stable, mature. Instead, Val kept attracting married men offering affairs or divorced blokes who’d lost everything to their exes. Not exactly prime husband material.
When her parents passed, it was just her and Emily. She poured everything into her daughter—who, it turned out, couldn’t care less. Spoilt by Grandma, Emily saw Val as a prison warden. She didn’t want books or a career—just freedom. And now she’d taken it.
“Fine. I’ll wait. What else can I do? You’ll come back eventually. I’m your mother—I’ll always love you. Just… stay safe.” Val sighed, turned off the lamp, and finally drifted into a fitful sleep.
Months passed. Val jumped at every phone call, every knock at the door. She took on extra translation jobs, worked late into the night, survived on scraps of sleep. No time for self-pity. Emily was fine. She *had* to be.
Then, a year and a half later, the doorbell rang mid-sentence. Val rubbed her tired eyes, grudgingly pushed back from her desk. The bell sounded again.
She opened the door. There stood Emily—thinner, tired, a shadow of herself. Val gasped, rushing forward—until she saw the icy glare. Then she noticed the bundle in Emily’s arms.
“Is she yours? Let me—” Val took the baby. “A girl?” she whispered, heart hammering. “I’ll put her down. Come in.”
She tucked the sleeping child onto the sofa, marvelling at her tiny fists, her rosebud mouth. Then—*click*. The front door. Val froze.
Emily was gone.
Only a nappy bag remained, footprints melting on the hall tiles. Val yanked the door open. “Emily!” No reply. No car outside. Just silence.
She hurried back to the baby, now stirring. “*Left her with me?*” The realisation burned. “*No. She’ll come back. The bag—she left the bag!*” Val rummaged through it—baby clothes, a half-used tub of formula, a bottle. No note. Then, tucked in a side pocket: a birth certificate.
*Iris Leonora Taylor.*
Emily hadn’t married, then. The surname was hers. The patronymic—some random name? Then, a scrap of paper:
*”Just look after her for a little while.”*
Nothing else.
Val dumped the formula into a bottle, hands shaking. The unfinished translations lay forgotten.
A new life began. Val switched to remote work, revolved around Iris. Exhausting? Yes. But for the first time in years, she had purpose.
By three, Iris was in nursery. Val fibbed to the headteacher: “Her mother’s a translator—always travelling.”
Iris was sharp, thoughtful—nothing like Emily, who’d quit piano lessons, hated reading, cared only for parties. Val adored her. And Iris? Refused to call her “Gran.”
“It’s *Mum*,” she’d insist.
“You *have* a mum. I’m Gran. Or… just Val.”
“Val,” Iris agreed, and it stuck.
Emily never called, never wrote. As Iris’s first school day neared, Val panicked. What if they asked questions? Reported her? She confessed everything to the headmaster—an old colleague. He waved it off. Iris started school without a hitch.
Val loved her so fiercely, the thought of Emily returning terrified her. She wasn’t lavish, but Iris wanted for nothing. Parent evenings filled her with pride.
Then, one spring afternoon, it happened.
“Val,” a voice said behind them at the front door.
Val turned, keys clattering to the ground. Emily stood there—glossy, expensively dressed, reeking of designer perfume. A stranger. Iris clutched Val’s hand, wary.
“You’re back.” Val’s stomach twisted. “*For Iris.*” She shoved the door open, nudging Iris inside. No way was this happening on the pavement.
Upstairs, Emily dropped the bombshell: “I live in Spain now. Married. Took me ages to tell him about Iris. But he insisted I bring her home.”
“The man you ran off with?” Val couldn’t resist.
Emily shrugged. “He dumped me. Left me broke. That’s why I brought Iris to you. Knew you’d nag me to stay, so I bolted. Wanted to get on my feet first.”
“So *I* was a terrible mother, but good enough for babysitting?”
Emily flinched. “I was wrong. But she’s *mine*. I’m taking her.”
The days that followed were agony—stilted conversations, old wounds ripped open. Val bit her tongue. For Iris’s sake, she swallowed every retort.
Then, days before the flight:
“Is Val coming?” Iris asked.
“No, love. But you can visit.”
“Then I’m not going.”
Not even Val could convince her. And Emily? Never once said, “*Come with us.*”
She flew back alone. They parted in a blaze of accusations—Emily swearing she’d get Iris through court, Val “poisoning” her against her own mother.
Eight years later, Emily returned—penniless. Her (much older) husband had died; his family cut her out. Iris, now a teen, was civil but distant. They lived together briefly—until Emily found a new man and left. Iris stayed with Val.
Every family has its ghosts. But when mothers and daughters can’t understand each other? Everyone suffers.