Rosemary and I Share a ‘Secret Signal’ – What Happened Yesterday Is Why You Must Have One Too
This strange, almost surreal day reminded me why a hidden signal between parent and child can feel like a lifeline in a world that tilts unexpectedly.
When I was small, my mum taught me a whispered word to use if ever I needed escape but couldn’t say why. Now, I’d given my own daughter, Matilda, the same eerie safety net—never imagining she’d need it so soon, like a sentence spoken into a mirror that suddenly becomes real.
Yesterday began ordinarily enough. I was rinsing my teacup in the kitchen when the phone chimed. My ex-husband, Rupert, whose voice had grown unfamiliar over the years, hesitated before speaking. “Matilda wants to chat. Says she’s desperate to tell you about her day.”
This was odd. Matilda adored her weekends with her father, rarely calling unless something was amiss. “Put her on,” I said, though the air around me seemed to thicken.
“Mummy!” Her voice was all sugar, but beneath it ran a current—something off, like a shadow moving just beyond the window.
“Darling! Are you having a lovely time?” I kept my tone bright, as if we were exchanging pleasantries at a garden party.
“Oh yes! We fed the ducks at the pond yesterday, and today I drew pictures. A fox, an oak tree… and oh, I do wish I had a purple crayon for the violets.”
The word *violets* struck me like a bell tolling in an empty church. Our signal. My pulse thrummed wildly. Beneath her bright chatter, she was begging me to pull her out.
“I’ll fetch you straightaway, poppet. Don’t let on to Daddy. Be there soon.”
“Anything else, sweetheart?”
“No, Mummy. That’s all.” But the faint tremor in her voice was unmistakable.
“See you in a tick. Love you.”
“Love you too, Mummy.” Her giggle as I hung up was brittle. My hands shook as I snatched my car keys. Rupert had always been decent—what horrors had unfolded to make her invoke the signal?
At his flat, a woman with sharp eyes and sharper cheekbones answered. “Help you?” she clipped.
“I’m here for Matilda. Is Rupert about?”
“Gone to the shops. I’m Sienna,” she said, as if the name explained everything. “His fiancée.”
The word *fiancée* hung like a guillotine. Since when? Why hadn’t Matilda mentioned her? But questions could wait. “Ah—just remembered, Matilda’s got a dentist appointment tomorrow. Needs her toothbrush and such. Rupert must’ve forgotten.”
Sienna’s lips thinned. “She didn’t mention it.”
“Children, eh?” I forced a laugh. Inside, Matilda sat stiffly on the sofa, clutching a sketchbook. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes.
“Ready, pet? Dentist prep!” I chirped. She practically levitated into my arms.
Sienna watched us leave, her gaze like winter. Only when we were driving away did Matilda’s composure crack. “Mummy, she’s *awful*,” she sobbed. “When Daddy’s not there, she says I’m a nuisance. That I should stay quiet in my room. She told me no one would believe me if I told.”
Rage coiled in my chest. Some stranger, slithering into my child’s life, whispering poison? Unthinkable.
“You were so brave, my love. You’ll never see her again unless you want to.” I hugged her fiercely, her tears dampening my jumper.
At home, I rang Rupert. “Matilda used the signal today,” I said, my voice steady as a knife. “Your fiancée’s been cruel to her when you’re not looking.”
Silence. Then, “Sienna? She wouldn’t—”
“She *did*. Matilda was terrified. Handle it, or I will.”
He exhaled sharply. “Christ. I’ll sort it.”
Later, as Matilda slept, curled around her stuffed badger, I stared at the ceiling. That ridiculous word—*violets*—had been a tether in the storm. A small magic.
Parents, I thought, give your children a secret. Not a fairy tale, but a key. Make it absurd—*spotted hedgehog* or *singing marmalade*—so it slips past unnoticed. Practice it like a spell. Because one day, the world might tilt, and that word could be the only thing that rights it again.
*Names, places, and certain details have been altered to safeguard privacy. Some events may belong more to the realm of dreams than waking life.*
