**Friday, 11th May**
Looked myself over in the mirror this morning, adjusting the grey suit jacket. Claire turns thirty today. The first birthday of hers we’ve marked together in eight long years. “Mum, ready?” she called from the hallway. “The cab’s here.” “Coming, coming!” I called back, yet lingered at the glass. How Claire’s changed… Once it was only jeans and trainers; now elegant dresses and heels. Works for some foreign firm, earns more than I likely did my whole career. Engaged to that… what’s his name… David. “Mum!” Her voice turned impatient. I sighed and went out. There she stood on the doorstep: beige dress, neat hair, light make-up. Beautiful. Always was, even when she quit school at sixteen and walked out. “You look smart,” I said, rather curtly. She smiled, but a shadow flickered in her eyes. “Thanks. You too. That suit suits you.”
The cab ride was silent. Claire gazed out the window; I thought how different it all might have been. Had she listened. Had she not gotten tangled up with that Steven bloke, twenty years her senior. Had she not run off to London with him, abandoning everything – school, university, her future. “Remember what I told you then?” I couldn’t help myself. “That it wouldn’t end well. That he’d ditch you once he got bored.” Claire turned. “Mum, not today. It’s my birthday.” “I don’t mean to spoil it. Just stating facts. I was right, wasn’t I?” “Yes, you were right. And? Want me to spend my whole life repenting for teenage mistakes?” I stayed quiet. Did I want that? Unsure. Only knew I hadn’t slept soundly for eight years, picturing my sixteen-year-old girl, God knows where, God knows with whom. Calling hospitals, ringing the constabulary, asking acquaintances. Getting the first letter only after eighteen months – a scribbled note saying Claire was fine.
The restaurant was pricey and smart. At the big table sat her crowd: colleagues, a few girlfriends, fiancé David with his parents. They stood politely when I arrived. “Everyone, my mum, Evelyn,” Claire introduced. I nodded vaguely and took the seat she indicated. David’s mother ended up beside me – an elegant woman about my age in a pricey dress. “You’ve a wonderful daughter,” she murmured. “David’s besotted. Says you don’t find many young women so independent and driven.” “She became independent early,” I replied. “Too early.” She sensed the edge and switched the subject.
It got lively at the table. Claire laughed, shared work stories, accepted toasts. I sat quiet, answering neighbours now and then, mostly watching. See, she hugs David; he whispers in her ear; she blushes and laughs. Nice lad, I’ll admit. Doctor. Good family. Claire’s landed on her feet. But she could have married decently earlier, not the first chancer, if she’d listened. “Claire, wedding plans!” piped up a friend. “When’s the date?” “Autumn,” she said. “Small ceremony, just close family.” “And where’ll you live?” “David’s bought a flat in that new development. Three bedrooms, fully done. Absolute dream!” Couldn’t help recalling my own cramped postwar council flat where we lived before she bolted. Claire slept on the sofa-bed then, complaining no privacy, no space. I’d told her: finish school, get to university, work hard, *then* your own place. She wouldn’t wait.
“What about children?” the friend pressed. Claire glanced at David. “Definitely. I long for a baby. Boy or girl,” she smiled warmly. “I’m going to be the best mum ever.” “I’m sure,” David’s mother nodded. “You’ve such intuition with people, such understanding. Vital for raising children.” I nearly choked on my wine. *Intuition*? From the girl who at sixteen took up with a married man? “Mum, you alright?” Claire asked, worried. “Need some water?” “No, fine,” I dabbed my eyes with a napkin.
The party rolled on. More toasts, presents. Claire got expensive jewellery from David, a trip to Spain from her office, a lovely bag from the girls. I’d brought a gold chain – quality, but modest. Bought it last week, chose carefully. “Thanks, Mum. Lovely,” Claire fastened it, checking in a compact mirror. “I really like it.” “Wear it well,” I said.
Towards the end, David stood with his glass. “Friends, a few words about our birthday girl. Claire… she’s remarkable. Made mistakes, like we all have, but faced them, learned, became who she is. Strong. Wise. Kind. Thrilled she’s agreed to marry me.” Applause. Claire gave him a shy kiss. “And special thanks to Evelyn,” David continued. “For raising such a daughter. I know there were difficult times, but you kept hold of what matters – your love for each other.” Felt a lump rising… *Love*? What love? Eight years not knowing if she was alive. Eight years fuming, hurt, wretched. And when Claire finally reappeared, back in her hometown, I couldn’t just hug her and say, “Glad you’re home.” Instead, the recriminations started.
Afterwards, Claire saw me home. “Thanks for coming,” she said at my door. “Meant the world.” “Where else would I be? I’m your mother.” “Mum… could we meet more? Not just holidays. Pop over. Tea. Talk.” “What about?” I asked, weary. “Dunno. Life. Work. Future plans. I want you to know me *now*. Not just remember that silly sixteen-year-old.” I looked at her. Under the streetlamp, her face looked terribly young. “Alright,” I said. “Next Sunday. I’ll bake scones.” Claire hugged me tight, like a child. “Deal. Love you so much, Mum.” “Love you too,” I whispered.
Climbing the stairs, I thought forgiveness isn’t a switch you flick. She’s forgiven my coldness, the reproaches, the silent years. Easy as breathing. But I simply *can’t* forgive her for that terror I endured when she vanished. Those sleepless nights calling hospitals. That awful shame explaining it away to neighbours, colleagues.
The flat was quiet and empty. I put the kettle on, fetched the photo album. Claire on her first day, huge white bow, bunch of carnations. Nursery graduation, white dress, pigtails. Thirteen already, solemn beyond her years. Then the last photo, taken weeks before she ran. Glowering over homework. I used to force extra study back then, hired tutors. Insisted: “Good grades, good uni, decent job, decent husband.” And in the end, it happened. Just took a longer, far more painful path.
Shut the album. Time for bed. Tomorrow I’ll ring Claire. Tell her I’m proud. Tell her I’m glad she’s found happiness with David. Tell her I
She resolved to finally release that old bitterness tangled like stubborn weeds in her garden, understanding that nurturing the fragile new blooms of their relationship mattered far more than endlessly tending to the scars of winter storms long past.
