Margaret Davies studied her reflection, adjusting her grey suit. Today was Lottie’s thirtieth birthday. The first time in eight years they’d celebrate together.
“Mum, ready?” called Charlotte from the hallway. “The cab’s here.”
“Coming!” Margaret replied but lingered before the mirror. How Lottie had changed… Gone were the trainers and jeans, replaced by tailored dresses and heels. Now she worked for some multinational firm, earning more than Margaret had in her entire career. And engaged to that chap—Daniel, was it?
“Mum!” Charlotte’s voice grew impatient.
Margaret sighed and walked out. Her daughter stood by the door in a taupe dress, hair neatly styled, makeup subtle. Beautiful. Always had been, even when she’d dropped out of school at sixteen and run off.
“You look smart,” Margaret said stiffly.
Charlotte smiled, though her eyes dimmed slightly. “Thanks. You too. That suit suits you.”
They rode in silence. Charlotte watched Manchester streets pass while Margaret wondered how things might’ve unfolded had her daughter listened. Had she not entangled herself with that Stephen, twenty years her senior. Had she not fled to London with him, abandoning school, university, her future.
“Remember what I warned you?” Margaret finally said. “That it wouldn’t end well. That he’d toss you aside when he grew bored.”
Charlotte turned. “Not today, Mum? It’s my birthday.”
“I’m not spoiling it. Just stating facts. Wasn’t I right?”
“You were. And now? Must I grovel forever over teenage mistakes?”
Margaret fell silent. Did she want that? Unsure. She only knew she’d spent eight years sleepless—imagining her sixteen-year-old alone God-knows-where. Calling hospitals and police. Checking with acquaintances. Receiving that first scribbled note after eighteen months: “I’m fine. Stop looking.”
The restaurant was chic and expensive. Guests already sat at the long table—Charlotte’s colleagues, friends, Daniel and his well-dressed parents. All rose politely as Margaret entered.
“My mother, Margaret,” Charlotte introduced.
Margaret nodded collectively and took her seat beside Daniel’s mother, an elegant woman in her fifties.
“Your daughter’s remarkable,” the woman murmured. “Daniel adores her. Says you rarely meet someone so driven and independent.”
“She had to grow up early,” Margaret replied. “Too early.”
Daniel’s mother shifted topics, sensing the edge.
Laughter warmed the table. Charlotte shared work anecdotes, accepted gifts—diamond earrings from Daniel, a Paris getaway from colleagues, a designer handbag from friends. Margaret gave a simple gold chain, chosen carefully.
“Thank you, Mum. It’s lovely,” Charlotte said, fastening it.
“Wear it in good health,” Margaret answered.
As the evening waned, Daniel stood, glass raised. “To our birthday girl. Charlotte’s weathered storms all of us might’ve buckled under. Made mistakes, learned, grew. Now she stands strong, kind,
Valerie Peterson stood before the mirror adjusting her grey suit while recalling the years of silence since her daughter Helen recklessly fled home with Sergei at sixteen, haunted by how different she looked now in her beige dress and heels, poised to marry Dmitry with whom she shared a London flat in their new life. “You look lovely,” Valerie offered stiffly, receiving a grateful if hesitant smile as they rode in tense silence to the elegant restaurant where champagne toasts celebrated Helen’s resilience—though Valerie felt only bitterness recalling those eight years of searching hospitals and facing neighbours’ pity. When Dmitry praised Valerie’s parenting, grief choked her like rising Thames fog, for forgiveness escaped her still despite Helen’s earnest wish to rebuild their bond during promised Sunday teas and pancakes. Later, studying old photographs in her Nottingham terrace house—first school days through brooding adolescence before the escape—Valerie Valerie understood Helen’s path to fulfilment simply diverged from expectations; she resolved to one day voice pride in her daughter’s strength while grandmothering future grandchildren. And forgive… Perhaps with time it would happen. Helen was right — one can’t live in the past forever. But for now, Valerie could only try. Try to be a better mother than she had been before. And hope that it wasn’t too late. Healing required not erasing scars, but choosing to sow new gardens where old wounds once festered.
