Sometimes I pop into my old accounting office—not for work, just for tea and a chat with my former colleagues. The other day, I dropped by again, and, as usual, the conversation turned to familiar frustrations. Vera, my old work friend, let out a sigh the moment I walked in.
“I don’t know what to do with Emily anymore,” she said. “The girl’s thirty-two, and she still acts like she’s eighteen. No job, no family, no plans—just her phone, her mates, and her nights out. I’ve stopped giving her ‘fun money,’ but of course, I still buy the groceries and pay the rent. What else can I do?”
I listened, feeling Vera’s exhaustion deepen with every word. She’s nearly sixty, worked her whole life—first in her youth, now well past retirement age—and instead of relaxing, she’s propping up a grown woman who refuses to grow up.
“I tell her, ‘Just find a little side gig, for heaven’s sake!’ And she snaps back, ‘I watched you grind yourself to dust for pennies at three jobs—I don’t want that life.’ The sum total of her employment? Babysitting the neighbour’s kid twice a week. Anything more? ‘Not interested.’”
Emily had every advantage—first-class degree, top marks from university, sharp as a tack. Boys used to flock around her. You’d think she’d be living her best life. But when it came time to start a career, she decided entry-level was ‘beneath her.’ She wanted a fancy title and a fat paycheque straight out the gate. As if those just fall from the sky with zero experience.
“I’m not asking her to be some high-flying CEO,” Vera went on. “Just a functioning adult! But she’s waiting for a bloke in a Bentley to whisk her off to some fairy tale—loaded husband, Cotswolds cottage, holidays in the Maldives. Meanwhile, actual decent lads? ‘Too boring, too common.’ Excuse me, miss, but what exactly is she bringing to the table?”
It’s heartbreaking. This isn’t just venting—it’s sheer desperation. How do you reason with a woman stuck in teenage rebellion at thirty-two? Dreams are lovely, but when they’re just excuses to avoid reality, it’s a problem.
“You know,” Vera said quietly, “she’s got a good heart. But her head? Jammed in the clouds. Like she’s terrified of stepping into real life. And I won’t be here forever. What happens then?”
I nodded, my mind racing. Where does this happen? Vera gave Emily everything—education, support, a home. So what went wrong? Too much coddling? Fear of responsibility? Or just holding out for perfection while rejecting every sensible option?
“Sometimes I wonder,” Vera murmured, “was it me? Did I spoil her? Fix everything for her? And now it’s too late to undo it?”
I couldn’t bring myself to say she was to blame. Because stories like this aren’t rare. I’ve known people who clawed their way up from nothing, and others—bright, capable, utterly adrift. Sometimes parental expectations crush kids. Sometimes fear of failure paralyzes them. And sometimes it’s just laziness, dressed up as ‘finding yourself.’
But one thing’s certain: Vera doesn’t deserve this. She did her best. All she wants now is to see her daughter finally stand on her own two feet, grateful and grown.
Children don’t always turn out how we imagine. Maybe Emily’s story will change—if she ever realizes time isn’t infinite, mothers aren’t immortal, and life won’t wait for those who sit around waiting for miracles.
