**25th April, 2024**
“Mum, did you ever want to be an artist too?”
Emily sat at the kitchen table, gripping a thin paintbrush. On the watercolour paper beneath her hand, an uncertain but tender lilac branch took shape—the purple strokes trembling, as if afraid to bleed.
“I did,” Charlotte smiled, standing by the stove. “But I was nine, and I decided becoming a doctor would be better. Saving lives and all that.”
“And then you changed your mind?”
Charlotte reached for the kettle, avoiding her daughter’s gaze. These conversations always unsettled her. Too much lay behind them—old dreams, unfulfilled hopes, choices made with reason, not heart.
“Aye. Life took a different turn.”
When Charlotte adopted Emily, she was thirty-three. By then, she’d weathered infertility, a divorce that left her hollow, and endless advice from well-meaning friends—”accept it,” “try again,” “just adopt.” She hadn’t wanted to. Not out of selfishness, but fear: would she have enough love? Enough strength? Then, at the children’s home, she saw Emily—a slight girl with braids, sketching flowers in the corner. When Emily looked up, her eyes held such grown-up sorrow that Charlotte’s chest ached. A year later, Emily called her “Mum.”
Now Emily was ten. She attended the same primary school where Charlotte taught English. Colleagues and parents respected her—”that teacher who adopted the girl from care.” But Charlotte didn’t want praise. Her only wish was to give Emily a life untouched by the past.
“Ms. Hayes, if you’d like Emily to enrol at our academy, you’ll need to complete these forms. And provide copies of her birth certificate.” The receptionist at the prestigious grammar school adjusted her glasses, stern but not unkind.
“Of course,” Charlotte nodded, steadying her voice. “We’ll have everything ready.”
She’d prepared for this. Emily’s new surname—hers—was neatly printed on the documents, no hint of adoption. Not that it was a secret, but Charlotte refused to let Emily’s past invite pity or questions. She knew how cruel children could be—how a single word could cut deeper than intended.
That evening, they baked an apple tart. Emily peeled apples with an artist’s focus, thin ribbons of skin falling into the bowl. She measured sugar carefully, as if afraid to disrupt some invisible balance.
“Mum, does the new school have an art club?”
“It does. A good one. And drama. And a swimming pool.”
“What if they don’t take me?”
Charlotte studied her daughter. Emily didn’t look up, but her fingers stilled over the bowl.
“They will, love. We’ll make sure of it.”
The call came on Saturday morning. Charlotte stepped into the garden to answer—the flat made voices too loud. The woman on the line sounded distant, as if speaking through years.
“Is this Charlotte? I’m… I’m Emily’s mother.”
The world narrowed. Charlotte gripped the porch railing, noticing everything—a speck on her nail polish, a crack in the pavement, her own breath turning heavy.
“What do you want?”
“I… I’m not asking for anything. I just wondered how she is. Could I… see her, even just once?”
“She doesn’t remember you.” Charlotte’s voice was harsher than she felt. “She has a new life. Don’t ruin it.”
“I understand. I’m sorry.”
The line went dead.
Back inside, Charlotte didn’t notice Emily hovering by the stairs. The girl said nothing, but her eyes were wary, like a kitten hearing an unfamiliar sound.
“Who was that?”
“Wrong number,” Charlotte lied, the words sticking in her throat. “Come on, breakfast’s ready.”
Days later, the school called. Emily had fought a classmate—something entirely unlike her. Charlotte sat in the staff room opposite the teacher while Emily waited outside.
“She hit a boy,” the teacher said, pushing her glasses up. “Says he insulted her.”
“How?” Charlotte clutched her handbag.
“Emily will tell you. But Ms. Hayes… children repeat what they hear at home.”
Emily slumped on a chair in the corridor, staring at the floor. When Charlotte approached, the girl whispered:
“He said I don’t have a real family. That I’m ‘not his sort.’ And… that you’re not my mum.”
“Who told him that?!”
“I don’t know. But he knew.”
That night, Charlotte lay awake, staring at the ceiling. For the first time, her lie felt like a hairline crack in glass—barely visible, but one strong gust from shattering. She remembered Emily’s first “Mum,” their wobbling bike rides, the nights Emily cried until she learned this was home. Charlotte had wanted to shield her from pain, but the truth, it seemed, was stronger.
The next day, the woman—Louise—rang again. She asked to meet. Charlotte hesitated, but something—exhaustion from lying, perhaps—made her agree.
“Fine. No dramatics. And Emily doesn’t know.”
They met in the park beneath an old linden tree. Louise was younger than Charlotte expected—early thirties, with tired eyes and a frayed scarf she kept fidgeting with.
“I know I’ve no right… but back then, I was alone. Scared. No one told me there was another way. I spent three years in rehab. I’ve a job now, a flat. But… I dream of her. Wondered if I might… see her, just once. From afar.”
“And then what? Pop round for tea like nothing happened?” The words slipped out before Charlotte could stop them.
“No. Just… see her. That’s all.”
Charlotte studied Louise and saw not an enemy, but another woman carrying her own ghosts. Unthinkingly, she said:
“Tomorrow. Four o’clock. On the bench near school. We’ll walk past. Don’t approach her. Don’t speak. Just… look.”
Louise nodded like a chastened child, and pity flickered in Charlotte’s chest.
On the way home, Emily stopped suddenly.
“Mum… did I have another mum? A real one?”
Charlotte’s pulse raced, but she forced herself to sit on the bench by their building.
“Love… I didn’t mean to lie. I thought you were too young.”
“I’m not angry. But kids say things, and I don’t know what’s true.”
“Shall I tell you everything?”
Emily nodded.
They sat there as Charlotte spoke—no blame, no theatrics. She explained how Emily came to her, how her birth mother couldn’t care for her but might regret it now. Emily listened, fiddling with her coat zipper. Then:
“Is she… nice?”
“I don’t know. I think she’s trying.”
“Can I see her too?”
Charlotte squeezed her daughter’s hand, warm against her own.
“If you truly want to.”
The meeting lasted two minutes. Louise loitered by the school like she was waiting for a bus. Emily walked quietly beside Charlotte, eyes fixed ahead. Then, suddenly, she let go and approached the bench.
Charlotte froze. She wanted to shout, to pull her back, but her feet wouldn’t move. Emily stood before Louise and said:
“I’m Emily. I paint lilacs. I like apple tart. And my mum—she’s right there. You can look. But not for long.”
Then she walked back.
Louise remained on the bench, shoulders shaking. Charlotte sat beside her. Silence. Then:
“She’s wiser than both of us.”
Louise wiped her eyes. “Everything for Emily. Only for her.”
And left without looking back.
At home, Emily painted a new lilac branch, her strokes surer, the purple even.
“Mum, are you cross?”
“About what?”
“That I talked to her.”
“No. I’m proud of you.”
Emily nodded, then, still painting, said: “Shall we bake a tart?”
Charlotte smiled, warmth spreading through her.
“Absolutely, love. Absolutely.”
*—Sometimes love means holding on. Sometimes it means letting go. But the hardest part is trusting the child to know the difference.*
