Valentine’s hands trembled as she clutched the scrap of paper left on the kitchen table. “Left her with me?” The dreadful thought sent a rush of heat through her body. “No, it can’t be. She’ll come back—she has to.”
She had returned from work to find the curt note from her daughter. Their relationship had always been rocky, but she never imagined Emily would just vanish like this. Valentine read the words again and again, memorizing them, yet convinced she’d missed something crucial—some hidden plea, some unspoken regret.
Sleep evaded her that night. The pillow was too stiff, the duvet suffocating. One moment tears spilled—the next, she was arguing with Emily in her head, replaying their fights, their rare laughter. Exhausted, she finally dragged herself up, flicked on the desk lamp. The crumpled note lay atop unpaid bills, worn from handling.
A hundred silent readings later, the message remained unchanged. She could almost hear Emily’s sharp, accusing tone.
*”I’m done with your rules… You’re too strict. I want my own life. I’m grown… You’d never let me leave, so I’m going while you’re out. I’ll be fine. Don’t look for me. I won’t come back…”*
No greeting. No goodbye. *”What about me?”* Valentine whispered, as if Emily might hear. *”What if something happens to you? To me? Don’t you care?”*
Maybe Emily had a point. But as a mother, all Valentine wanted was for her to finish uni, land a decent job—not throw it all away for some fleeting romance. Were there really mothers who let their children run wild?
She’d married young herself, a foolish student swept up in love. The passion had burned out fast, smothered by cramped dorm rooms, unpaid bills, exhaustion. When Emily arrived, it got worse. Her husband—just a boy himself—grew distant, their fights constant. Maybe her mum had been right—maybe she should’ve ended it back then. But she’d believed love would conquer all. How naive.
They split within months. Valentine took a leave from uni, moved back in with her parents. Oddly, her mother adored Emily—even after pushing for the abortion. She cosseted the baby, spoiled her rotten while Valentine finished her degree.
Life was easier then. Her mother’s steady presence, Emily safely watched. After graduating, Valentine taught French for two years before switching to translation work. But love never stuck—just married men offering affairs, or divorcees looking for a meal ticket. She’d stopped trying.
Then her parents died, leaving just her and Emily. No one else mattered. She poured everything into her daughter—who, it turned out, wanted none of it. Spoilt by her grandmother, Emily chafed under rules, dreaming of freedom. Now she was gone.
*”I’ll wait,”* Valentine murmured, switching off the lamp. *”I’m your mother. I’ll forgive you. Just come home safe.”* She tossed for half an hour before sleep dragged her under—thin, restless, haunted.
Months passed. She startled at every phone ring, every knock. She took extra translation jobs, worked till dawn, slept in scraps. The exhaustion left no room for self-pity. *”Emily’s fine,”* she told herself.
Then—a knock. She rubbed her tired eyes, reluctant to pause mid-sentence. The knock came again.
Emily stood at the door, thinner, harder. Valentine gasped—then froze at her daughter’s icy stare. Only then did she spot the baby in Emily’s arms.
“Yours?” Valentine reached for the child. “A girl?” She cradled the sleeping bundle, oblivious as the front door clicked shut behind her.
The flat was silent. Emily’s wet footprints melted into the floor.
Valentine sprinted to the window—no car, no Emily. Just a stuffed nappy bag by the door. Inside—baby clothes, formula, a crumpled note: *”She won’t be long.”*
Reality crashed down. Emily had left her the child.
The birth certificate read *”Charlotte Louise Taylor.”* No husband, then. Just a hasty patronymic—Leonidovich? Or random?
The translations lay forgotten. A new life began. Valentine worked from home, refusing to part with Charlotte. Exhaustion became routine, but for the first time in years—purpose.
By three, Charlotte was in nursery, registered under Valentine’s care. *”Her mother travels for work,”* she told the headmistress.
Charlotte never called her *”Gran.”* Only *”Mum.”*
“You have another mother,” Valentine said gently. “I’m your grandma.”
The girl frowned. “Val, then.”
And so it stayed.
Eight springs passed with no word from Emily. When she finally reappeared—polished, perfumed, a Spanish tan—Valentine’s joy curdled to dread. She watched Emily’s gaze fix on Charlotte, now clinging to *her* skirt.
“You’ve come for her.”
“I’m taking my daughter.”
Dinner was tense. Emily boasted of villas, pools. “My husband insisted I fetch her.”
“And the boy you ran off with?”
“Gone.” Emily’s smile faltered. “I’ll get her papers sorted. We leave next week.”
Charlotte’s small voice cut in: “Is Val coming?”
Emily laughed. “No, darling. You’ll visit.”
The girl’s face hardened. “Then I’m not going.”
No pleading swayed her. Valentine waited—hoped—for an invitation. None came. Emily flew back alone, vowing to fight for custody.
Another eight years. Another knock. Emily, widowed, disinherited, no longer golden. Charlotte—now sixteen—eyed her warily. They coexisted until Emily remarried, drifting away again.
Charlotte stayed.
Some wounds never close.
