“Left your daughter with me?” The dreadful thought sent a wave of heat through Evelyn. “No, this can’t be. She’ll come back, she has to.”
Evelyn came home from work and found a short note from her daughter on the table. Her relationship with Emily had always been rocky, but she never imagined her daughter would just run away like this. She read the note over and over, memorizing every word, yet still feeling she’d missed something crucial—some hidden meaning.
Sleep wouldn’t come that night. The pillow was too hard, the duvet too heavy, the air too stifling. One moment, she was crying; the next, she was lost in an endless imaginary conversation with Emily, replaying every argument and every rare happy moment between them.
Exhausted, she finally got up, sat at the table, and turned on the desk lamp. The note lay crumpled atop her work papers, worn from constant handling.
For the hundredth time, Evelyn read the words. No, she hadn’t misunderstood. It was Emily’s voice as clear as day, sharp and accusing.
*”I’m tired of your control… You’re too strict… I want to live my own life. I’m an adult… You’d never let me go, so I’m leaving while you’re at work. I’ll be fine. I’m not alone. Don’t look for me. I won’t come back…”*
No greeting, no signature. “But what about me?” Evelyn whispered as if Emily could hear. “What if something happens to me? You don’t even have a way to reach me. Don’t you care how I’ll go on?”
Perhaps Emily had her reasons. But as a mother, Evelyn only wanted her to get an education, find a good job—to avoid having dreams crushed by impulsive choices, an unplanned pregnancy. Were there really mothers who let their children do as they pleased?
Evelyn herself had married young, still in uni, and remembered how quickly love and passion faded under the strain of poverty, cramped dormitory rooms, and exhaustion.
When Emily was born, it became nearly unbearable. She and her husband, just as young and just as unprepared, grew distant, fighting constantly. Maybe her own mother had been right—maybe she should’ve ended the pregnancy. But Evelyn had believed love would conquer everything. How foolish.
Three months later, they divorced. Evelyn took a leave from uni and moved back in with her parents. To her surprise, her mother adored Emily, despite having urged the abortion. She even sent Evelyn back to finish her degree while she doted on the baby, spoiling her rotten.
With her parents alive, Evelyn never knew real hardship. Her mother was there, and Emily was safe under her watchful eye. After graduating, Evelyn taught English at a secondary school for two years before becoming a translator.
But her love life was a string of disappointments. Her mother warned her to find an established, mature man—but all Evelyn met were married men wanting affairs or divorced ones looking for someone to lean on. She was too afraid to tie herself to any of them.
When her parents passed, she and Emily were left alone. Emily was all Evelyn had left, and she poured everything into her. But Emily, spoiled by her grandmother, saw only strictness where Evelyn saw care. She didn’t want education or stability—she wanted freedom. And today, she’d taken it.
“I’ll wait. What else can I do?” Evelyn sighed, turning off the lamp. “One day, you’ll come home. I’m your mother. I love you, and I’ll forgive you. Just please, be safe…” She tossed and turned for half an hour before falling into a restless sleep.
Evelyn never truly accepted Emily’s absence. She jumped at every phone call, every knock at the door. She took on extra translation work, staying up late with journals, essays, and research papers, sleeping only a few hours a night. The exhaustion left no room to wallow. She told herself Emily was fine.
A year and a half later, a knock interrupted her work. Reluctantly, she set aside her glasses and rubbed her tired eyes. The knock came again, insistent.
At the door stood a thinner, weary-looking Emily. Evelyn gasped, rushing forward—but stopped short at the icy look in her daughter’s eyes. Only then did she notice the baby in Emily’s arms.
“Is she yours? Let me—” Evelyn took the child, heart lifting. “A girl?” She carried the sleeping baby inside while Emily lingered in the hall.
When the front door clicked shut, Evelyn turned—but Emily was gone. Only a bulky diaper bag remained.
“Emily!” She flung the door open, shouting into the stairwell. Silence. Peering out the window, she saw no car, no sign of her daughter.
Back in the living room, the baby stirred, fussing in her oversized snowsuit. Evelyn undressed her, murmuring empty reassurances—”Mummy will be back soon”—as she changed the nappy.
Then she checked the bag. Diapers, clothes, formula. And in a side pocket, a birth certificate.
**Iris Leonora Whitmore.**
Emily had never married—the baby bore her surname. The middle name? A whim, or something more?
A note fell out—no hello, no goodbye. *”Please, let her stay with you for a while.”*
Evelyn’s hands shook as she prepared a bottle. The translations lay forgotten.
A new life began. Evelyn switched to working entirely from home, cherishing every moment with Iris. Exhausting, yes—but for the first time in years, she had purpose.
By one, Iris walked. By three and a half, Evelyn enrolled her in nursery, explaining to the supervisor that Iris’s mother was also a translator, often away on assignments.
Years passed, and Evelyn adored the bright, thoughtful girl—who, no matter how often corrected, called her *”Mummy.”*
“No, darling. Your mother is Emily. I’m your grandmother.”
Iris would nod, then slip back into *”Mummy.”*
One day, Evelyn sighed. “Call me Evie. Just Evie.”
And so she became *”Evie,”* no *”Grandma”* attached.
Emily never returned, never sent word. When it was time for Iris to start school, Evelyn worried—would the headteacher question their arrangement? Report them?
In August, she visited the school where she’d once taught. The deputy head was new—cold-eyed, unreadable. But the headmaster remained. Evelyn took a gamble and confessed everything.
He pulled strings. Iris was enrolled without fuss.
Evelyn loved Iris so fiercely, she now feared Emily’s return. She wasn’t overly indulgent—that wasn’t her way—but she gave Iris everything she needed. At parents’ evenings, she glowed with pride.
Iris was sharp beyond her years. Sometimes Evelyn wondered—had Emily been like this? But no, Emily had been restless, easily bored. She’d quit piano lessons, hated reading. All she’d wanted was to run wild.
One warm spring afternoon, Evelyn stopped by the shops after picking Iris up from school. The girl chattered about her day while Evelyn carried the heavy backpack, gym bag, and groceries. At the doorstep, she fumbled for her keys.
“Mum.”
Evelyn turned sharply, dropping the keys. The woman before her was barely recognizable—sleek, blonde, expensively dressed. The scent of high-end perfume hung in the air. This stranger was her daughter.
Terror struck—she’s here for Iris.
Iris picked up the keys, handing them over, while Emily stared. The girl eyed the glamorous stranger with curiosity but clung to Evelyn.
“You’re back,” Evelyn said flatly, nudging Iris inside.
The reunion was stiff, strained. Over dinner, Emily boasted about her life in Spain—the villa, the pool.
“I was afraid to tell my husband about Iris. When he found out, he scolded me for hiding her. Insisted we bring her home.”
Evelyn couldn’t resist. “And the man you left *me* for?”
Emily stiffened. “He abandoned me, penniless. I had nowhere to go. That’s why I left Iris with you.”
“So I was a bad mother, but good enough to raise your child?”
Emily’s voice wavered. “I’m sorry. I know you tried. But she’s *my* daughter. I’m taking her back.”
“And me?” Evelyn’s voice broke. “Did you ever think how I’d manage alone? How I’d live after? Iris is *everything* to me.”
Their conversations were bitter, laced with old wounds. But Evelyn swallowed her pride—for Iris’s sake. She had to keep peace, even as her heart shattered.
As the departure neared, Iris asked, “Is Evie coming with us?”
Emily smiled tightly. “No, love. She’ll stay here. You can visit when you’re older.”
Iris crossed her arms. “Then I’m not going.”
Not even Evelyn could persuade her. Part of her hoped Emily would invite her along—she’d have dropped everything.
But the invitation never came. Emily left alone, furious, vYears later, when life came full circle and Emily, now alone again, returned with nowhere else to go, Evelyn opened the door—not with triumph, but with quiet understanding, because love, in the end, was not about holding on or letting go, but simply being there when it mattered most.
