**Diary Entry**
*Has she left her daughter with me?* The dreadful thought sent a wave of heat through Valerie. *No, it can’t be true. She’ll come back—she must.*
Valerie had just returned from work when she found the short note on the kitchen table. Her relationship with her daughter, Sophie, had always been strained, but she never imagined Sophie would just walk out like this. She read the note over and over until she knew it by heart, but still, something didn’t sit right—as if she’d missed some crucial detail.
Sleep was impossible. The pillow felt too stiff, the duvet too heavy, the room unbearably stuffy. One moment she was crying, the next lost in endless imagined conversations with Sophie, replaying every argument, every rare happy memory.
Finally, exhausted, she got up, sat at the table, and turned on the lamp. The crumpled note lay on top of her work papers, worn from being handled too many times.
Valerie read it again. No, she’d understood it right the first time. She could almost hear Sophie’s sharp, accusing tone:
*I’m sick of you controlling everything… You’re too strict… I want to live my own life. I’m an adult… You’d never let me leave, so I’m going while you’re gone. I’ll be fine. Don’t look for me. I’m not coming back…*
No greeting, no signature. *But what about me?* Valerie thought desperately, as if Sophie could hear her. *What if something happens to me? Who would you even tell? Don’t you care?*
Maybe Sophie had a point. But Valerie had only wanted her to finish her education, get a stable job, not let some fleeting romance derail her future. Were there really mothers who let their children do whatever they wanted?
She’d married young herself—still a university student—and remembered how quickly love had soured under the weight of poverty, cramped dorm rooms, and exhaustion. Then Sophie was born, and everything became harder. Her husband, just as young and unprepared, became a stranger. Maybe her own mother had been right—she should have terminated the pregnancy. But she’d been naive, believing love would conquer all.
They divorced within months. Valerie took a leave from university and moved back in with her parents. Oddly, her mother adored Sophie despite having urged an abortion. She even insisted Valerie finish her degree while she spoiled her granddaughter rotten.
With her parents alive, Valerie never struggled. Her mother doted on Sophie while she worked first as an English teacher, then as a translator. But romance eluded her—either she met married men who wanted affairs or divorced ones with nothing to offer. She was too afraid to risk it.
When her parents passed, it was just her and Sophie. Valerie poured everything into her daughter. And now, it turned out, Sophie didn’t want any of it. Raised with too much freedom by her grandmother, she only saw Valerie as strict, controlling. She didn’t care about education—just escape.
*Fine. I’ll wait. What else can I do? You’ll come back eventually. I’m still your mother. I’ll forgive you. Just… be safe.* Valerie sighed, turned off the lamp, and crawled into bed. It took half an hour of tossing before she finally drifted into restless sleep.
She never truly accepted Sophie’s absence. Every knock at the door, every ring of the phone made her jump. She took extra translation jobs, working late into the night, too exhausted to dwell on self-pity. *Sophie’s alright,* she told herself.
Then, a year and a half later, the doorbell interrupted her work. She rubbed her tired eyes—she’d been in the flow, reluctant to stop. The bell rang again.
When she opened the door, a thinner, weary-looking Sophie stood there. Valerie gasped, rushing forward—until she saw the coldness in her daughter’s eyes. Only then did she notice the child in Sophie’s arms.
“Is she yours? Here—let me.” Valerie took the sleeping girl. “A girl?” she whispered happily. “I’ll put her down. Go on, get comfortable.”
She carried the baby to the sofa, admiring her tiny lashes and bowed lips—until the front door slammed. Sophie was gone.
Only a bulky bag remained by the door. Valerie wrenched it open—nothing but baby clothes. In the side pocket, she found the birth certificate: *Emily Leonidovna Thompson.* No marriage then, if she’d given the child her own surname. *Leonidovna—whose idea was that?*
A note, just as blunt as the first: *”Let her stay with you for a little while.”* That was it.
And so, a new life began. Valerie switched to full-time remote work, dedicating herself to Emily. Exhausting but purposeful.
By three, Emily started nursery. Valerie told the staff her daughter was often away for work. As time passed, she grew fiercely attached to the quiet, bright little girl—who stubbornly refused to call her “Grandma,” insisting on “Mum.”
“You have another mum,” Valerie explained. “I’m Grandma—Grandma Val.”
Emily nodded—then promptly dropped the title, calling her just “Val.”
Sophie never returned, never called. Valerie dreaded school enrolment—what if the headteacher questioned their arrangement? She waited until late August, then went to her old school. The deputy head was new—a sharp-eyed woman who set her nerves on edge. But the headmaster remembered her. She took the risk, confessing everything. He smoothed it over.
Valerie loved Emily too much now—and feared Sophie’s return. She spoiled her in small ways, proud when teachers praised her at parents’ evening. Emily was nothing like Sophie had been—studious, curious. Sophie had dropped piano lessons, hated reading, cared only for parties.
One bright spring afternoon, Valerie stopped at the shops before collecting Emily. The girl chattered about school while Valerie jugdled bags and her backpack. As she fumbled for her keys—
“Mum.”
Valerie spun, dropping them. She barely recognized Sophie—stylish, blonde, expensive perfume. Her heart leapt—then sank. Sophie was here for Emily.
Emily picked up the keys, handing them over before shrinking behind Valerie, eyeing the stranger warily.
“You’re back. And I know why,” Valerie said flatly, ushering Emily inside.
Sophie followed. Only in the flat did Valerie ask how long she was staying.
“You’re not happy to see me?” Sophie challenged.
“Eight years. And now—you look well. You’ve done alright for yourself.”
“I live in Spain. Married. Did you really think I’d forget—” Their eyes both flicked to Emily.
“Go change,” Valerie told the girl.
“Emily, I’m your mum,” Sophie cut in, reaching for her. Emily darted behind Valerie, then fled to her room.
“Why rush her?” Valerie snapped.
“Still the expert, aren’t you?” Sophie laughed bitterly.
“Then why leave her with *me*?”
Sophie’s face hardened. “I came to take her back. We’ll leave once the paperwork’s sorted.”
The reunion was tense, laced with old wounds. But Valerie swallowed her pride—for Emily’s sake, she’d make peace.
Days later, Emily asked, “Is Val coming with us?”
Sophie stiffened. “No. But you can visit when you’re older.”
“Then I’m not going.”
Even Valerie couldn’t persuade her. Part of her hoped Sophie would invite her along—she’d have gone in a heartbeat. But Sophie never asked. She left alone after Emily threatened to run away, hurling accusations at Valerie: *You turned her against me. I’ll take her legally.*
Eight more years passed before Sophie returned—widowed, disinherited, broke. Emily, older now, let her stay. They lived together briefly until Sophie remarried and left—but Emily chose to remain with Valerie.
Some families never mend. A mother and daughter at odds—everyone suffers.
