“Did she leave her child with me?” A wave of dread shot through Valerie, leaving her hot and shaken. “No, it can’t be. She’ll come back. She has to.”
Valerie had just returned from work when she found a short note from her daughter on the table. Their relationship with Emily had always been rocky, but she never imagined her girl would just up and leave without a word. She read the note over and over, memorizing every line, yet still, she felt like she’d missed something, like the words didn’t quite add up.
That night, sleep wouldn’t come. The pillow was too hard, the duvet too heavy, the air too thick with heat. She cried, then argued silently with Emily in her head, replaying every fight, every rare moment of happiness.
Exhausted, she finally gave up, sat at the table, and flicked on the lamp. The crumpled note was right there on top of her work papers, worn thin from being handled so much.
For the hundredth time, she read it carefully. No, she hadn’t misunderstood. She could almost hear Emily’s sharp, accusing voice in every word.
*”I can’t take your control anymore… You’re too strict… I need my own life. I’m an adult… You’d never let me go, so I’m leaving while you’re out. Don’t look for me. I won’t be back.”*
No greeting, no signature. Just cold, blunt words. “What about me?” Valerie whispered, as if Emily might somehow hear and answer. “What if something happens to me? You didn’t even leave a way for me to reach you. Do you even care?”
Maybe Emily had a point. But all Valerie wanted was for her to finish school, get a decent job—not throw it all away on some reckless fling or an unplanned pregnancy. Were there really mothers who just let their kids do whatever they wanted?
Valerie had married young, still a student herself. She remembered how quickly love and passion faded under the weight of no money, cramped dorm rooms, and exhaustion. And when Emily came along? It got worse. She and her husband, just a boy himself, fought constantly. Maybe her mum had been right—maybe she should’ve ended it back then. But Valerie had believed love would fix everything. Silly girl.
Three months later, they split. She took a break from uni, moved back in with her parents. Oddly, her mum adored Emily at once, despite insisting on the abortion. She even sent Valerie back to finish her degree while she spoiled Emily rotten.
Life was easier back then. Her mum helped with everything. After graduating, Valerie taught English for a couple of years before landing a translator job. But love never stuck. Her mum warned her to find someone stable, but all she ever met were married men who wanted affairs or broke divorcees looking for a handout. She couldn’t risk that.
After her parents passed, it was just her and Emily. She gave her daughter everything—but Emily didn’t want it. Spoiled by her gran, she chafed under Valerie’s rules, dreaming of freedom instead of exams and career plans. And now she was gone.
“I’ll wait. What else can I do? You’ll come back someday. I’m your mum—I’ll always love you. Just… please be safe.” With a sigh, she turned off the lamp and crawled back into bed. It took ages, but eventually, she fell into a restless sleep.
The months dragged. She jumped at every phone call, every knock at the door. She took on extra translation work, staying up late over textbooks and reports, too busy to wallow. She told herself Emily was fine.
Then, a year and a half later, the doorbell rang mid-shift. Annoyed, she rubbed her tired eyes—she’d been on a roll with this translation. The bell rang again. Sighing, she stood.
When she opened the door, Emily stood there—thinner, harder, nothing like the girl who’d left. Valerie gasped, reaching for her—
“Emily! You’re back! I’ve waited so long!” But Emily’s icy stare stopped her cold. Then she noticed the bundle in her daughter’s arms.
“Is that—? Give her here.” Valerie took the baby gently. “A girl?” She beamed, cradling her. “I’ll put her down. You get settled.”
She tucked the sleepy baby onto the sofa, marveling at her tiny lashes, her rosebud lips. Then—the door slammed. It took a second to click. Emily was gone.
The flat was silent. Valerie rushed to the hallway. Only a stuffed bag by the door. Wet boot prints on the tiles.
She yanked the door open. “Emily!” No answer. No footsteps fading downstairs. She ran to the window—no car. No Emily.
“Emily…”
Back in the living room, the baby stirred. Valerie changed her nappy, murmuring, “Mummy’ll be back soon,” more to soothe herself than the child.
In the bag’s side pocket, she found the baby’s birth certificate. *Ivy Leonora Taylor.* So Emily never married. The father’s name? Or just something she plucked from thin air?
Another note, just as curt: *”Look after her for a bit.”*
At least there was a half-empty formula tin. Valerie rushed to the kitchen, abandoning her work.
A new life began. She switched to freelance to stay home with Ivy, exhausting but purposeful. By three, Ivy started nursery—Valerie fibbed to the headteacher, saying her mum travelled often for work.
Time passed. Ivy was calm, bright, nothing like Emily. She refused to call Valerie “Gran”—just “Mum.”
“You’ve got another mum, love. I’m Grandma,” Valerie corrected.
“Val,” Ivy decided one day, and it stuck.
Emily never came back. No calls, no letters. As school loomed, Valerie panicked—what if they asked questions? What if social services got involved?
The headteacher was new, stern. But the old principal remembered her. She confessed everything, and he smoothed it over.
Valerie adored Ivy now, dreading the day Emily might return. She didn’t spoil her, but she gave her everything—pride swelling at every parents’ evening.
Ivy was thoughtful, nothing like reckless Emily. Had Emily ever been like this? No—she’d quit music lessons, hated reading, only cared about going out.
Spring came early that year. On the way home from school, Valerie stopped at the shops. Ivy chattered about her day as Valerie juggled her backpack, shoes, and groceries.
“Val.”
The voice froze her. She fumbled the keys. Turning, she barely recognized Emily—glamorous, blonde, expensive perfume clinging to her. Joy warred with dread. This could only mean one thing.
Ivy handed her the keys, eyeing the stranger warily.
“You’re back. I know why,” Valerie said stiffly, ushering Ivy inside.
Emily smirked inside. “Miss me?”
“You look well. Settled, then?”
“Spain. Married. Did you really think I’d forget—?” Their eyes flicked to Ivy.
“Go change,” Valerie urged, but Emily cut in:
“Ivy, I’m your mum.” She moved to hug her, but Ivy ducked behind Valerie, then fled.
“Give her time!” Valerie snapped. “She doesn’t know you!”
“Still the expert,” Emily laughed—sharp, no warmth in it.
“Isn’t that why you left her with me?”
“I’m taking her. Once the paperwork’s sorted, we’re gone.”
Dinner was tense. Emily bragged about her villa, her pool.
“What about the bloke you ran off with?” Valerie couldn’t resist.
“Who cares? He dumped me, left me broke. That’s why I brought Ivy to you. I knew you’d nag me to stay, so I left. I wanted to get back on my feet first.”
“So I was a rubbish mum, but good enough for your kid?”
“I’m sorry. You tried. But she’s mine. I’m taking her.”
“And me? Did you think how I’d manage, alone with a baby? What do I do now? She’s all I have.”
They fought—old wounds, fresh pain. But Valerie swallowed her pride. For Ivy.
As the departure neared, Ivy asked, “Is Val coming?”
“No, Gran stays. You can visit when you’re older.”
“Then I’m not going.”
Even Valerie couldn’t persuade her. She waited—hoped—for Emily to invite her along. She’d have gone in a heartbeat.
But Emily never asked. She left alone after Ivy threatened to run. They parted in a blaze of accusations—Emily swore she’d sue.
Eight years later, Emily returned. Widowed, broke, her husband’s family had cut her off.
Ivy, older now, was kinder. They lived together briefly—until Emily remarried and left. Ivy stayed with Valerie, visiting her mum sometimes.
Every family has its secrets, its grudges. But when mothers and daughters can’t understand each other? Everyone suffers.
