Life with Unspoken Words
“Mum, where are my stuffed toys?”—Eleanor quickly scanned the room, which had transformed overnight from a cosy nest into a sterile, half-empty space. “And my Kinder egg figurines—they were on the shelf! They’re gone too!”
“Nell, I gave them to Auntie Maggie. Her little granddaughter, Poppy, is such a sweetheart. She’s been glued to that bag of toys all morning,” Mum called from the other room.
“You what? Are you joking? Mum, those are my things! My toys!”—Eleanor stormed in, tears welling, her voice trembling on the edge of a shout.
“For heaven’s sake, you’re seventeen, crying over junk. Auntie Maggie’s got a little girl who’ll actually play with them. Yours were just gathering dust. Or are you still a child, playing with stuffed animals?” Mum scoffed. “Stop carrying on like I’ve emptied your entire room!”
“Wouldn’t surprise me if that’s next! I’ll come home one day and find my things given away to another random kid!” Eleanor snapped, grabbing her coat and marching towards the door.
It was always like this. Since she was fifteen, Eleanor had worked part-time to afford clothes and makeup without asking for extra money. But the moment she’d bought her first sweater and jeans with her wages, Mum had ransacked her wardrobe, filling a bin bag with “unnecessary” things.
“You’re earning now, and Mrs. Hopkins’ daughter could use these. You’ve seen how they struggle. Are you really that selfish?” Mum had scolded an hour later when Eleanor realised her favourite T-shirt was missing.
“Mum, you can’t just do that! They’re mine! You should’ve asked first!”
“I don’t owe you anything, but you—ungrateful as you are—don’t get to tell me what to do! I bought those things with my own money,” Mum shot back.
*Does she not understand?* Eleanor seethed, staring at the half-empty wardrobe. *How can she just give my things away like they mean nothing?*
The next time she came home from school, her bookshelf was bare. The series she’d collected since Year 4—gone.
“Mum, Nan gave me those! Not you! Why would you do this?” Her voice cracked.
“You never read them anyway. Just collecting dust. And they’re kids’ books—what do you need them for? Would’ve ended up in the fireplace at the cottage,” Mum dismissed.
“It doesn’t matter if I read them! They’re mine! Call your friend and get them back.”
“Are you mad? What a disgrace. I’m not calling anyone. I don’t know how I raised someone so petty. Just like your dad—counting every sock.”
That day, Mum never admitted where the books had gone. After that, Eleanor only bought essentials, refusing gifts to avoid the guilt-trips. The magazines and books left undonated went to Nan’s for safekeeping. Anything new stayed strictly on *her* shelf, with constant reminders—*don’t touch*. Mum would sulk for days. “Pathetic, squabbling over clothes. Next you’ll want separate groceries,” she’d mutter before shutting herself away.
The final straw was the missing toys. Coming home to find them given to Auntie Maggie, Eleanor snapped. She knew where Mum’s friend lived—she’d go, shame be damned, and take them back. *Let them think what they want. These are mine.*
“Nell! Where are you going?” Mum shouted after her. “Don’t you dare embarrass me at Maggie’s!”
But Eleanor was already gone.
Auntie Maggie answered the door, her kind face creased with concern. “Eleanor? Love, what’s wrong?”
“Hi—no, nothing’s—well, actually…” She faltered, shame prickling her skin. The determination she’d clung to faded. *Maybe I should just let it go.*
“Don’t stand there, come in.” Maggie ushered her inside.
Eleanor perched on the entryway stool, still in her shoes.
“Auntie Maggie… Mum gave you a bag of my toys this morning.”
“Oh, yes! Thank you, darling. Poppy adores them. I was just going to send some biscuits over in return—”
“Wait.” Eleanor swallowed. “I’m so sorry to ask this. Mum will be furious but… I’d like them back.”
Maggie blinked. “But I’ve already given them to Poppy. It’s a bit awkward now, isn’t it?”
“I know how it looks. And I’m mortified to even ask. Not all of them—just a couple. Mum didn’t warn me. If she had, I’d have picked things myself. But—” Her voice broke. “There was an old brown bear… and a knitted doll, tiny, fit in my palm. They’re not just toys. Dad gave them to me before… before the divorce.”
She dissolved into tears.
“Oh, love.” Maggie knelt, pulling her close. “Your mum said you didn’t want them. I had no idea.”
They sat in the kitchen over steaming tea, Maggie’s eyes wet. “Look at this.” She unfolded a tattered shawl. “Thirty years old. My mum’s. My kids laugh—tell me to bin it. But I can’t. Smell it—still like her.” She pressed it to her face.
“I *get* why those things matter. Your dad—good man. Shame how things ended. And don’t be too hard on your mum. She loved him. Still does. If not for that accident…” She sighed. “I’ll bring your toys tomorrow. Let my kids judge me. You keep what’s precious.”
***
At home, Mum leaned against the dresser, waiting. Eleanor braced for shouts, but instead, arms wrapped around her.
“I’m sorry, darling.” Mum’s voice quavered. “Maggie called. I never knew those things meant so much.”
They cried together.
“After the divorce, I gave your dad’s things to that drunk, old Tom, just to spite him. Burned the rest in the garden. When he died… I blamed him. Like he’d abandoned us twice.” Mum clutched her tighter. “Giving things away… it eases the guilt. Like I’m balancing things out.”
They talked for hours—about Dad, about Maggie’s shawl, about how things hold memories. The anger melted.
“If it helps you, we’ll donate properly—*together*,” Eleanor said, laughing through tears. “Just no more vanishing acts.”
Mum kissed her forehead. “Promise.”
