My daughter stopped speaking to me a whole year ago. She left home to move in with a man I couldnt acceptnot for lack of trying, but because I knew exactly who he was: unstable, moody as a cloud in the British sky, always with some excuse for avoiding work. But she was in love and told me I just dont get her, that life with him would be different, dazzling. That was our last conversation. She packed her things and left, never once glancing back. He blocked me everywherephone, social media, even the post, so I couldnt send a word of goodbye.
In the first few months, a neighbour from two doors down would occasionally mention that my daughter was still posting photosher arm looped around him, both of them grinning in their cramped Edinburgh flat, captions musing that shed finally found home. My heart clenched, but I bit my tongue. I knew the mask would slip before long.
It did. Suddenly, her photos disappeared. She no longer appeared with her make-up carefully done, never in coffee shops, nor strolling the windy parks. One day I stumbled upon an old post: she was selling her clothes and half the furniture. My gut twistedI knew something was amiss.
Then, two weeks ago, my mobile finally rang. Her name flickered on my screen and everything in me froze. I answered, my voice quaking, half-expecting her to scold me again for meddling. But she wasnt angry. She was weeping. She told me hed thrown her out. What broke my heart most was her whisper:
Mum Ive nowhere to go.
I asked her why she hadnt come soonerwhy the year of silence. She admitted she was ashamed to confess Id been right, that the dream shed chased turned out to be a nightmare. I cant bear being alone for Christmas, she sobbed. The words crushed something in me, reminding me of all our Christmases: singing carols, roasting potatoes, arranging the nativity on the hearth. To realize she lived in a world so far from her dreamsit tore something inside of me.
That same evening, she returned home with a single small, battered suitcase and eyes that looked shattered. I didnt embrace her straight awaynot for lack of wanting, but because I couldnt tell if she was ready. Instead, she flung herself into my arms and whispered:
Mum, forgive me. I just didnt want to be alone this Christmas.
It was a hug that felt twelve months overdue. I sat her down, warmed up a shepherds pie, and let her talk. She poured everything outthe words bubbling out like steam as if a kettle boiling over.
She told me hed gone through her phone, chipped away at her confidence, told her she was nothing, that nobody would ever love her without him. She confessed shed nearly called me dozens of times but her pride kept her away. She admitted:
I felt like ringing you would mean admitting Id failed.
I told her coming home is never failingfailure is staying in a place that crushes you. She cried in my arms as though she were a small child again.
Now, she sleeps soundly for the first time in months. I have no idea what lies aheadwhether shell return to him, or finally see she deserves a better life.
But I do know one thing: this Christmas she wont be alone.
Because, after all, what else could a mother do?
