My daughter stopped speaking to me a whole year ago. She left home to live with a man I simply couldn’t accept, because I knew his sortfickle, always shifting moods from one moment to the next, full of clever excuses not to find steady work. But she was in love, and told me I “just didn’t understand her,” that life with him would be different. That was the last time we spoke before she walked out with him, never looking back. He made sure I couldnt reach her at all, blocking me everywhere, not even allowing a chance to say goodbye.
For the first few months, Id hear tidbits from Mrs. Atwood down the roadmy daughter posting pictures, arm in arm with him, smiling, saying at last she had a place to call home. My heart ached, but I said nothing. I understood, deep down, that sooner or later the illusion would fade. Just as I feared, the photos soon disappeared. She no longer appeared made up, not pictured at pubs or out in the parks. Then one day I happened upon her post selling bits of clothing and furnitureand I knew something had gone terribly wrong.
Two weeks ago, my telephone rang at last. Seeing her name made me go cold. I answered, my voice trembling, half afraid shed blame me again for “meddling” in her life. But this time, she was crying. She told me hed thrown her out. The words that broke me most were:
“Mum I have nowhere to go.”
I asked her why shed waited so long, why a whole year of silence. She confessed to being too ashamed to admit Id been right, that her hopes for the relationship hadnt matched reality. “I just dont want to be alone for Christmas,” she sobbed. That struck me to the core, bringing to mind all our Christmasseshow wed sing together, cook, decorate the nativity. To realise she lived far from any of those dreams tore me in two.
That very evening she returned home, carrying only a small, sad, empty suitcase, her eyes full of sorrow as if something inside her had snapped. I didnt reach out straightawaynot for lack of wanting, but uncertain if she was ready. It was she who folded herself into my arms and whispered:
“Mum, forgive me. I dont want to be alone for Christmas.”
That embrace felt long overdue, as though waited for all year. I sat her down, made her something hot to eat, and simply listened as she poured her heart outher words spilling like steam from a kettle long left to boil.
She told me how hed checked her phone, made her feel worthless, told her no one would love her but him. She admitted there were so many times she wanted to call me, but pride kept her silent. She said,
“I felt ringing you was like admitting Id failed.”
I told her, its not failure to come homefailure is staying where youre slowly falling apart. And she wept, just like a little girl.
She is here nowsleeping peacefully for the first time in months. I dont know what will come next. I dont know if shell go back to him, or finally see that she deserves better.
I know only one thing: this Christmas, she will not be alone.
Becausewhat else is a mother to do?
