Richard Taylor straightened his grey suit before the mirror. His daughter Emma turned thirty today. It was the first birthday in eight years they’d celebrate together.
“Mum, ready?” Emma called from the hallway. “The cab’s here.”
“Coming!” Richard replied, yet lingered before the glass.
Emma looked so different now. Gone were the jeans and trainers, replaced by elegant dresses and heels. She worked for some international firm, earned more than Richard ever had. And she was engaged to that… what was his name… David.
“Mum!” Emma’s voice held impatience.
Richard sighed and walked out. Emma stood in the hall, a smart beige dress on, hair neat, subtle makeup. Lovely. Always lovely, even when she’d dropped out of school and left home at sixteen.
“You look well,” Richard said curtly.
Emma smiled, but a shadow crossed her eyes. “Thanks. So do you. That suit really suits you.”
The cab ride was quiet. Emma gazed out, Richard thought how things might have been if his daughter had listened. If she hadn’t met that chap Steven, twenty years older. If she hadn’t run off to London with him, abandoning school, university, her future.
“Recall what I told you back then?” Richard blurted out. “Told you it wouldn’t end well. Told you he’d leave once he’d had his fill.”
Emma turned to him. “Mum, not today, please. It’s my birthday.”
“Not aiming to spoil it. Just stating facts. I was right, wasn’t I?”
“You were. So what? Want me to repent forever for mistakes when I was young?”
Richard stayed silent. Did she? She didn’t know. Only knew she hadn’t slept properly for eight years, picturing her sixteen-year-old girl living God-knows-where. Phoning police stations, hospitals, asking friends. Getting that first scribbled note after eighteen months saying Emma was alive and well.
The restaurant was posh and modern. A large table held Emma’s colleagues, a few mates, her fiancé David with his parents. All rose politely as Richard arrived. “Everyone, this is my mother, Eleanor Taylor,” Emma introduced. Richard nodded curtly, taking the seat offered. Next to her sat David’s mother, an elegant woman in her mid-fifties wearing an expensive dress.
“You have a remarkable daughter,” she murmured. “David utterly adores her. Says you rarely find lasses so self-sufficient and driven.”
“She learned self-sufficiency early,” Richard stated flatly. “Too early.” David’s mother caught the tension, changing the subject.
The table buzzed. Emma laughed, shared work stories, accepted good wishes. Richard sat quietly, answering neighbours occasionally, mostly watching. Emma hugged David; he whispered in her ear, making her blush and laugh. A decent lad, a doctor, good family. Emma landed on her feet. Could have married years ago, someone proper, if she’d listened. “Emma, tell us about the wedding!” a friend pushed. “When is it?”
“Autumn,” Emma answered. “Small ceremony, just close family and friends.”
“And where will you live?”
“David’s bought a flat in that new building off Market Street. Three bedrooms, lovely reno. Proper dream flat!” Richard recalled their own small postwar council flat where they’d lived before Emma bolted. Emma had slept on the sofa bed in the living room, complaining she craved her own space. Richard had said finish school, get a degree, work hard, then you’ll have your own place. Emma hadn’t wanted to wait.
“What about kids?” pressed the friend. “Planning any?”
Emma exchanged a glance with David.
“Absolutely,” Emma beamed. “I really want a baby. Boy or girl. I’ll be the best mum ever.”
“No doubt,” nodded David’s mother. “You’ve such good intuition with people, such understanding. It’s vital for raising children.”
Richard nearly choked on her wine. Intuition? From the girl who ran off with a married man at sixteen?
“Mum? You okay?” Emma asked worriedly. “Want some water?”
“Fine,” Richard dabbed her eyes with a napkin.
The evening rolled on: toasts, presents. Emma got fancy jewellery from David, a European holiday voucher from colleagues, a nice handbag from friends. Richard gave her a simple gold chain – not too dear, but lovely. Bought it weeks ago, choosing carefully. “Thanks, Mum. It’s beautiful.” Emma put it on, checking her mirror compact. “Love it.”
“Wear it in good health,” Richard said.
As things wound down, David stood, raising his glass. “Friends, a word about our birthday girl. Emma’s amazing. She’s been through a lot, made mistakes like we all do, fixed them, became the woman she is. Strong, clever, kind. Proud she said yes to marrying me.” Applause. Emma smiled shyly, kissing him. “Special thanks to Eleanor Taylor. For raising such a daughter. Know things were tough between you, but you kept what matters – love for each other.”
A lump rose in Richard’s throat. Love? What love? Eight years not knowing if Emma was alive. Eight years of anger, hurt, misery. And when Emma finally returned home to Manchester, Richard couldn’t just hug her and say “Glad you’re home.” Instead came the blame.
Later, Emma walked Richard to her door. “Thanks for coming. Means a lot.”
“I’m your mother. Where else?” Richard replied.
“Mum? Let’s see each other more? Not just events. Chat over tea.”
“Chat about what?” Richard asked wearily.
“Life. Work. Future plans. Want you to know me as I am now. Not just remember the sixteen-year-old idiot.”
Richard looked at her. Under the streetlight, Emma’s face seemed very young. Childlike. “Alright,” Richard relented. “Come Sunday. Might do a roast.”
Emma hugged her tight, like a child. “Right. Love you, Mum.”
“Love you too,” Richard whispered.
Climbing the stairs, Richard thought forgiveness wasn’t an instant act. Emma forgave the blame, the coldness, the silent years. Effortless. Richard just couldn’t forgive Emma for the sheer terror when she vanished. Those nights phoning hospitals. The shame explaining to neighbours and colleagues. The flat was empty, quiet. Richard put the kettle on, pulled out a photo album. Emma’s first day of primary school, big white bow, asters. Nursery graduation, white dress, plaits. Thirteen, already serious beyond her years. The last photo taken before she left: Emma frowning over homework at the table. Richard had pushed her relentlessly, hired tutors: “Study well, get into Uni, find a proper job, marry a decent man.” And it turned out like that. Only the path was longer, harder.
Richard closed the album. Ring Emma tomorrow. Say she was proud of her. Delighted about her happiness with David. Wanted to be a good grandma to future grandchildren. And forgiving? Maybe, with time. Emma was right – couldn’t live forever in the past. For now, Richard just had to try. Try to be a better mother than before. Hope it wasn’t too late.
