Thirty-seven and one day: when it’s not the child but the mother who grows up
I woke up before the alarm. Outside, a grey, heavy silence hung over everything, like someone had thrown a damp cloth over the city. The air was frozen, sharp—even inside, the walls seemed to be holding their breath. And so was I. Just lying there, feeling it: something had happened. Something had already shifted, I just didn’t know what yet.
Almost on autopilot, I grabbed my phone. 6:04 a.m. One notification. Emily. I opened it.
*”Good morning, Mum. I’ve gone to Manchester with Daniel. Please don’t look for me. I’ll call.”*
That was it. No “love you,” no “sorry,” no emoji. Like a receipt from a cash machine. Like a withdrawal slip for my entire account—the one marked *motherhood*.
I read it again. Ten times. Not because I didn’t understand. But because I was trying to live it—as if each rereading could rewind everything. My heart squeezed like someone was slowly pressing it from the inside, fingers wrapped in icy cloth.
Emily. Seventeen. Last year of sixth form. The girl who read Sylvia Plath, baked apple crumbles, hated courgettes, and always had a black hairband around her wrist. She laughed with her whole face. And the quiet around her was warm, never heavy. All that existed. And now—nothing.
I walked to the kitchen. Stood barefoot by the table in my old dressing gown, phone in hand. Didn’t bother with the kettle. Sat down. Stood up. Sat again. Moving without thought, like my body was running on muscle memory. Call someone? Who? His number wasn’t saved—just *”Daniel from biology”* in conversation. Instagram—a blank profile, picture of a fox. Somehow, that fox was the scariest part.
I went to her room. Duvet thrown aside, a note on the desk:
*”Mum, I’m not being cruel. I just can’t be the good girl anymore. I love you. But my way.”*
That *”my way”*—like a gunshot. Straight to the heart, where the wound never heals.
We raise kids the best we can. Shield them—from sniffles, bad crowds, broken hearts. We make soup, check homework, buy winter coats a size too big. Then one day, without noticing, *”don’t catch a cold”* becomes *”just come home alive.”* Any version of her. Just come back.
I went to work. Accounts department. Stared out the bus window but didn’t see a thing. At the office, it was Hannah’s birthday—thirty-seven. Mine was yesterday. Same age. No balloons, no cake, no candles. Just cheap wine and a book I never finished.
Evening. Home. Didn’t turn on the lights. Curled up on the windowsill, wrapped in a blanket, watching other flats. Someone’s telly flickered. A spoon clinked against a mug. Lives happening. Mine—just hollow silence.
Next evening, the phone rang.
—*Mum…*
—*Where are you?*
—*I told you. Manchester. Daniel’s nan’s place. I’m safe. Not on the streets, don’t panic.*
—*Come home. Please.*
—*Can’t. Not yet.*
—*I don’t know what to do…*
Silence. Then:
—*Mum… are you happy?*
The question punched my gut. At first, I didn’t know what to say. Then I whispered the truth:
—*I don’t know. Are you?*
—*I want to find out. I need to know who I am when I’m not trying to be perfect.*
More quiet. Then the dial tone.
I didn’t sleep. Sat in the kitchen, scrolling through our texts, photos. Somewhere between March and June, something snapped. And I missed it. Spreadsheets, sick days, exams, sofa payments on finance. All *”for her.”* All missing the point.
A week later, she came back. No pleading, no tears. Just walked in, hung up her coat, dropped her rucksack in the corner, and asked:
—*Can I stay here for a bit?*
I nodded. Hugged her. For once, didn’t ask a thing.
We didn’t speak. Ten minutes. Then she said softly:
—*I love you. And I get it now—it’s been hard for you too. But I still want to leave. Not running away. Just… living. My way. Okay?*
Okay.
A year’s passed. Emily rents a room in Leeds. Works at a café. Studies graphic design. Visits on weekends. We eat scones, argue about films, talk rubbish. Sometimes fight, but now—we listen.
Thirty-seven and one day. That’s when her grown-up life started. And mine. Too.
