Thirty-seven and one day: when it’s not the child who grows up, but the mother
I woke before the alarm. Outside, a grey, oppressive silence hung over the city, as if someone had draped it in a wet cloth. The air was frozen, cold—even inside, the walls seemed to hold their breath. And so did I. I just lay there, feeling it: something had happened. Something had already shifted, though I didn’t yet know what.
Almost mechanically, I reached for my phone. 6:04. One notification. *Emily*. I tapped it.
*Good morning, Mum. I’ve gone to Manchester with Daniel. Please don’t look for me. I’ll call.*
That was all. No “love you,” no “sorry,” no emoji. Like a receipt from a cashpoint. Like a slip confirming the withdrawal of every last penny—the account of my 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 wind time back. My heart clenched, as though someone were squeezing it slowly from the inside—fingers wrapped in icy cloth.
Emily. Seventeen. Final year of sixth form. The girl who read Plath, baked Victoria sponge, hated courgettes, and always wore a black hairband on her wrist. She could laugh with just her eyes. And the quiet beside her was warm, never smothering. All of that existed. And now—gone.
I walked to the kitchen. Stood barefoot by the table in an old dressing gown, phone in hand. Didn’t bother with the kettle. Sat down. Then stood up. Then sat again. All of it without thought, as if my body moved on autopilot. Call someone? Who? His number wasn’t saved. Just mentioned in passing: *Daniel from biology*. His Instagram—a blank profile, a fox for a picture. For some reason, that fox terrified me most.
I went to her room. The 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 in my own way.*
That *“in my own way”*… Like a gunshot. Straight to the place that never heals.
We raise children as best we can. Shield them—from sniffles, from bad crowds, from broken hearts. We make soup, check homework, buy winter coats a size too big. We don’t notice when the priority shifts from *“don’t catch a chill”* to just *“stay alive.”* Just come back. Any version of her. Any at all.
I went to work. Accounts. Stared out the bus window but saw no streets. In the office—*Claire’s* birthday. Thirty-seven. Mine, yesterday. Only no balloons, no cheers, no cake. Just a bottle of cheap wine and a book I never finished.
Evening. Home. Left the lights off. Curled on the windowsill, wrapped in a blanket, watching the glow of other flats. Somewhere, a telly flickered. Somewhere, a spoon chimed against a mug. Somewhere, life went on. Here—a hollow pause.
The next evening, the phone rang.
—*Mum…*
—*Where are you?*
—*I texted. We’re in Manchester. Daniel’s nan’s place. It’s fine. I’m safe, don’t worry.*
—*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 had no answer. Then, honestly:
—*I don’t know. Are you?*
—*I want to find out. Who I am when I don’t have to be perfect.*
More silence. Then—the dial tone.
I didn’t sleep. Sat at the kitchen table, scrolling through our texts, our photos. Somewhere between March and June, something had snapped. And I’d missed it. Spreadsheets, sick days, exams, the sofa on finance. All *“for her.”* All—missing the mark.
A week later, she came back. No pleading. No tears. Just walked in, hung up her coat, dropped her rucksack by the door.
—*Can I stay here for a bit?*
I nodded. Stepped forward. Hugged her. For the first time—asked nothing.
We stayed quiet. Ten minutes. Then, softly:
—*I love you. And I get it now—how hard it was for you. But I still want to leave. Not run away. Just… live. My way. Okay?*
Okay.
A year’s passed. Emily rents a room in Bristol. Works at a café. Studies graphic design. Visits on weekends. We eat scones, argue about films, chatter. Sometimes row—but now, we *listen*.
Thirty-seven and one day. That’s when her adulthood began. And mine. Too.
