Monday morning started with Jane dashing out of the house, her handbag bobbing against her side and her face set in that weary expression busy parents always wear. She barely got through reminding me about bedtime and iPad limits when her daughter, Emily, latched onto her legs, her grip so tight it was like shed never let go. Jane gently pried her off, pressed a careful kiss to her forehead, and promised shed be back before Emily noticed she was gone.
Then the door shut.
The hallway felt hollow, quietEmily just stood there, not crying, not sulking, just silent in a way that seemed far too heavy for someone her age. I tried to banish the gloom. We made a den out of blankets, coloured in pictures of enchanted horses, even had a crazy dance around the kitchen to pop music. She gave me a small smilethe kind that looks stitched together, one piece at a time.
But there was something odd in the air. No ordinary five-year-old questions. Instead, Emily asked for permission for anything: Can I sit on this chair? May I touch this puzzle? and, once, Is it alright if I laugh? I chalked it up to her missing Jane, hoping she’d soon settle.
I made us a proper English beef stew for dinner. The house filled with its aromaslow-cooked meat, carrots, potatoeslike a hug in a bowl. I set a little dish in front of Emily, along with a spoon. I sat across and watched.
She stared fixedly at the stew, barely blinking. Her shoulders hunched up, braced for something I couldn’t see. After a few silent minutes, I gently asked, Emily, arent you hungry?
She cast her gaze down, voice trembling so low I could barely hear.
Am I allowed to eat today?
For a moment, my mind stalled. I tried to smile, reaching for reassurance. Of course you can, darling.
No sooner were the words out than her face crumpled. She clung to the edge of the table, sobbingreal, shaking, deep cries, like shed been holding something inside for much too long.
I knelt beside her chair, trying not to panic. I wrapped my arms about her, expecting resistance, but Emily clung to me, head buried in my shoulder. It felt like shed been waiting for the okay to do even that.
Its alright, I whispered, my own heart thudding. Youre safe. You havent done anything wrong.
She cried harder, soaking my jumper, her little body wracked with grief. Not the tears you see over spilled juicetears that belong to something darker.
When she quieted, I gently drew back. Her cheeks blotchy, nose streaming, eyes fixed on the floor as though bracing herself for punishment.
Emily, I asked softly, why did you think you couldnt have dinner?
She hesitated, white-knuckled and twisting her fingers together.
Sometimes Mum says Ive eaten too much. Or if Im naughty. Or if I cry. She says I need to learn.
A hot, sharp feeling tightened inside menot just anger, something heavy and deep. The kind you feel when you realise a child has been taught survival in a way no child should.
I tried to keep calm. Love, food isnt a privilege you lose for being sad, or making a mistake. You always deserve it.
She blinked uncertainly, as if Id spoken in riddles. But if I eat when Mum says no, she gets angry.
I was stunned. Janemy sisterrescuer of neighbourhood hedgehogs, tea-maker during sad films, the girl Id grown up with. How could that possibly be?
But Emily wouldnt lie. Children dont just invent rules like thatthey live them.
I grabbed a napkin, wiped her face, and said gently, While youre staying with me, we have a simple rule: you eat if youre hungry. Always.
She looked at me with suspicion, like the simplicity couldnt possibly be true.
I offered her a spoonful, just like you would to a toddler. Emilys lips trembled, but she accepted it. Then another spoonful, and another. Still watching me between bites, half expecting my rules to change any moment. Gradually, her posture eased.
At one point she whispered, almost inaudible, I was hungry all day.
I nodded, swallowing the hard knot in my throat. After tea, I let her pick a cartoon. She curled next to me under a blanket, eyelids drooping, exhaustion heavy. She drifted off mid-episode, her small hand resting protectively on her tummyguarding something precious.
After settling her in bed, I sat in the chilly lounge, staring at my phone. Janes name glowed on the screen. I wanted to dial her, to ask everything, to shout. But I didnt.
If I got it wrong, Emily would be the one who paid the price.
Next morning I woke early, made piles of pancakes with blueberriesthose golden, fluffy clouds on a plate. Emily padded into the kitchen, pyjamas rumpled, rubbing her eyes. She stopped short, surprised.
For me? she asked, wary.
All for you, I said. And you can have as many as you like.
Slowly, she sat down. No smile, just confusionalmost as if goodness couldnt be trusted. But she ate, and, after her second pancake, she murmured, These are my favourite.
All day I watched. She flinched whenever I raised my voice, even just calling the dog, Max. She apologised constantlyover dropped crayons, a puzzle piece lostwhispering Sorry, as if bracing for the worst.
That afternoon, building a puzzle, she suddenly asked, Will you be cross with me if its not finished?
No, love, I said, kneeling beside her, I wont be cross.
She studied my face, searching for cracks in my promise. Then, softly: Do you still love me even if I mess up?
I pulled her close, fiercely. Always.
Jane returned Wednesday evening, tension etched around her smile. Emily hugged her, but it was gingerlike she was testing the waters. Jane thanked me, said Emily had been a bit melodramatic lately, and laughed that shed missed her too much. I managed a smile, but unease churned inside.
After Emily went to the bathroom, I said quietly, Jane can we talk?
She exhaled, the sigh of someone who already knew the question. About what?
She asked me if she was allowed to eat supper. Said sometimes she isnt.
Janes face hardened. She said that?
I nodded. And she cried. Proper tears. As if she was frightened.
Jane looked away, voice too brisk. Shes just sensitive. She needs routine. The health visitor said children need boundaries.
Thats not just a boundary, I replied, voice shaking. Its fear.
Her eyes narrowed. Youre not her mum. You wouldnt understand.
Perhaps I wasnt. But I couldnt ignore what Id seen.
That night, back in my own car, I stared at the dashboardthinking of Emilys small, tentative voice, her hand on her stomach as she drifted off. Wondering what invisible rules shed learned, and why.
And it struck me:
Sometimes the worst things arent bruises anyone can spot.
Sometimes its the silent rules a child accepts as truth.
If youd been in my positionwhat would you have done? Speak to Jane again, involve someone else, or keep building Emilys trust and note everything?
I wish I had the answer. Im still working out my next move.
