**You Didn’t Deserve My Tears**
*”Don’t forget, Emma—if it weren’t for me, you’d never have amounted to anything,”* her mother said, fastening her hair with an amber clip. *”I raised you on my own, found you a decent husband, helped with the baby—and this is how you repay me?”*
Emma kept washing the dishes in silence. Her hands moved mechanically over the plates, but inside, everything tightened into a hard knot. She knew what was coming—another lecture about how she did everything wrong.
*”And don’t even get me started on your job. Who becomes an accountant after studying literature? An embarrassment. You could’ve been a teacher, like Sophie—Betty’s daughter. But no…”*
Emma said nothing. She’d learned silence was her only shield. When she fought back, it only made things worse. Her mother knew how to wound with words.
—
They lived in a cramped flat on the outskirts of Birmingham—Emma, her husband James, their six-year-old daughter Lily, and her mother, Margaret. After her father’s death, Emma had insisted Margaret move in. At first, it seemed a good idea—Nan would help with Lily, and Emma could work in peace.
But soon, Margaret took over. She dictated everything, critiqued every move. Even the way Emma made tea was *wrong*.
James endured it. Sometimes he’d joke, sometimes he’d vanish to the garage. He was kind, tired, uncomplicated. Warm. Emma loved him, but year by year, that warmth faded, as if something cold stood between them—and that *something* sat at the kitchen table in a floral housecoat, declaring how things *should* be.
—
Everything changed after the GP’s call. Margaret was getting worse—headaches, dizziness, nausea. The diagnosis confirmed the worst: glioblastoma, inoperable. *”Months,*” they said. A year, if lucky.
Emma didn’t cry. She just shut down, then switched to autopilot. Tests, hospitals, consultations. She rearranged work, begged her boss for remote hours. He agreed. James stepped up. Lily, sensing the shift, clung less.
Margaret barely changed—still snapping at nurses, criticising the soup. Only at night, muffled into her pillow, did she sigh like a woman afraid.
—
One day, Emma rummaged through the storage for an old throw blanket. In a shoebox, she found letters. Most addressed to her—but not in her mother’s hand.
The first began:
*”Emma, I’m waiting. I can’t believe you vanished. Call me.—Sarah.”*
Sarah. Her uni best friend. The one she’d dreamed of Paris with, of opening a bookshop, writing stories. They hadn’t fought—Sarah just *disappeared*. Or so Emma thought.
More letters from Sarah. One from a London firm offering an internship. Emma recognised the envelope—she’d received the same one years ago. Empty. She’d assumed it was a mistake.
And one from James, pre-wedding: *”Let’s move to Brighton, start fresh by the sea.”* She’d never read it. He’d *never* changed his mind.
She sank to the floor, the world tilting. These weren’t accidents. They were sabotage.
Her mother had intercepted them. Hidden them. Maybe even forged replies. Emma remembered the warnings:
*”That Sarah will drop you the moment she’s bored.”*
*”James? He’ll drag you down. You’d be lost without me.”*
*”An internship? Scammers. You’d end up scrubbing floors in London.”*
And she’d believed it.
—
Emma waited till evening, then faced her mother at the kitchen table.
*”I found the letters. From Sarah. James. London.”*
Margaret didn’t flinch. *”So?”*
*”You hid them.”*
*”Of course. You’d have ruined your life. Sarah’s a distraction. James is aimless. London would’ve chewed you up. I protected you.”*
*”No. You stole my choices.”* Emma’s voice was quiet. *”You wanted me dependent. Under your thumb. You told Dad I didn’t need him, didn’t you?”*
For a second, Margaret’s eyes flickered—fear, or something hollow. Then she leaned back. *”I was afraid of being alone.”*
—
A week later, Emma moved out. A flat nearby. James helped pack. Lily started a new nursery. When Emma broke down crying over a box of books, he held her.
*”We’ll rebuild. On our terms.”*
—
Margaret died four months later. Emma still visited—brought food, checked on the carers. But inside, she’d changed. No longer the girl needing approval. A woman finally living for herself.
Few came to the funeral. A couple of neighbors. The nurse Margaret had berated. No one called her *kind*. Just *”A strong woman.”*
Emma didn’t cry. She held Lily’s hand under the grey sky. Silence—the first real gift her mother ever gave her.
—
A year later, a letter arrived from Sarah. Just a number and two lines:
*”I never stopped waiting. If you’re ready, I’m here.”*
Emma dialed.
*”Sarah?”*
*”Emma? Bloody hell—is it really you?”*
*”It’s me. I’m back.”*
—
That evening, Emma sat on the balcony. James played with Lily inside. She sipped green tea, watching a pigeon settle on the opposite roof. It spread its wings—as if to say: *You can fly, even after the cage.*
Later, the phone rang. Sarah’s voice, still bold, but softer. *”Well?”*
*”I can’t believe it’s you.”*
*”Believe it. It’s me. The real one. The one who waited.”*
They talked for hours—laughed, remembered uni pranks. Sarah confessed she’d written, called, raged, grieved, then let go.
*”I thought you cut me off. Turns out you were just… locked away.”*
*”By her,”* Emma sighed. *”But I’ve got the key now.”*
—
Weeks passed. Emma caught herself smiling for no reason. She read again, scribbled in notebooks—stories, dreams. Lily grew calmer. Even James laughed more.
*”You’re different,”* he said one night, making tea. *”Lighter.”*
*”I’m finally mine.”*
He hesitated. *”I like it. But… I’m scared you’ll realize you don’t need me anymore.”*
She took his hand. *”James, I want us—but honestly. No more ‘Mum says.’ We both have to change.”*
His grip tightened—not like she was a possession, but a person he might lose.
—
Life settled. Mostly.
Emma returned to work, started a blog for budding accountants. Unexpectedly, it grew—lectures, courses, followers. She felt *needed* again.
Lily thrived in nursery, drawing, excited for school.
James kept his word—more attentive, even seeing a therapist. But sometimes, when Sarah visited, tension simmered.
*”Are you sure about her?”* he asked once.
*”Why?”*
*”She’s changing you.”*
*”No. *I* am.”*
*”What if you leave?”*
Emma exhaled. *”James, I’m not staying out of fear. I’m here because I love you. But if you stop respecting me, I’ll go.”*
—
Then came the solicitor’s call. Margaret’s will had a condition: if Emma inherited, she must care for *her* mother—Margaret’s own mum, *still alive* in a care home.
*”I didn’t know I had a grandmother,”* Emma whispered.
*”Mum never told me. Called her ‘weak, pathetic.’ Sound familiar?”*
Emma drove to the home. An old woman, trembling hands, reading by a window. When Emma introduced herself, she wept.
*”My girl! I thought you’d forgotten me.”*
They talked for hours. Margaret had sent her away *ten years ago*. *”For her own good.”* No one ever visited.
Emma’s world split again—but differently. Her mother hadn’t just broken *her*.
At home, James hugged her. *”We’ll bring her to live with us.”*
*”Can we handle it?”*
*”If we survived Margaret, we can survive anything.”*
—
Two months later, Nan moved in. Gentle, quiet, she told Lily fairy tales, made perfect pancakes, hummed lullabies. For the first time, Emma felt she had family—warm, real.
—
Sarah organized a reunion.
Emma hesitated but went. Old classmates remarked: *”You’re glowing. What happened?”*
*”She closed her eyes, breathed in the crisp evening air, and for the first time in years, felt truly free.
