My daughter Emily was always a tempest in a teacup. My husband and I raised her in a quiet, peaceful home nestled in the outskirts of Yorkshire, where raised voices were unheard of. But Emily inherited my mother’s fiery temper—volatile, loud, and unyielding. My mother had been the same, quick to take offense and deaf to reason. Though Emily never knew her, she mirrored her ways with uncanny precision, and it broke my heart.
She could not bear criticism. Advice slipped through her fingers like sand, or worse, was met with bristling defiance. For years, we tried to guide her, but our words might as well have been spoken to the wind. Even as a child, she learned to twist people to her will with sweet smiles and sharp wit. She heard only what pleased her, never what she needed to hear. The slightest reprimand brought floods of tears and tantrums. Her teenage years were a trial—I feared she’d fall in with the wrong crowd, take up smoking, or heaven forbid, find herself in trouble. None of it happened, but she wore our nerves to shreds all the same.
When Emily left school, she declared herself grown and moved out without a second thought. She packed a bag and rented a flat in London with a friend, abandoning further studies for quick wages. For two years, we scarcely saw her. Calls went unanswered, visits never made. I aged with worry, dreading a late-night call from hospital or police. Then, just as suddenly, she began returning—first on rare weekends, then more often. We sipped tea, glossed over the past, and I dared hope the storm had passed.
I tried to teach her housekeeping, cooking, but she cut me short: “I know what I’m doing!” Soon, we learned of a young man in her life—Oliver. Steady, good-humoured, he had a knack for easing her tempests, turning quarrels to laughter. With him, Emily seemed content, balanced. They married, and I breathed relief, believing my daughter had matured at last. How wrong I was.
Their peace lasted mere months. Her true nature resurfaced. After every row with Oliver, she fled to us, spending nights fuming in silence. Knowing she loathed advice, I bit my tongue, watching from afar. Once, she swore she’d never go back—yet within days, they’d reconciled as if nothing had happened. I kept silent, fearing to upset the fragile happiness she’d found.
But Oliver’s patience wore thin. One evening, returning home from another spat, Emily found only a note. He had left, proposing divorce. That night, she unraveled completely. Not only had her husband abandoned her, but she’d lost her job as well. For two weeks, I tended to her like a child—cooking, talking softly to soothe her. Then, one afternoon, I found her by the door, suitcase in hand.
“This is your fault!” she spat before I could speak.
“Good afternoon, my love,” I faltered. “Where are you going? What have I done?”
“You let Oliver walk away! You saw how much he put up with—you should have stopped him!”
“You never listened to a word I said,” I reminded her. “You insisted you knew best.”
“And you let my marriage fall apart without lifting a finger!” Each word cut like glass.
“Don’t say such things! I am not to blame for your quarrels. You’re grown—you made your choices.”
“Of course, it’s never you! Thanks for nothing! I was right to leave after school—I never should have come back!” With that, she slammed the door so hard the windows shook.
The silence she left behind was deafening. All those days, I had cared for her, respected her wishes to stay out of her life. Yet in her eyes, I was the root of every sorrow. My girl had never truly grown—still casting about for someone to blame. My heart ached that she thought me a failure of a mother. But I was weary of pleading my case. Her life was hers to shape as she pleased. Still—why must it hurt so bitterly?
