My daughter Emily—bless her heart—is a force of nature. My husband and I raised her in the quiet suburbs of Manchester, where the loudest noise was usually the neighbor’s lawnmower. But Emily? She got every ounce of my mum’s temperament—fiery, loud, and stubborn as a mule. Gran could hold a grudge over a misplaced biscuit and wouldn’t take advice if you paid her in gold. Emily never even met her, yet she might as well be her carbon copy. It’s enough to break your heart.
Emily can’t stand criticism. Any suggestion goes in one ear and out the other, or worse—she treats it like a personal attack. We spent years gently nudging her, but it was like talking to a brick wall. Even in nursery, she had this uncanny ability to wrap people around her little finger, flashing that angelic smile while getting exactly what she wanted. She only heard what suited her, never what she needed to. One wrong word, and the waterworks started—full-blown dramatics. Her teenage years? Absolute torture. I lived in fear she’d fall in with the wrong crowd, take up smoking, or—heaven forbid—get herself into trouble. She didn’t, but she sure did a number on our nerves.
When she finished school, Emily announced she was grown and moving out. She packed a bag, rented a flat in central London with her mate, and decided uni was a waste of time—making money was far more important. For two years, we barely saw her. Phone calls were rare, visits nonexistent. I aged a decade from worry, jumping at every late-night ring, certain it’d be the hospital or police with bad news. Then, out of nowhere, she started popping round on weekends—first sporadically, then regularly. We’d have tea, skirt around the past, and I dared to hope the storm had passed.
I tried teaching her to cook, to manage chores, but she’d cut me off with, “I know what I’m doing!” Soon, we learned she was seeing a bloke—Oliver. Calm, easygoing, he had a knack for defusing her meltdowns with a joke. Around him, she seemed… happy. Stable. They married, and I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking she’d finally grown up. Oh, how wrong I was.
Their honeymoon phase lasted all of five minutes. Emily’s old habits came roaring back. After every row with Oliver, she’d storm over to ours, sulking overnight. Knowing how she despised advice, I bit my tongue and watched from the sidelines. Once, she swore she’d never go back. Two days later? They’d made up like nothing happened. I kept quiet, terrified of jinxing her fragile peace.
But Oliver’s patience wasn’t limitless. One day, after another blow-up, Emily came home to a note. He’d left, suggesting divorce. Cue the meltdown of the century. Not only had her husband walked out, but she’d also been sacked. For two weeks, I nursed her like a toddler—cooking, listening, distracting. Then one evening, I walked in to find her with a suitcase.
“This is your fault!” she spat before I’d even shut the door.
“Hello to you too, love. What’s brought this on?” I blinked.
“You let Oliver walk all over me! You *saw* it and did nothing!”
“You never listened to a word I said. You *hated* my advice,” I reminded her.
“Oh, so one try was enough? You just sat back and watched my marriage fall apart!” Each word cut deeper than the last.
“Don’t you *dare*! I’m not responsible for your rows. You’re adults—sort it out yourselves!”
“Right, because it’s *never* your fault! Thanks for all the ‘help.’ Should’ve stayed gone after school—biggest mistake coming back!” And with that, she slammed the door hard enough to rattle the windows.
I stood there, stunned. After all the nights I’d listened, all the meals I’d made, *this* was her take? To her, I’m the villain. My little girl never grew up—still blaming everyone but herself. It kills me she thinks I’m a rubbish mum. But I’m done arguing. Her life, her mess. So why does it hurt so much?
