**Diary Entry**
*”You dont know how to love,” my daughter said when she saw my tears.*
Eleanor Stewart froze, her cheek still damp, staring at her daughter. Twenty-six-year-old Helen stood in the kitchen doorway, suitcase in hand, dressed in her smartest outfit, ready to leave.
“What did you say?” Eleanor whispered.
“The truth. Youve spent my whole life controlling, dictating, demanding. Thats not love, Mum. Its possession.”
Helen set her suitcase down and sat across from Eleanor at the table, where crumbs from breakfast and half-drunk tea in the fine chinareserved for special occasionsstill lingered.
“Helen, sweetheart,” Eleanor began, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. “Everything Ive done has been for you. Ive given you my all.”
“Exactly!” Helen slapped the table. “Youve sacrificed everything, then demanded gratitude. You wanted me to live by your rules.”
Eleanor shook her head. What had she done wrong? Shed raised Helen alone after the divorce, worked two jobs to put her through university. Made sure she studied hard, stayed out of trouble. Was that so terrible?
“I just wanted you to have a stable life,” she said. “To avoid mistakes.”
“What mistakes?” Helen leaned forward. “Marrying the man I love? Moving to another city? Living my own life?”
“That Oliver?” Eleanor wrinkled her nose. “Helen, be reasonable. Hes a struggling actor with no steady income. How will you manage?”
“With love,” Helen said simply.
“Love!” Eleanor scoffed. “Youre twenty-six, not sixteen. Love wont pay the rent.”
Helen stood and walked to the window, watching an elderly couple playing chess in the garden while a young mother pushed a pram.
“Mum, have you ever been truly happy?” she asked without turning.
Eleanor hesitated. “Of course. When you were born, when you graduated”
“I mean *you*. When were you last happy for yourself, not because of my achievements?”
Eleanor frowned. What a strange question. Could a mothers happiness exist apart from her childs?
“I dont understand.”
“Exactly.” Helen turned. “Youve forgotten how to just be a woman. You dissolved yourself in motherhood and now think thats all there is.”
“Whats wrong with that?” Eleanor protested. “Being a mother is everything!”
“To you, maybe. I want something different.”
“Different? With that half-baked artist? Helen, wake up! Hes thirty and still scraping by in fringe theatre. What can he offer you?”
Helen took her mothers hands. “Mum, Oliver accepts me as I am. He doesnt try to change me.”
“I never asked the impossible!”
“Really? Remember when you cried over my B in Maths at A-levels? Said Id embarrassed you.”
“I wanted you to get into a good university!”
“And when you gave me the silent treatment for a week because I wanted to study art, not business?”
Eleanor remembered. Art wasnt practical. It wouldnt pay the bills.
“I was thinking of your future.”
“*Your* idea of my future.” Helen let go. “Remember Mrs. Dawson from next door? You still compare me to her daughter, the doctor, while Im just an office manager.”
“Thats not true”
“It is. Youve always measured me against others. And now you resent Oliver too.”
Eleanor stood, fussing with the kettle though she wasnt making tea.
“I just worry. Thats normal.”
“Worrying is normal. Dictating to an adult isnt.”
“Ive never forbidden anything!”
“No? When I said Oliver and I were getting married, what did you say?”
Eleanor remembered perfectly.
“I said it was foolish and you should reconsider.”
“You said if I married him, Id no longer be your daughter.”
“I was upset! Every mother says things like that.”
Helen shook her head. “No. A real mother supports her childs choiceseven when she disagrees.”
The doorbell rang. Grateful for the interruption, Eleanor answered to find her neighbour, Margaret, tearful on the doorstep.
“Eleanor, my Johns left for Manchester. Says he needs freedom, that I suffocated him.”
Margaret collapsed at the kitchen table while Helen silently poured tea. “Thirty years together, and he calls me a jailer!”
Eleanor patted her hand. “Men go through phases. Hell come back.”
“He wont.” Margaret wiped her eyes. “He said I never listened, just controlled.”
After Margaret left, silence settled. Helen washed the cups while Eleanor absorbed what shed heard.
“See what happens?” Helen said. “Aunt Margaret thought she loved him. Really, she just owned him.”
“Nonsense! She cared.”
“Caring isnt the same as loving,” Helen said. “Love means wanting happiness for someoneeven if its not what *you* want for them.”
“Since when are you so wise?” Eleanor snapped.
“From being with Oliver. He listens.”
Eleanor snorted. “Your actors a philosopher now?”
“He understands people. Unlike some.”
The jab stung. Eleanor felt the old resentment rise.
“Helen, Ive devoted my life to you. Worked myself to the bone”
“And held it over me! Every time I wanted something different, you reminded me of your sacrifices.”
“What sacrifices?”
“Like turning down Geoffrey because he didnt understand me. Really, he just wouldnt tolerate my teenage tantrums.”
Eleanor recalled Geoffreydecent, dependable. But Helen had sulked whenever he visited.
“He wasnt right for us.”
“He was normal! You chose me over your own happiness and never let me forget it.”
Eleanor paced the kitchen.
“I worry. Thats what mothers do.”
“Im twenty-six! I have a job, my own money, my own plans. But you still treat me like a child.”
“Because youre acting like one! Throwing everything away for some actor.”
“Weve been together two years!”
“Two years of dates isnt a life! Youre leaving everything for Leeds. Why?”
“For love, Mum. Something youve never felt.”
Eleanor stiffened. “I loved your father.”
“Did you? You lived like flatmates. Everyone said you were more business partners than spouses.”
The words stung. She remembered her marriage to Robertsteady, quiet, devoid of passion. Theyd co-parented, run a household. Wasnt that enough?
“We got along,” she said.
“Without love. Thats why you divorced when I left for uni. Nothing left to bind you.”
Eleanor sank into a chair.
“So my lifes been wasted?”
“Not wasted. Misguided. You thought living for others was noble, but really, you were afraid to live for yourself.”
“Thats selfish.”
“Its human!” Helens fist hit the table. “Wanting happiness isnt wrong. Youve spent your life controlling, rescuing”
Eleanor thought of her sister Claire, whose messy divorce shed micromanaged, only for Claire to call her meddling. Her colleague Sarah, whose work shed covered, only for Sarah to take the promotion meant for her.
“Maybe youre right,” she whispered. “Maybe I dont know how to love.”
Helen softened at her mothers tears.
“You do, Mum. Just the wrong way. You love, then demand repayment. You love, but only on your terms.”
“How else?”
“Let go. Let people choose their patheven if its a mistake.”
Eleanor studied her daughterbeautiful, grown. When had that happened?
“You truly love him? Oliver?”
“Yes.”
“And he loves you?”
“Just as I am. Not some version he expects.”
Eleanor nodded. That kind of love was foreign to her. Shed always thought love meant sacrifice.
“Youre really leaving?”
“Yes. The trains tonight.”
“What if it doesnt work out?”
Helen smiled. “Then Ill come back. At least I tried.”
Eleanor eyed the suitcaseso small for a new beginning.
“If I apologized? For everything?”
Helen hugged her. “Im not angry. You did your best. But I need to live my way.”
They drank tea, chatting about mundane thingswatering plants, turning off the ovenavoiding the ache of goodbye.
That evening, Helen gathered her last things. Eleanor packed medicine, homemade jam, warm socks.
“Just in case.”
“Thanks, Mum.”
At the door, Helen paused.
“Mum, try living for yourself too. Find a hobby, meet someone. Fifty-two isnt old.”
Eleanor nodded, though she couldnt imagine how.
“Ill call,” Helen promised.
They embraced tightly, as if trying to convey all the unspoken words.
“Helen do you love me?”
“Of course. But from a distance.”
The door closed. Alone,
