“Mum, were better off without your advice,” said Emily, storming out to her friends house.
“Mum, wheres my blue jumper? The one with the high neck?” Emily shouted from the hallway, rattling hangers.
Margaret set aside her book on diabetes-friendly recipes and rose from the sofa.
“Its in the wash, love. Why do you need it? Its ten degrees outside.”
“Im going to Sophiesher flats freezing. Wheres my grey cardigan then?”
“The grey one? You said just yesterday it was boring,” Margaret said, rummaging through the wardrobe. “Here, take the pink oneit suits you.”
Emily peeked in, wrinkling her nose.
“Im seeing a friend, not going on a date. Pinks too dressy.”
“Looking nice never hurt anyone,” her mother smiled. “Remember what Ive always told you? First impressions matter, but its character that keeps people around. Both count.”
Emily rolled her eyes, tugging on the first cardigan she found.
“Mum, are you sure youre just going to Sophies? Maybe stay home instead? Her parents are awayyoull be alone. At your age…” Margaret hesitated.
“Mum, Im seventeen. What, you think well be taking drugs?” Emily huffed, zipping her jacket.
“Of course not! But what if boys come over? Emily, you know how things are these days. Why not invite Sophie here? Ive made beef stew and apple crumble.”
Emily turned slowly.
“Mum, stop! Stop trying to control me! Im old enough to decide where I go!”
“But, love, Im not controlling youI worry! Youre my only childif anything happened…”
“Nothing will happen! God, why cant you trust me?” Emily yanked her zip up. “Im going to Sophies to study for our history exam, not… whatever youre imagining!”
“Im not imagining anything,” Margaret said stiffly. “In my day, girls discussed things with their parents.”
“Exactlyin your day! Things are different now, Mum!”
Margaret sighed, leaning against the doorframe. Yes, times had changed. And so had her daughter. At seventeen, Margaret had been working at a factory, helping her mother raise three younger brothers. Thered been no time for casual visits to friendsand if she did go out, she reported every detail.
“Emily, I dont mind you seeing Sophie. But promise youll call me in a couple of hours? Just so I know youre alright.”
“Mum, do I have to?” Emily groaned. “Im not five!”
“No, but itd put my mind at ease. Please?”
Emily sighed. “Fine. Ill call. But not every half-hour, yeah?”
“Deal,” Margaret said, relieved.
After Emily left, Margaret tried to read, but her thoughts circled back to her daughter. Growing up, pulling awayit was natural, but letting go was harder than shed imagined.
Emily used to share everythingsecrets, questions, dreams. Now she was distant, brushing off questions with one-word answers. Margaret didnt know if she was doing the right thing by guiding heror if she was just pushing her away.
Her own mother had been strict, demanding. No freedoms, no choices. Margaret had resented it then but was grateful now. Maybe thats why she feared giving Emily too much roomwhat if she made mistakes?
An hour later, her phone rang.
“Mum, its me. Everythings fine. Studying history. Sophie says hi.”
“Thanks for calling. When will you be back?”
“Nine, probably. Still loads to do.”
“Alright. Ill warm up the stew. Be careful.”
“Mum, relax! Im practically next door. Bye.”
Margaret hung up, shaking her head. Next dooryet her worry made it feel like another continent.
Maybe she was too protective. Shed had a friend, Lucy, whose mother smothered her. Lucy had rebelled at eighteen, eloping with the first man whod take her, just to escape. The marriage failed, leaving her miserable. Margaret didnt want that for Emily.
But letting go was terrifying. The world wasnt safe. News stories screamed of missing girls, bad influences. Emily was bright but naïveshe lacked lifes hard lessons.
By eight, Margarets nerves frayed. Calling was too soon, but dread crept in. What if theyd gone out? What if Emily was too embarrassed to say?
At half past, she cracked and dialed. A mans voice answered.
“Hello?”
“May I speak to Emily? This is her mother.”
“Who? Theres no Emily here.”
Margarets blood ran cold.
“What about Sophie?”
“Sophies not here either. Wrong number?”
Margaret hung up, hands shaking. Where was Emily? Had she misdialed? Noshe knew Sophies number by heart. Sophies dad mustve returned earlybut why wouldnt Emily say theyd left?
At nine, Emily called.
“Mum, on my way. Be home in ten.”
“Emily! Where were you? I called Sophiessome man said no one was there!”
“Oh, thats her uncle. We went to the library for research. I told youhistory revision.”
“But why didnt you tell me you left?”
“Mum, its just the library! Not exactly a crime scene!”
“We agreed youd call if plans changed!”
“They didnt change! We were still studyingjust not at home! Do I have to call for every little thing?”
Margaret bit back her retort. No point arguing.
When Emily returned, Margaret served stew and crumble. Emily ate in silence, giving short answers.
“Hows Sophie? Her parents back?”
“Dads home. Mums back tomorrow.”
“Whats the project on?”
“World War II. The Blitz.”
“Ah! My grandfather lived through that. He used to say…”
“Mum, Im knackered. Can I go to bed?”
“Of course, love. Night.”
Alone at the table, Margarets unease grew. Something was off. Emily used to love family storiesnow she shut them out.
Days later, Margaret ran into Sophies mum, Claire, at Tesco.
“Claire! How was your trip?”
“Lovely! Though Tom fell illwe came back early. Hows Emily? Sophie says shes been down lately.”
“Down? I thought she was just… independent now. She used to tell me everything.”
“Thats growing up,” Claire smiled. “Sophie announced she wants to do hairdressing, not uni! Can you believe it?”
Margaret blinked. “Well… a good stylist earns more than some engineer.”
Claire scoffed. “Dont be daft! Shes brilliant at mathsshould be a programmer! I told her its nonsense.”
Margaret nodded, but something twisted inside. Were they dismissing their daughters dreams?
“And Emily? Any plans?”
“Wants to study English. Loves books. Though I suggested medicinesteadier work.”
Claire shrugged. “English is nice. Tricky job market, though.”
At home, Emily was scribbling in a notebook.
“Love, hows homework?”
“Fine. Essay on Shakespeare.”
“Which play?”
“*Hamlet*. Ophelia.”
Margaret sat on the bed. “What about her?”
“How shes trapped. How she fights for herself,” Emily said, not looking up.
“But she… well, it ends badly.”
“At least she tried. She didnt let others decide for her.”
Margaret stiffened. “Emily… are you upset about something?”
“No. Just writing.”
Later, while tidying, Margaret spotted the notebook. Not an essaya journal.
*Mum thinks she knows whats bestuni, friends, clothes. But has she ever asked what I want? I want to study psychology. Understand people, help them. But if I say that, shell call it unrealistic. She always knows better.*
Margaret stepped back, chest tight. Was that really how Emily saw her?
That evening, she broached the subject.
“Emily, sit. We need to talk.”
“Again?” Emily sighed. “I havent done anything.”
“Just… am I too involved? Do I suffocate you?”
Emily hesitated. “Sometimes… you make decisions I should make.”
“Like?”
“Like uni. You keep pushing medicine. I want psychology. Or last monthI wanted to go to that gig, but you said it was too late. It ended at nine! We were in a group!”
Margaret exhaled. “Im scared to let you go. The world feels dangerous. I want to protect you.”
“But protecting isnt controlling,” Emily said softly.
“Youre right. And about psychology… why didnt you tell me?”
