My Daughter Wouldnt Answer My CallsThen I Found Out Why
My daughter used to ring me every week, even if only for a quick chat. Those calls were our little traditiondiscussing supper recipes, her job in London, or the novel shed just finished. Sometimes shed phone from Tesco just to ask, Mum, how long does the roast beef need again? and Id chuckle because shed asked me that a hundred times before.
But in early spring, the calls ended.
At first, I assumed she was swamped. Work commitments, perhaps. Or maybe she and her husband, Oliver, had gone on holiday. A week passed, then another. I texted her*Hope youre alright, love. Miss you. Ring me when you can.* No replies. Birthdays and Christmas came and went in silence.
This wasnt like her, and I *knew*somewhere deep downsomething wasnt right.
My instincts were spot on.
It was my son, James, who finally broke the news. One evening, he called and mentioned hed spoken to her briefly. Shes fine, he insisted, but his voice lacked conviction. Then, almost casually, he added, Though she said Oliver doesnt want her working anymore. Or driving. She reckons its simpler this way.
My stomach dropped.
James brushed it off, suggesting Oliver just preferred traditional roles, that I was reading too much into it. But Im her mother. I *know* my daughter. Eleanors fiercely independent, determined in the best sense. Shed built her career from nothing, worked late into the night, chased every ambition she ever had. She wouldnt surrender that without a fight.
That night, I barely slept. I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, turning over every terrifying possibility. What if she was being controlled? What if she was too afraid to speak up? What if she was in real danger?
By dawn, I had made up my mind.
The next morning, I got in my car and drove straight to her flat in Brightonfive hours without a break. Each mile weighed heavier than the last. My mind conjured every grim scenario imaginable. I had no strategy, just a mothers gut screaming that my girl needed me.
When she finally opened the door, I hardly knew her.
She looked gaunt. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, as if she hadnt slept in months. She managed a weak smile that didnt reach her gaze. And she kept glancing over her shoulder, as if bracing for an interruptionor worse, listening for footsteps.
My pulse raced. I stepped closer and whispered, Youre coming with me. Now.
She hesitated, then sighed. I cant. Not yet.
That threw me. My chest tightened. Why? Whats happened, sweetheart?
She didnt answer at first. Finally, she moved aside. Come in, Mum.
The moment I stepped inside, my jaw hit the floor. The flat looked like a hurricane had torn through it. The sofa cushions were gone, the drapes were in tatters, and strawactual *straw*was strewn across the kitchen tiles.
I froze. What on earths gone on here?
Before she could explain, something darted past my feet. I turnedand there, amid the wreckage, sat the most adorable little spaniel puppy, tail wagging madly, gnawing on a chew toy like he hadnt a care in the world.
I blinked. Is that a *sheep* in your loo?
She bit her lip. Two, actually.
Turns out, she and Oliver had volunteered to foster rescue animalsjust for a fortnight, she said. But a fortnight became three months, twelve creatures: two sheep, four kittens, three puppies, and a pair of naughty rabbits with a taste for curtains.
I stood there, stunnedfive hours of panic, imagining the worstonly to discover my daughter had simply become a full-time animal foster mum.
I burst out laughing. First a giggle, then uncontrollable guffaws until tears streamed down my face. She joined in, and soon we were both weeping and wheezing with laughter.
All that fear, all those sleepless nightsand it all boiled down to a house brimming with love, fur, and absolute bedlam.
That evening, I stayed to help tidy, feed the menagerie, and, naturally, snuggle the puppy whod started it all.
As dusk settled, she smiled softly and said, You always know when to turn up, Mum.
I suppose a mothers intuition never truly failseven when it leads you straight into a sitting room full of sheep.
Sometimes, the things we fear most turn out to be the silliest surprises life has to offer.