**Diary Entry**
My daughter Emma is a force of nature. My husband and I raised her in a quiet, peaceful home in the outskirts of Manchester, where shouting and arguments were unheard of. Yet Emma inherited my mother’s temperament—fiery, loud, and stubborn. My mother had a way of getting what she wanted, taking offence at the slightest thing, and refusing to listen to anyone. Though Emma never met her, she mirrors her traits perfectly. And it breaks my heart.
Emma can’t bear criticism. Any advice goes in one ear and out the other—if she doesn’t take it as an outright attack. For years, my husband and I tried to guide her, but it was like talking to a brick wall. Even in nursery, she learned how to manipulate people, wrapping them around her finger with an angelic smile. She only ever heard what she wanted, never what she needed. Every correction ended in tears or a tantrum. Her teenage years were hell. I worried she’d fall in with the wrong crowd, start smoking, or—God forbid—get pregnant. It never happened, but she left us utterly drained.
When she finished school, Emma declared herself an adult and moved out. She packed a bag and rented a flat in London with a friend. University wasn’t for her—money was more important, she said. For two years, we barely saw her. She rarely answered calls, never visited. I aged with worry, lying awake each night, dreading a call from the hospital or police. Then, slowly, things changed. She began stopping by on weekends—first occasionally, then more often. We’d have tea, avoid the past, and I let myself hope the storm had passed.
I tried teaching her to cook, to manage a home, but she’d snap, “I know what I’m doing!” Soon, we learned she was seeing a man—Oliver. Calm, kind, he had a way of diffusing her outbursts with humour. With him, she seemed happier, more settled. They married, and I breathed a sigh of relief, believing she’d finally grown up. How wrong I was.
Their honeymoon phase lasted mere months. Emma’s true nature resurfaced. After every row with Oliver, she’d turn up on our doorstep, staying the night. Knowing how she despised advice, I said nothing, watching from afar. Once, she swore she’d never go back. Days later, they’d make up as if nothing happened. I bit my tongue, afraid to shatter her fragile happiness.
But Oliver’s patience wasn’t endless. One evening, she returned from another fight to find a note. He’d left, suggesting divorce. That night, she fell apart. To make it worse, she’d been sacked. For two weeks, I cared for her like a child—cooking meals, talking her through evenings, trying to distract her. Then, one day, I walked in to find her with a suitcase.
“This is all your fault!” she lashed out.
“Hello, love. What’s wrong? What did I do?” I was stunned.
“You let Oliver walk away! You saw how he treated me—you should’ve stopped him!” she screamed.
“You never listened to my advice. You said you’d handle it yourself,” I reminded her.
“You gave up and just watched my marriage collapse!” Each word cut like a knife.
“Don’t say that! I wasn’t part of your fights. You’re adults—you made your choices. How is this my fault?” I tried to defend myself.
“Of course, it’s never your fault! Thanks for the *help*! I was right to leave after school. I never should’ve come back!” With that, she stormed out, slamming the door so hard the windows shook.
I stood there, numb. All those days of care, of staying out of her life—like she asked—and to her, I’m the villain. My girl hasn’t grown up at all. She’s still looking for someone to blame. My heart aches knowing she thinks I failed her. But I’m tired of pleading my case. It’s her life—let her live it. So why does it hurt so much?
