Come down to Earth.
Mum, can you imagine if I got into Oxford? Their linguistics department is supposed to be topnotch I read on forums that graduates end up at the UN or in embassies
Margaret paused midcarrotslice, stared at her daughter as if Harriet had just suggested doing a jig on the kitchen table.
Harriet, what on earth are you talking about? Oxford? Oh, love, there are a million clever blokes there already. Get a grip! Youll crawl back here, and the good spots at a decent university will be taken.
But my grades
Grades, grades, Margaret waved her knife. Be grateful theres somewhere to go. Youll stay by my side, no need to hide in strangers corners.
Harriet fell silent, eyes fixed on the window. Her mother had always warned her not to get lofty. Shed checked her Alevel results in the privacy of her room, the door clicked shut.
Ninetyfour in English, ninetyone in History, eightynine in Social Studies.
She read the numbers three times, incredulous, then slumped onto her pillow, staring at a crack in the ceiling that looked like the outline of an uncharted map. Her mind felt oddly empty and echoing at once. She was one of the top leavers in the district; with scores like that she could get into anywhere.
Anywhere
That night she scrolled through university websites until three in the morning, flipping programmes, reading reviews, comparing entry points. When she landed on the Oxford page, with its historic stone façade and a blurb about the Faculty of Modern Languages, something clicked a lock finally turning.
There it is. Thats where I belong.
But Mum didnt share her enthusiasm.
Dont even think about it! Margaret shrieked. Oxford? Youre trying to ditch me?
Margaret paced the kitchen, clutching the edge of the table, then the back of a chair.
Mum, Im not ditching
Youre betraying me! I raised you, devoted my life to you, and now
The drama repeated itself daily.
Harriets sleep fell apart. Dark circles grew, appetite vanished. She roamed the flat like a ghost, trying not to be seen, but a twobedroom flat is hardly a place to hide.
Enough, Margaret, Aunt June, Margarets younger sister, said when she dropped by for the weekend, catching the latest act of tragedy. Shes a bright girl. Let her go, let her study. Its her future!
And my future is to stay here alone?!
Youre fortythree, you still have life ahead. Harriet isnt a caretaker! She has her own dreams!
Grandma, stooped and softspoken, nodded from her corner.
Margaret, let the girl spread her wings. Youll end up biting your own elbows for not giving her a chance.
Margaret stayed deaf to it. A plan formed in her head. A few days later Harriet emptied every drawer, the cupboard, the nightstand. Passport, birth certificate, school diploma all vanished.
Mum! Where are my papers?
Margaret, smug in front of the telly, replied, Where you cant reach them. I wont sign anything. Youre seventeen; without my OK you go nowhere.
Harriet sank onto a chair. The enrolment deadline was a week away, and she had neither documents nor her mothers signature.
A call to the university yielded a polite voice: minors need a legal guardians consent, no exceptions.
A hotline lawyer confirmed: until eighteen, a mother can decide a daughters life.
June visited twice more, pleading with her sister, but Margaret clutched her daughter as if her own breath depended on it.
Three days before the cutoff, Harriet gave up. She and her mum drove to the nearest regional college a drab brick building on the outskirts, plaster peeling like old cheese, a crooked sign that read Northshire College.
The admissions office smelled of dust and despair. The woman behind the desk took the papers without looking up, muttering about timetables. Harriet stepped onto the steps, stared at the grey pavement, feeling the emptiness inside burn.
See? Perfect! Stay with me. No need to go anywhere. I told you no point in showing off.
The first months at the college were a peculiar torture. Lecturers read from yellowed notes from two decades ago, students glued to their phones, the firstfloor restroom lock broken for five years or so.
Harriet dragged herself to lectures, then started skipping.
Where have you been? asked Yvonne, the only classmate who ever chatted with her, catching up in the corridor.
Library, Harriet replied.
Truth be told, the town library became her sanctuary. She buried herself in grammar, phonetics, cultural studies, preparing for something she couldnt yet name.
Her eighteenth birthday fell on a bleak November Tuesday. Mother baked a cake, invited the neighbour, Harriet blew the candles, ate a slice, and retreated to her room.
Next morning she marched to the registrars office.
Voluntary withdrawal form, she placed on the desk.
The secretary raised an eyebrow but said nothing shed seen worse.
At home, Harriet retrieved the hidden documents from behind the wardrobe the passport, diploma, birth certificate all returned by her mother after the college admission.
What are you doing? Margarets voice rang from the hallway.
Harriet turned. Margaret stood frozen in the doorway.
Im leaving. To Oxford.
What? Again? I forbid this!
Im eighteen. You no longer get to dictate my life!
Margaret flushed with fury.
You ungrateful child! After everything Ive done for you
Ill call when Im settled, Harriet zipped her bag and walked out, leaving the flats cage behind.
June waited for her at the coach station.
Here, she handed Harriet an envelope. Saved up for you. Should cover the first few weeks.
Harriet tried to protest, but June waved it away.
Silence. Youve earned this. She hugged her niece tight enough to hear the creak of old bones. Dont give up, whatever happens.
The Oxford coach left at six a.m. Harriet watched the grey terraced houses of her hometown melt into the morning mist. No tears, just a strange ringing in her chest, as if she were finally breathing properly.
The shared flats room was tiny bed, desk, chair, and nothing else. She found work three days later as a waitress in a café. Twelvehour shifts left her legs throbbing, the smell of fried onions seemed to cling to her hair forever, but the wages covered rent, food, and most importantly textbooks.
A year passed in a frantic rhythm: mornings spent sleeping in, afternoons and evenings working, nights buried in notes, listening exercises, and exams. She lived on the edge of hunger literally scraping leftovers from the café kitchen for lunch and tea with stale bread for dinner. She dropped six kilos, once nearly fainted in the dining room, and the manager sent her home to eat properly.
Still, she pressed on. Her dream was alive, and surrender was not an option. In the summer she reapplied to the very same university, same department. The entry score was high, but her grades were higher.
The lists were posted in August. Harriet stood before the board, hunting for her surname, heart thudding in her throat.
There it was.
A funded place.
She sank onto the steps of the ancient building with vaulted ceilings and stained glass, people passing, some glancing back, but she didnt care.
Shed done it.
Five years zipped by like one long, packed day. She never set foot back in her old town, ignored Mums pleas to come home for Christmas or birthdays.
Mum called less and less. Their conversations began with complaints and ended with accusations. Harriet would nod, say Right, I get it, love you, bye, and return to her life.
She received her redborde diploma on a June morning, stepped out of the university clutching it, and paused on the riverbank.
A job offer already awaited her an international translation firm, a salary shed never dared to dream of.
The phone buzzed.
Mum
Harriet, when are you coming back? I have
Mum, she interrupted gently but firmly, I just got my degree, I have a job in Oxford, Im not coming back.
A pause, then a sob.
Youve thrown me away! I knew it! Ungrateful
Bye, Mum. Ill call in a couple of months.
She hung up, looked at the grey water catching glints of light, a distant cruise ship humming somewhere.
Harriet smiled to herself, quietly. She hadnt let anyone break her. Shed made it.
