Valentine felt a wave of heat rush over her at the terrible thought. “Did she leave her daughter with me? No, it can’t be. She’ll come back. She has to.”
She had just returned from work and found a short note from her daughter on the table. Her relationship with Emily had always been rocky, but she never imagined she’d just run away like this. She read the note again and again, memorizing every word, yet still feeling she’d missed something crucial, misunderstood something vital.
Sleep wouldn’t come that night. The pillow felt too hard, the duvet too heavy, the air stifling. One moment she was crying, the next replaying endless arguments with Emily, remembering their fights and their rare happy moments.
Exhausted, she finally gave up, got out of bed, and sat at the table, switching on the desk lamp. The crumpled note lay on top of her paperwork, worn from being handled so much.
For the hundredth time, she read it carefully. No, she hadn’t misunderstood. She could practically hear Emily’s bitter, accusing voice in her head.
*”I’m tired of your control… You’re too strict… I want to live my own life. I’m an adult… You’d never let me go, so I’m leaving while you’re out. I’ll be fine. I’m not alone. Don’t look for me. I won’t come back…”*
No greeting, no signature. “But what about me?” Valentine whispered, as if Emily could hear her. “What if something happens to me? You wouldn’t even know where to send word. Do you even care what happens to me?”
Emily wasn’t entirely wrong. But as a mother, Valentine only wanted her to get an education, find a good job, so that some fleeting emotion or unplanned pregnancy wouldn’t ruin her future. Were there really mothers who let their children do absolutely anything?
She herself had married while still a student. She remembered how quickly love and passion faded under the weight of poverty, cramped dorm rooms, and exhaustion.
And when Emily was born, it became unbearable. She and her husband, another young student, stopped understanding each other, fought constantly. Maybe her own mother had been right—maybe she should’ve had an abortion? But back then, Valentine had been naive, convinced love would conquer all.
They divorced within three months. Valentine took a leave of absence and moved back in with her parents. Strangely, her mother adored Emily from the start, despite having pushed for the abortion. She even helped Valentine finish university while doting on Emily, spoiling her rotten.
Life had been easy while her parents were alive. Her mother was there, the child well looked after. After graduating, Valentine taught English at a school for two years before becoming a translator.
But her personal life never took off. Her mother urged her to find a mature, self-sufficient man. Instead, she only met married men who wanted affairs or divorced men who’d lost everything to their ex-wives. She feared getting involved with them.
After her parents died, it was just her and Emily. Valentine poured everything into her daughter. But it wasn’t enough. Spoiled by her grandmother, Emily saw her mother as too strict. She didn’t dream of education or a career—only freedom. And today, she’d left.
“I’ll wait. What else can I do? You’ll come back someday. I’m your mother—I’ll always love you, always forgive you. Just please be safe…” Valentine sighed, turned off the lamp, and went back to bed. It took another half-hour of tossing and turning before she fell into a restless sleep.
She never fully accepted Emily’s absence, jumping at every phone call or noise outside. She took on extra translation work, staying up late with journals and articles. With so little sleep, she had no time to pity herself. She told herself Emily was fine.
A year and a half later, a knock at the door pulled her from her work. Annoyed, she rubbed her tired eyes—she’d been in the middle of a smooth translation. The knock came again, and she stood.
Opening the door, she saw a thinner, weary-looking Emily. Valentine gasped, rushing forward—
“Emily! At last. I’ve been waiting for you!”
But she froze at the cold look in Emily’s eyes. Only then did she notice the child in her arms.
“Is she yours? Let me see.” Valentine took the baby. “A girl?” she exclaimed happily. “I’ll take her to the room—you can get settled.”
She carried the sleeping child to the sofa, marveling at her rosy cheeks and tiny lips. Then she heard the front door slam.
It took her a moment to realize—Emily had gone.
The hallway was silent. Only a bulky bag by the door and wet footprints remained. Valentine rushed to the window, but there was no sign of Emily outside.
“Emily…” she whispered desperately.
Back in the living room, the baby stirred. Valentine undressed her, soothing herself more than the child, insisting “Mummy will be back soon.” A fresh nappy calmed the girl.
Searching the bag, she found the baby’s documents. The horrifying truth hit her—Emily had left her child behind.
The girl was named Iris, Iris Leonidovna Tichonova. So Emily hadn’t married. The middle name—was it the father’s? Or just random?
A note read: *”Please let her stay with you for a little while.”* That was all.
A half-used bottle and formula were in the bag. “Better than nothing,” Valentine thought, hurrying to prepare a feed. Her forgotten translations lay abandoned.
A new life began. Valentine switched to remote work, devoting herself to Iris. Exhausting, but it gave her purpose.
By one, Iris was walking. At three and a half, Valentine enrolled her in nursery, explaining to the headmistress that Iris’s mother—also a translator—often traveled for work.
Time passed. Valentine adored the clever, quiet girl. But Iris refused to call her “Grandma,” insisting on “Mummy.”
“You have another mummy. That makes me Grandma,” Valentine explained.
But Iris kept forgetting.
“Call me Val,” Valentine finally said. “Grandma Val.”
Iris nodded. From then on, it was just “Val.”
Emily never returned, never sent word. As Iris neared school age, Valentine worried—what if the headteacher questioned her living with her grandmother? What if social services got involved?
At the last minute, she went to the school where she’d once taught. The deputy head was new—a stern woman with piercing eyes. But the headmaster remembered her. Taking a risk, Valentine told him everything. He arranged Iris’s enrollment without question.
Valentine loved Iris so much she now feared Emily’s return. She didn’t spoil her—that wasn’t her way—but gave her everything she needed. At parents’ evenings, she glowed with pride at Iris’s praises.
Iris was thoughtful beyond her years. Was Emily like that? Valentine admitted sadly—no. Emily had been restless, disinterested. She’d quit music school, hated reading, cared only for friends.
Spring came early that year. On the way home from school, Valentine stopped at the shops. They walked slowly, enjoying the sun. Iris chattered about her day while Valentine carried her heavy backpack, shoes, and groceries. At the door, she fumbled for her keys.
“Mum.”
Valentine spun around, dropping the keys. She barely recognized Emily—now a glamorous blonde in expensive clothes, smelling of luxury perfume. Joy flashed, but dread followed. Emily was here for Iris.
Iris handed Valentine the keys. Emily stared at her daughter intently. Though curious, Iris stayed close to Valentine.
“You’re back. And I know why,” Valentine said stiffly, ushering Iris inside before Emily could speak.
Upstairs, Valentine asked how long she was staying.
“Not happy to see me?” Emily challenged.
“I waited years. But you look well—you’ve done well for yourself.”
“I live in Spain. Married. You didn’t think I’d forget about—”
They both glanced at Iris.
“Go change,” Valentine said.
“Iris, I’m your mummy,” Emily cut in, reaching out.
Iris hid behind Valentine, then fled.
“Why rush her? She doesn’t know you!” Valentine scolded.
“Still the expert,” Emily laughed harshly.
“Isn’t that why you left her with me?”
“I came for her. We’re leaving as soon as her paperwork’s ready.”
Dinner was strained. Emily boasted about her Spanish villa, her pool.
“And the man you ran away for?” Valentine jabbed.
“He left me penniless. That’s why I brought Iris to you. I knew you’d beg me to stay—so I left without explaining. I wanted to rebuild first.”
“So I was a bad mother, but good enough as a grandma?”
“I was unfair. I know you only wanted what’s best. But she’s my daughter. I’m taking her.”
“And me? Did you think how I’d manage with a child and work? How I’d live after? Iris is my whole life.”
Their conversationsEventually, Valentine, Emily, and Iris found an uneasy peace—each learning that love, though imperfect, could still bind them together.
