**Diary Entry: A Trip to Brighton**
I can still hear Mum’s voice, sharp with worry.
“Emily, I won’t allow it, do you hear me? You’re only eighteen. You don’t understand—” She kept raising her voice, our argument dragging on for hours.
“And *you* don’t understand. Everyone else is going. Why am *I* always the one who can’t?” I stood my ground, stubborn as ever.
“Who’s ‘everyone’? Your friend Sophie? Her mother would let her do anything,” Mum snapped, then caught herself. Too harsh. She sighed. “Listen, love—”
“Did *you* listen when I said I didn’t want anything to do with John? No. Because my opinion never matters.” My throat tightened. “You told me you just wanted to be happy. Well, are you happy, Mum? I’m not a child anymore. I’m an adult. And I want to be happy too. I’m going, whether you like it or not. I don’t need your money.” Tears burned my eyes.
Mum looked wrecked. “I *do* want you to be happy—truly. But what if you make a mistake you’ll regret forever? Think, Emily. There, you’ll be completely dependent on James. Do you really know him? Are you sure? You’ve only just met!”
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t worry, I won’t come back pregnant.”
Mum sank onto the sofa, exhausted. “We’re not hearing each other anymore.”
She was tired of justifying herself. Dad left when I was three—vanished without a trace, barely paying child support. When Mum met John years later, she never expected to love again, to trust again. He tried so hard to be a father to me, a friend. But I never let him in.
I remember the first time he came over. Twelve years old, arms crossed, watching him like a guard dog. The moment he left, I asked:
“Is *he* moving in with us?”
“Yes. Do you mind?”
“Since when does my opinion matter? You’ll do what you want anyway.”
Mum tried to explain—*John’s a good man, you’ll see.* Her best friend, a psychologist, told her, *She’s just jealous. Don’t let her dictate your life. She’ll grow up, move out, and you’ll be alone. A man like John doesn’t come around twice. Give it time.*
But time didn’t fix us. Mum was torn—drawn to John, guilt-tripped by me. When I realised she wasn’t mine alone anymore, I pulled away. Now here we were. Unable to hear each other.
This was my revenge. James was nice enough—polite, from a decent family. Mum didn’t hate him. But letting me go to Brighton with him? Unthinkable.
*”When a boy meets a girl’s parents, he’s on his best behaviour. What’s he really like?”* I saw Mum turning it over in her mind. *We only ever see the tip of the iceberg.*
Maybe it’s easier for his parents. Mum had only me. We’d never been apart. And now? Brighton. Booze. Sex. She raised me alone, clung to me. Of course she couldn’t accept I’d grown up.
But she couldn’t keep me leashed forever. John thought she should let me go. *”She’s not daft. She’ll figure it out.”*
Mum snapped once, *”If she were yours, you wouldn’t let her go.”* He stayed silent. She was grateful for that—one less fight.
Maybe she *should’ve* ended things with John. Devoted herself to me. But how? She was only in her thirties. She wanted love too.
Now I wanted my own happiness. Now *I* wasn’t listening.
Mum sighed, worn out from arguing, and stepped into my room. I was curled on the bed, glued to my phone—*complaining to James*, she probably guessed.
“I’m done fighting,” she said softly. “Of course I’m scared for you. You’re only eighteen… Go. Just promise you’ll call. Keep your phone on.”
I looked up, shocked. Didn’t expect her to cave.
“Okay.”
No hugs. No *”Mum, you’re the best!”* Just… indifference. Like she was a nuisance for agreeing.
She turned to leave. *Let her go. At least we’re not parting as enemies.*
Later, in the kitchen, I poked my head in. “Can I take the blue suitcase?”
“Of course. When are you leaving?”
“Tonight. I *told* you.”
She blinked. *Tonight?* Too soon. She wasn’t ready.
She rushed to her secret stash and pressed cash into my hand. “Take this. Don’t tell James. If you want to come home, you can. Anytime.”
“Thanks.” I almost smiled. “James is picking me up. Please don’t make a scene, yeah?”
She nodded. *At least we’re not at war.*
When James arrived at half ten, Mum’s voice wavered. “You’re responsible for her. Call me.”
“Ready,” I said, cutting the goodbye short. James grabbed my suitcase.
“Don’t worry, I’ll bring her back safe.”
The door shut. Mum lunged for the kitchen window. John rested his hands on her shoulders as she watched us climb into the taxi.
“Please, God, keep her safe…”
“Let’s have some tea,” John murmured.
***
In the taxi, James slung an arm around me, pulling me in for a kiss.
“Stop it!” I shoved him off, glaring at the driver.
He chuckled but left his hand on my shoulder.
Maybe this was a mistake. I could still back out.
Then the taxi stopped. Sophie and Tom piled in. Laughing, shouting—all my doubts vanished.
A few hours later, Brighton’s lights glittered ahead.
We booked two hotel rooms. I’d assumed we’d stay as couples, but my stomach flipped when James tugged me toward the bed the second we were alone.
“I thought we were going to the beach—”
His hands silenced me. The beach could wait.
The days blurred. Sun, sea, sand. I texted Mum: *”The water’s warm as milk. We’re fine. Don’t worry. Love you.”* Sent her beach selfies—grinning, golden.
Then the boys rented a boat.
“A *yacht*?” I gasped at dinner.
Turned out to be a tiny dinghy. The owner, a wiry, sun-baked man, eyed us warily as we boarded. Bottles clinked in Tom’s bag.
“You’re drinking *again*?”
James shrugged. “It’s just lager.”
Sophie stretched out on the bow in her bikini. The guys cracked open beers.
I refused. We’d already had drinks at lunch—I wasn’t sober. No wonder I’d sounded so cheerful on the phone to Mum. Reality wasn’t as perfect.
The boys drank too much, slept till noon. We missed the best beach hours. Nights were worse—James kept me awake. Heat and exhaustion wore me down.
Staring at the shrinking shoreline, I barely noticed James behind me until his beer-sour breath hit my neck.
“Stop drinking,” I begged.
“Relax.” He nudged me toward the cabin. “I’ve got a surprise.”
Inside, the cramped space reeked of sweat and salt. A single bed took up most of it. James yanked me down.
“Not here. Sophie and Tom are upstairs—”
He laughed. “Fine. Wait here.”
Footsteps thumped above. Then—Tom appeared.
“Where’s James?”
“Surprise.” His grin turned my blood cold. “We swapped. Fun, yeah?”
He lunged. I scrambled back, but he pinned me. His hands groped, rough and insistent.
“Get *off*!” I shrieked.
“C’mon, it’s just a laugh—”
I grabbed the first thing my fingers found—a wrench in a cabinet. I swung.
He reeled back. I hit him again. Harder.
He collapsed.
I bolted upstairs.
James was on the deck, tangled with Sophie.
“*This* is your surprise?!”
He turned, annoyed. “Where’s Tom?”
Tom stumbled up behind me, clutching his head. “She hit me!”
James reached for me. I dodged, vaulted over the railing, and jumped.
The shore looked farther now. *What if I don’t make it?*
Mum’s voice echoed: *”What if no one’s there to help you?”*
The boat’s engine roared behind me. They fished me out, scolding like *I’d* done something mad.
Back at the hotel, I refused to stay with James. Sophie took me in.
In the morning,James sneered when I said I was leaving, but I didn’t look back, and when I finally walked through our front door, Mum’s arms wrapped around me so tight I knew—no matter how far I strayed, this was the one place I’d always belong.
