One peculiar night, I wandered home and found myself in a haze of astonishment. My daughter, Ivy, was stuffing her belongings into a suitcaseclothes, beauty bits, gadgets. I asked her, with a voice muffled as if underwater, where she was off to.
Turned out, my eighteen-year-old Ivy had suddenly sprouted the feathers of adulthood. I let out a startled shout that seemed to echo like the chimes at St. Marys. Ivy looked back and declared, quite matter-of-factly:
Mum, Im moving out to live with Oliver.
Moving out? Who exactly is this Oliver? Arent you going to introduce us? I replied, my words floating around the kitchen like steam from the kettle. And I hope youre not planning on spending my pounds. Does he have parents? I think youre jumping in headfirst without even a paddle.
Oh honestly, Mum, its the 21st century. Im an adult. Time to get on with my own life! she huffed, wrists flicking, as if flicking away my worries like biscuit crumbs.
I didnt answer. Somehow, my words had faded into treacle. I watched as Ivy boxed up her gadgets and quietly bid farewell to things I barely usedthe blender, for example. She zipped her bag, strolled out, and from the misty living room window, I saw a young mantall shade, long coathelp her stow bits in the boot of a sky-blue Ford. Well, if she was determined to waltz into adulthood, so be it! Lets see how the story unfolds, I thought. By breakfast the next morning, Id changed the front door locks. One could never predict what Ivy and her Oliver might try next.
Days passed, curling at the edges. Ivy didnt send a word, not a postcard, not a single smoke signal. I didnt expect her to plunge into the grown-up world so briskly. Then, without warning, my phone buzzed on the mantelpiece. It was Ivys voice, somewhat distant, coming through in fractured waves:
Mum, will you pay the fees for college?
My heart sagged. My daughter had only called to ask for moneydidnt even wonder if I was keeping well.
No. Youre an independent woman. I wont interfere in your affairs, I replied, the words hanging heavy as an unused umbrella in summer.
Brilliant. Thanks, Mum! came Ivys clipped, bristling reply. She hung up, and silence streamed through the house again.
She was living it just how she wished. Let it be a proper English lesson in adulthood.
Eventually, I decided to transform Ivys old room into an officethe way sunlight transforms old streets in spring. After all, she wasnt living here anymore. I even picked out a handsome oak desk and matching chairs, leaving her bed just in case she found her way back through the fog.
Two weeks drifted by. On my walk home from work, I nearly tripped over a dreamlike sight: Ivy herself, bags in tow, perched like a forlorn magpie beside the gate. Her cheeks were red, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.
Darling, why didnt you tell me you were coming? I murmured, voice billowing softly.
I was embarrassed, Mum. Arent you pleased to see me? she asked, swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand.
Of course I am, silly thing! Come in, lets put the kettle on.
We went inside through the misty hallway, and Ivy started arranging her bits and bobs back in place. But the coffee machine was missing. It turned out Olivers mother had kept it, as a peculiar payment for room and board. Oliver himself was thirtya fact that seemed older than the hills in this strange dream. When Ivy realised I wouldnt pay her college fees, shed asked him, but he wasnt about to take on responsibility for her expenses.
What I really wondered in the daylight hours was, what on earth had been drifting through Olivers mind when he brought my unemployed daughter into his parents house? The dream left that part unanswered, as if swept away by the English mist before morning.
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