The house was silent when Emily returned from work, the only sound the ticking of the antique clock in the hall. Then she saw ither daughters boots kicked carelessly by the door, the scuffed leather still damp from the rain. Her gaze traveled upward, landing on the tiny silver stud glinting defiantly in Olivias nose.
*”No. Absolutely not.”*
Olivia froze halfway up the stairs, shoulders tense beneath her oversized band hoodie. *”Its just a nose piercing, Mum. Everyones got one.”*
*”Everyone? You mean that Sophie girl with the tattoo sleeves? The one I told you”*
*”Sophies brilliant!”* Olivia whirled around, eyes blazing. *”You dont even know her! And its my body!”*
*”Your body?”* Emilys voice cracked. *”When you pay the mortgage, you can decorate it like a Christmas tree. Until then, you follow my rules. Do you have any idea how dangerous”*
*”I went to a proper studio!”* Olivias fists clenched. *”Sterile needles, aftercare instructionswhy do you always assume the worst?”*
*”Because you didnt answer your phone! I called hospitals, Olivia! And you were off gettingwhat, some *rebellious statement*?”*
*”Its not about you!”* The words hit like a slap. *”Nothing I do is ever good enough! My musics too loud, my clothes are wrong, my *friends* arent *posh* enough for your dinner parties”*
*”Because I want *better* for you!”* Emilys composure shattered. *”Grades slipping, skipping revisionis this how you throw away Oxford?”*
Olivia recoiled as if struck. *”I hate you,”* she whisperedthen slammed her bedroom door so hard the Wedgwood plates in the cabinet rattled.
The silence that followed was deafening. Emily sagged against the bannister, the echo of that word*hate*twisting like a knife. All those sleepless nights, the extra shifts at the firm to afford the best tutors, the way shed quietly boxed up her own dreams after the divorce For this.
—
The next morning, sunlight pooled on the kitchen tiles. Emily set out two plates of eggs and toastjust as she had every Saturday since Olivia started secondary school. But the chair remained empty.
*”Liv? Breakfast.”* A beat. Then, muffled through the door: *”Not hungry.”*
She ate alone, the scrape of cutlery unbearably loud. Normally, theyd be debating which film to watch later, or arguing over whose turn it was to vacuum. Now the house felt like a museum of everything broken.
By afternoon, she couldnt stand it. *”Im hoovering your room,”* she announced, knocking. The door creaked open just enough to reveal Olivia scowling over her laptop, earbuds in.
Emily worked silently around the chaosclothes strewn like landmines, posters of bands she didnt recognise. Then she spotted it: a teal notebook peeking from under the bed. The *journal*. Shed bought it last Christmas, teasing, *”Who writes diaries in the digital age?”*
Her hands trembled. This was wrong. An invasion. But that word*hate*burned hotter than shame.
—
The pages were a revelation in smudged ink.
*”Aunt Margo over for tea again. Oh, Em, youve raised such a perfect daughter!* *Perfect.* *Like Im some* project *she can show off. Does she even see* me? *Or just the version she wants?”*
Emilys throat tightened. Another entry:
*”Lost track of time at the library. Came home to World War III. Then the guilt trip: Im all alone, youre my whole world. Classic. Scream first, play the martyr after. Like I owe her my life for doing the bare minimum of parenting.”*
And thenthe words that stopped her heart:
*”I hate her. Hate how she *owns* me. Hate that stupid nose ring lecturelike its about hygiene, not *control*. Shell never understand this was for *me*. To feel like my own person. Not her doll. Not her *second chance*.”*
Emily closed the book as if it were on fire.
—
The advice from Sarah, her oldest friend, came over a bottle of Pinot Grigio:
*”Youre suffocating her, Em. Remember when we dyed our hair blue before A-levels? Our mums acted like wed joined a cult.”*
*”But Livs so”*
*”Sixteen,”* Sarah interrupted. *”Let her breathe. Or shell bolt the second she turns eighteen.”*
—
Change came in fragments.
*”Going out with Sophie?”* Emily asked one evening, forcing calm. Olivia braced for the usual *”That girls a bad influence”*but it never came.
*”…Yeah. Maybe Nandos. Then hers to study.”*
A pause. Then, carefully: *”That piercing if you clean it properly, I suppose its stylish.”*
Olivias jaw dropped.
—
Weeks later, over tea, the breakthrough:
*”Mum Ive been looking at fashion colleges. For costume design.”*
Emilys fingers tightened around her mug. *All that tuition for nothing*, whispered the old voice. But the new onethe one that had memorised every aching line in that journalspoke first:
*”Your portfolios strong. We could visit campuses next weekend.”*
And when Oliviaher tough, prickly Livburst into tears and hugged her, Emily finally understood.
Love wasnt a mould. It was the courage to let go.
