My Daughter Ignored My CallsThen I Found Out Her Secret
My daughter, Emily, used to ring me every Sunday without fail, even if just for a quick chat. Those calls were our little traditionshed ask about my shepherds pie recipe, moan about her boss in London, or gush over the latest thriller shed picked up at Waterstones. Once, she called from Tesco to ask, Mum, how long do I bake the roast beef? and Id chuckle because shed forgotten again, just like she always did.
Then, one day in March, the calls stopped.
At first, I assumed she was swamped. Work at the marketing firm, maybe, or a weekend getaway with her husband, Oliver. A week passed, then another. I shot off a few texts*Everything alright, love? Missing our chats. Ring me when you can.* Left on read. Even her nieces birthday came and went without so much as a WhatsApp sticker.
This wasnt like her. And in that quiet, nagging way only a mother knows, I felt itsomething wasnt right.
Turns out, I was spot on.
It was my son, James, who finally spilled the beans. Spoke to Em yesterday, he said, sounding far too casual. Shes fine. But his voice had that strained cheerfulness of someone hiding a dodgy takeaway under the bed. Then, almost as an afterthought: Though Ollies been saying she shouldnt work anymore. Or drive. Reckons its less stressful this way.
My stomach dropped.
James brushed it offMaybe hes just old-fashioned, Mum. Dont overreact. But I *know* my daughter. Stubborn as a mule, that one. Built her career from scratch, stayed up till midnight pitching clients, never took no for an answer. She wouldnt just surrender her independence without a proper row.
That night, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, my brain spiralling. Was she trapped? Too scared to speak up? In trouble?
By dawn, Id made up my mind.
I jumped in my Mini and drove straight to her flat in Brightonfour hours, not a single loo break. Every mile felt like lead in my shoes. My imagination ran wild with worst-case scenarios. No plan, just a mums gut screaming that Emily needed me.
When she opened the door, I barely knew her.
She looked gaunt. Dark circles under her eyes, like she hadnt slept since the Queens Jubilee. She offered a weak smile that didnt reach her cheeks and kept peeking over her shoulder, as if bracing for an interruption. Or worsesomeone eavesdropping.
My pulse raced. I stepped closer and hissed, Youre coming home with me. Now.
She bit her lip. I cant, Mum. Not yet.
That threw me. My insides twisted. Why? Whats really going on, Em?
Silence. Then she sighed and moved aside. Youd better come in.
The flat looked like a zoo had exploded in it. The sofa cushions were MIA, the curtains resembled shredded wheat, andwas that *straw* all over the laminate flooring?
I gaped. What in the name of Her Majesty happened here?
Before she could answer, something rustled behind me. I turnedand there, in the middle of the carnage, sat the most adorable golden retriever puppy, tail thumping, gnawing on a mangled slipper like it was Christmas morning.
I blinked. Is that a *sheep* in your bathtub?
She winced. Two, actually.
Turns out, she and Oliver had signed up to foster rescue animalsjust for a fortnight, she swore. But two weeks had snowballed into a menagerie: two sheep, four tabby kittens, three puppies, and a pair of delinquent bunnies with a taste for home furnishings.
I stood there, gobsmackedfour hours of panic, visions of cults and controlling spousesonly to discover my daughter had morphed into a full-time fur-mum.
I burst out laughing. A proper, snorting, tears-down-the-cheeks cackle. She joined in, and soon we were howling like a pair of drunk hens at a village fête.
All that dread, all those sleepless nightsand it boiled down to a flat teeming with fluff, chaos, and an alarming amount of hay.
I spent the day helping her tidy, feed the critters, and, naturally, snuggle the slipper-destroying pup who started it all.
As the sun dipped over the South Downs, she grinned at me and said, Youve always had a sixth sense, Mum.
Guess a mothers intuition never misfireseven when it lands you in a living room with livestock.
