The rain drizzled over sleepy Peterborough, as if the heavens themselves were mourning someone’s sorrow. Outside, the sky was grey, but inside the third-floor flat, the gloom was just as thick. Emily and Charles sat in silence. Her eyes brimmed with tears; his fists clenched in helplessness. For weeks, their lives had been unraveling. The house was quiet, but far from cosy. Their only daughter, Victoria, hadn’t vanished physically—just emotionally, as if she’d stepped into another world, never looking back.
“Where did we go wrong?” Emily sniffed, breaking the silence. “We did everything for her—the flat, her education, our support. We just wanted the best… and now we’re the enemy?”
Charles stayed silent. He felt the ground slipping away too. They’d bought Victoria a flat, poured everything into her. But they’d kept it in their name—”just in case.” They thought it was wise. Now they saw it differently: she’d taken it as distrust. Then came the announcement. Victoria was getting married. And she wanted the flat transferred to her. But the real horror wasn’t the demand—it was *who* she’d chosen.
Daniel. A musician without a stage, a future, or ambition. Still living with his mum, scraping by on odd jobs. To Emily and Charles, he seemed like a predator, coiled around their daughter for his own gain. Their refusal to hand over the flat became the point of no return. Victoria stormed out—not just from home, but from their lives. Off she went with Daniel.
His mother wouldn’t have them—kicked them both out. Now Victoria worked as a waitress, studying herself ragged in a dingy rented flat on the outskirts of town. And Daniel? Still dreaming, sprawled on the sofa, blaming the world for his failures.
“We’ve lost her,” Emily whispered, tears spilling. “She’s trapped with that layabout. And all we can do is watch her drown.”
They called. Pleaded. Offered help. Money. The keys to the flat. Anything—just so long as she left *him*. But Victoria refused. Proud. Defiant. Certain they were controlling her, manipulating her, craving power. They weren’t. They were just terrified—for her, for her future.
Meanwhile, Victoria played at being grown-up. Nineteen years old. Coffee at 5 AM. Studying after shifts. Pennies for wages. And beside her, a man who grew angrier by the day. Shouting. Drinking. Blaming. One night, she came home to find Daniel in a rage—he hurled an ashtray at her, screaming that *she* was the reason for his failures. Her parents had abandoned her; she was his curse.
She locked herself in the bathroom, choking back sobs. The next day, he apologised. But Victoria knew—he wasn’t just unreliable. He was dangerous.
Months later, the end came. Returning from work, she found the flat half-empty. He was gone. A note on the table: *”I’m done. This isn’t me. Gone to London. Don’t follow.”*
The silence was deafening. He’d left. No goodbye. No courage. Just debts, shattered dreams, and a hollowed-out heart.
She sat on the floor all night. No tears. No thoughts. Just ringing in her ears. At dawn, trembling fingers dialled a number.
“Mum… can you come get me? Please… I can’t do this anymore.”
They arrived within hours. Emily rushed to her daughter, asked no questions—just held her, like she had when Victoria was small. This time, the tears weren’t from pain. They were relief. Because somewhere, against all odds, she’d still been wanted. Not cursed. Just loved.
Charles drove them home in silence, but his eyes said it all: forgiveness, guilt, pride. This wasn’t the end. It was a new chapter. Hard, maybe. But they were together. And that was everything.
