I used to hate my mum for what she did, but now I’ve become just like her.
My name’s Emily Dawson, and I live in a little town called Stratford-upon-Avon, where the old streets whisper to the wind over the River Avon. As a kid, I thought there was nothing more beautiful than childhood. My friends were in a hurry to grow up—slipping into their mums’ dresses and teetering in heels—but I clung to my toys, my Lego, and my paints. I’d draw our family: me in the middle, Dad holding one hand, Mum the other, and in the distance, Nan and Grandad smiling like everything was perfect. Who knew that picture would crumble, that my life would turn into a mirror of the very thing I despised?
Dad, William, was an engineer—always buried in his laptop screen, like he lived in another world. But when he looked up, his eyes behind those thick glasses would fix on Mum, Sarah, with so much love it made me jealous. He put up with all her quirks: the flamboyant clothes, the stacks of self-help books, the odd, frizzy-haired friends. Later, he even swallowed her “work trips,” the late nights, the dinners that were just another “exotic” dish—quinoa salad or something—because Mum “hadn’t had time” to cook. He ate it quietly, the same way he swallowed her demands—separate bedrooms, the sacred ritual of breakfast together, which she called the “foundation of harmony.”
Every morning, Dad would watch the clock tick closer to him being late for work. But he’d wait—until Mum, sleepy and tousled, brewed her “revitalizing” herbal tea, spread hummus on toast, and topped it with a slice of ham. Same routine, day after day. Dad was always late, but he endured it, just to see her smile. Then, Mum got into meditation, then yoga, and then fell for her instructor, Daniel. One evening, she announced, “I’ve fallen in love. My heart needs freedom. I love you both, but I’m suffocating without real passion.” Me, just a kid, wondered—wasn’t my love enough?
Dad didn’t shout, didn’t make a scene. He just retreated into his computer, like the screen could hide his pain. Their lives had already drifted apart, so on the surface, not much changed. But I snapped—grew sharp-tongued and angry at school, ready to lash out at anyone. Grandad, Arthur, took me under his wing—took me to parks, helped with homework, wiped my tears, and told me families were meant to stick together. When Mum filed for divorce and left, Nan’s heart gave out from the grief. Grandad started going blind—from sorrow, from watching our family shatter—but he still called Dad “son” with pride in his voice.
I felt like I could fix things, but I didn’t know how. Then, after talking to Grandad, I found Mum’s little black book and rang her lover’s wife. “Did you know your husband’s been seeing my mum?” My voice shook as I spat it out. That day, I broke Mum’s heart. Her lover went back to his wife, and she was left alone—forever. Will she forgive me? I don’t know. Did she recognize my revenge when I married James? Did she understand when I had my daughter, Lily? I’m not sure.
But time passed, and without realizing it, I started turning into her. I dragged James and Lily into my new obsession—rock climbing, my “little madness.” Then I took up swimming to escape the grind of my desk job. The pool became my refuge, washing away my anger—at the world, at work, at James, who seemed duller with every passing day. I denied it, but Mum’s shadow grew inside me. It all became clear when I fell for my swim coach, Matthew. James and Lily weren’t “enough” anymore—I wanted freedom, passion, just like she had.
I’d drop Lily at Grandad’s and rush to meet Matthew, heart pounding. Lily would ask, “Mum, where are you going?” And Grandad, nearly blind now, would squeeze her hand and stroke her hair. The affair burned hotter until one day, I waited three hours for Matthew in vain. The next time I saw him at the pool, he said, “There’s only one woman for me—my wife.” Those words cut deep. I ran to Grandad, the only one who’d understand, sobbing into his coat. Then I saw the tears in his sightless eyes—and I knew. He’d called Matthew’s wife, just like I’d called Mum’s lover’s wife all those years ago. “For Lily,” he whispered.
Months later, I’m still trying to stitch up the wound in my chest, but it won’t heal. With this bleeding heart, I made peace with Mum, finally understanding how hard it is to be a daughter, a wife, and a mother all at once. One of them always suffers. James and I aren’t closer, but I see Dad differently now—his endless love for Mum, his forgiveness—it humbled me. I was the one who clipped her wings. And Grandad, my comfort, stopped me from flying too—for Lily, for me. He showed me happiness isn’t in secret passions, but in an open, honest family. And I believe his blind, wise eyes—the same ones I once saw the world through.
