My Daughter Wouldnt Answer My CallsUntil I Found Out Her Secret
My daughter, Emily Whitmore, used to ring me every Sunday without fail, even if only for a quick chat. Those calls were our little traditiondiscussing her latest baking attempts, her work at the accounting firm, or the novel she couldnt put down. Sometimes shed phone from the Tesco in Manchester just to ask, Mum, how many minutes for the roast beef again? and Id chuckle, knowing full well shed asked me the same thing a fortnight prior.
But come mid-March, the calls ceased.
At first, I assumed she was swampedquarterly reports at the office, perhaps, or a weekend getaway with her husband, Thomas. A week slipped by, then another. I sent messages*How are you, love? Missing you. Ring me when youve a moment.* None were answered. Birthdays and bank holidays passed in silence.
This wasnt like her. In my bones, I felt itsomething wasnt right.
My instincts proved true. It was my son, Oliver, who finally broke the quiet. One evening, he rang and mentioned hed spoken to her briefly. Shes alright, he said, though his voice lacked conviction. Then, almost as an aside, he added, Though she mentioned Thomas doesnt want her working anymore. Or driving. Says its simpler this way.
My stomach lurched.
Oliver dismissed it, suggesting Thomas merely fancied old-fashioned roles, that I was reading too much into it. But Im her mother. I know my Emily. Shes headstrong, fiercely independent. Shed clawed her way up in finance, burned the midnight oil, refused to let anyone stand in her way. She wouldnt surrender that without a fight.
That night, sleep eluded me. I lay awake, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, each passing hour conjuring darker fears. Was she being pressured? Was she too frightened to speak? Was she in harms way?
By dawn, Id made up my mind.
The next morning, I packed a thermos of tea and drove straight to her flat in Birminghamthree hours with scarcely a stop. Every mile weighed heavier than the last. My mind spun with horrors I dared not name. No strategy, just a mothers gut howling that my girl needed me.
When she opened the door, I scarcely knew her.
Shed grown gaunt. Dark circles hung beneath her eyes, as though she hadnt rested in months. She offered a frail smile that didnt touch her gaze. And her eyes kept darting past me, as if expecting an interruption. Or worselistening for footsteps.
My pulse raced. I stepped closer and murmured, Youre coming with me. Now.
She wavered, then sighed. I cant. Not yet.
That wasnt the answer Id braced for. My insides knotted. Why? Whats happened, darling?
She didnt reply at first. Then, quietly, she moved aside. Best come in, Mum.
The moment I crossed the threshold, my jaw nearly hit the floor. The flat looked as though a hurricane had torn through it. The settee was stripped of cushions, the drapes hung in tatters, and strawactual strawwas strewn across the kitchen tiles.
I froze. Good heavens, whats gone on here?
Before she could explain, movement caught my eye. I turnedand there, amidst the wreckage, sat the most adorable terrier pup, tail whipping like a metronome, gnawing blissfully on a rubber bone.
I blinked. Is that a sheep in your loo?
She flushed. Two, actually.
As it turned out, she and Thomas had volunteered to foster rescued farm animalsjust for a fortnight, she insisted. But a fortnight had spiralled into a dozen creatures: two sheep, four tabby kittens, three excitable pups, and a pair of rascally rabbits with a taste for upholstery.
I stood dumbstruckthree hours of white-knuckled dread, visions of direst fatesonly to learn my daughter had become a full-time menagerie keeper.
I burst out laughing. A chuckle at first, then great, heaving guffaws until tears streamed down my face. She joined in, and soon we were both weeping and wheezing with mirth.
All that terror, all those sleepless nightsand it boiled down to a home overrun with paws, hooves, and unbridled chaos.
That afternoon, I stayed to help muck out, feed the lot, andnaturallysnuggle the terrier whod started it all.
As dusk painted the sky, she turned to me, grinning. You always know when to turn up, Mum.
I suppose a mothers intuition never falterseven when it leads you smack into a parlour full of sheep.
