**Friday, 12th May**
Emilys diary. I found it tucked under her bed while cleaning her roomsomething I rarely do, but the silence between us had stretched too long, and I needed an excuse to step into her space. The lock was flimsy, barely more than decoration. A paperclip undid it in seconds.
I shouldnt have read it. But after last nights rowher shouting *I hate you!* before slamming her door so hard the china rattled in the cabinetI couldnt stop myself. I had to understand why.
The pages were filled with her neat, looping handwriting. School stress, a boy named Liam, lyrics from some band Id never heard of. Then, the entry from last week:
*»Aunt Margaret came over today. Again with the Oh, Sarah, youre a saint, raising such a brilliant girl all on your own! Emilys your pride and joy! I sat there smiling like an idiot. But inside? I wanted to scream. Pride and joy. More like pride and project. Do I even exist outside her checklist? Good grades, the right university, the right lifeall picked by her. Sometimes I think shed love me more if I were a doll she could dress and pose.»*
My hands went cold. Is that really how she sees me?
Another entry, from last month:
*»Mum blew up because I was an hour late. Screamed like a banshee, then switched to cryingher classic move. Im all alone, youre all I have, I worry. Guilt-trip central. Like I owe her my life just for being born. Maybe if shed get one of her own instead of smothering mine, I wouldnt feel like bolting every damn day.»*
The words stung. Was my love really that heavy?
And then, the worst. Scribbled in furious, jagged lines after our fight about her nose ring:
*»I HATE HER. She doesnt see me. Just some puppet to controlmy clothes, my friends, even my thoughts. That ring? It was mine. A choice I made for ME. But no. Take that rubbish out! No asking why. No care. Just her rules, her world. Im drowning in her love. God, I hate it. I hate HER.»*
I shut the diary, hands shaking. My little girlthe one who used to bring me dandelion bouquets and whisper *Youre the best, Mummy*now saw me as a jailer.
That night, I rang my oldest mate, Claire. Ive cocked it all up, I choked out. She *hates* me.
Claire sighed. Sarah. Remember when we dyed our hair neon pink and snuck into that Oasis gig? Our mums acted like wed joined a cult. Teens rebel. Its their job.
But Im losing her
Only because youre gripping too tight. Ease up. Ask about her music. Her art. Hell, pretend the nose rings edgy. Show her you see *her*not some mini-you.
The next evening, as Emily shoved past me to meet Liam (another battle Id lost), I swallowed my usual lecture. That band you like whats their name again?
She froze. Bleeding Saints. Why?
No reason. Just tell me one song. Maybe Ill listen.
The suspicion in her eyes flickered. Then, hesitantly: Broken Crown. Its about never mind. Youll hate it.
Try me.
A pause. Then she pulled out her phone, cued the track, and handed me an earbud. The music was chaosgrowling vocals, thrashing guitars. But her face? Lit up.
Weeks passed. I bit my tongue when she came home past curfew. Asked about her sketches instead of nagging over maths. Even nodded when she mentioned applying to art college*art*, not law or medicine.
Tonight, over tea, she suddenly said, Mum? Im sorry. About the diary thing. I didnt mean
I squeezed her hand. Im sorry too. For not listening.
She hugged me then, tightthe first in years. And I realised: love isnt a cage. Its supposed to be wings.
**Lesson learned:** Sometimes the hardest thing to give is the one thing they need mostroom to breathe.
