The pink diary lay open on the bed like a wound. Emma had found it while cleaning her daughters rooma foolish, desperate thing to do, but that word still echoed in her skull from last nights fight. *Hate.*
Look at you, Emma had hissed when Olivia slouched through the front door at midnight, the stud in her nose glinting under the hall light. What *is* that? A nail?
Olivia rolled her eyes, toeing off her trainers. Its a nose ring, Mum. Everyone has them.
Everyone? You mean that Zoe girl with the blue hair and the safety pins in her ears? *Thats* your crowd now? Emmas voice had climbed, sharp as shattered glass. I told you not to hang about with her!
Zoes *alright*, Olivia shot back, tears spiking her lashes. You dont even know her. And I didnt ask permission. Its *my* body.
Your body? Emma stepped closer. Until you pay rent or cook your own meals, that bodys *my* responsibility! Do you want tetanus? Gangrene? Did you do this in some filthy backroom with a rusty needle?
It was a *proper* piercing place in Camden! Olivias fists balled. Sterile equipment, consent formswhy do you always assume the worst?
Emmas laugh was brittle. Because I spent three hours ringing hospitals while you ignored your phone! And all this time, you were off playing rebellious! She jabbed a finger at the stud. Take. It. Out.
No. Olivia straightenedtaller now, nearly Emmas height. Its *my* life. My music, my friends, *my* choices. You hate everything I love.
Because its *rubbish*! Emmas shout rattled the china in the display cabinet. You should be revising for A-levels, not mutilating yourself and gallivanting with delinquents!
Olivia shoved past her, slamming her bedroom door so hard the framed photo of their Cornwall holiday wobbled on the wall. The word *hate* lingered like smoke.
Emma sank onto the sofa, hands shaking. Why? Shed given up *everything* since Mark leftdating, holidays, even that promotion at the accounting firmto give Olivia the best: private tutors, weekends in Brighton, clothes from Topshop instead of Primark. And this was her thanks? *Hate.*
The next morning, Olivias door stayed shut. Emma knocked. Liv? Breakfasts ready. Silence.
She cleaned obsessively, scrubbing already-spotless countertops. At noon, she crept into Olivias room with a mop, citing dusty floors. The diary peeked from under the bedpink leather, tiny lock. A birthday gift last year. (*Who keeps diaries anymore?* Olivia had laughed. *Apparently, you do.*)
Emma knew she shouldnt. But that word*hate*burned like a brand.
The lock yielded to a hairpin. Pages spilled secrets in Olivias loopy script: rants about maths revision, lyrics from some band called *The Void*, a doodle of Zoe with devil horns. Then, the knife-twist:
*»Aunt Sarah came over today. Oh, Emma, youre a saint, raising such a clever girl all alone! Olivias your pride and joy! I fake-smiled through it. But inside? Im just Mums trophy. Her little project. Do I get to be *me*? Or am I just here to tick her boxes: good grades, sensible uni degree, the life *she* never had?»*
Emmas breath hitched. Another entry:
*»Mum screamed at me for being late, then pulled the waterworksIve got no one but you! Classic guilt trip. Like I owe her my *life* for being born. She wants me to be her emotional support human. Well, what about *me*?»*
The worst was last nights scrawl, ink nearly tearing the page:
*»I HATE HER. She suffocates me. That nose ring? It was *mine*. A choice *I* made. But noMum knows best. Shell never see *me*, only her perfect little doll. I wish I could disappear.»*
Emma snapped the diary shut. The room tilted. All those packed lunches, parent-teacher meetings, Christmases spent alone so Olivia could ski with friends*nothing*. Worse than nothing. A prison her daughter longed to escape.
She called her oldest mate, Rachel.
Christ, Em, Rachel sighed after Emmas tearful confession. Remember when we dyed our hair neon and bunked off to see Oasis? Our mums acted like wed joined a cult. A pause. Olivia doesnt hate *you*. She hates the leash.
That evening, Emma forced herself to smile as Olivia clattered downstairs in ripped jeans.
Off to see Zoe?
Olivia tensed. Yeah.
Whatll you do?
Dunno. Costa, maybe. Her flat after.
Emma inhaled. About the nose ring if you like it, keep it. Just use antiseptic, yeah?
Olivias jaw dropped. No rant? No ultimatums?
…Cheers, she muttered, vanishing out the door.
Change came in whispers. Emma bit back comments about Olivias *disturbing* playlist (*Its called post-punk, Mum*). She feigned interest in the doodles of gothic dresses taped to Olivias wall (*Theyre *steampunk*, not *Halloween**). Once, she even sat through *The Void*s entire album, nodding as Olivia gushed about *lyrical anarchism*.
The real test came months later over tea.
Mum? Olivia twirled a spoon. Ive been looking at fashion colleges. For design.
Emmas grip tightened on her mug. *Not law. Not medicine.* But the diarys words hissed in her mind: *Her perfect little doll.*
She swallowed. Tell me about the course.
Olivias eyes widened. Youre okay with it?
Im okay with *you*, Emma said softly.
Later, hugging her daughter goodnight*really* hugging, for the first time in yearsEmma thought of that pink diary still tucked under the bed. It had gutted her. Saved her. Taught her the difference between love and ownership.
And for that, shed never regret reading it.
