My Daughter Wouldnt Answer My CallsUntil I Found Her Secret
My daughter, Emily, used to ring me every Sunday without fail, even if only for a quick chat. Those calls were our little traditiondiscussing roast dinners, her job in marketing, or whatever novel shed picked up from Waterstones. Sometimes shed phone from Tesco just to ask, Mum, how long for the beef again? and Id chuckle because shed forgotten for the hundredth time.
Then, one day in March, the calls vanished.
At first, I assumed she was swamped. Work projects, perhaps. Or maybe she and her husband, James, had dashed off to Cornwall for a weekend. A week slipped by, then another. I texted*Love you, darling. Miss you. Ring me when you get a moment.*but the messages went unread. Birthdays passed in silence. Christmas came and went without a card.
This wasnt like her. And in my bones, I *knew* something wasnt right.
My instincts were spot on.
It was my son, Oliver, who finally called. Spoke to Em, he said, voice carefully neutral. Shes alright. But the way he said it made my chest tighten. Then, as if it were nothing, he added, Though James doesnt want her working anymore. Or driving. She says its simpler this way.
My stomach dropped.
Oliver dismissed itmaybe James just preferred old-fashioned roles, maybe I was reading too much into it. But Im her *mother*. I know Emily. Shes fierce, determined. Built her career from nothing, pulled all-nighters, fought for every promotion. She wouldnt surrender thatnot without a battle.
That night, I didnt sleep. I lay staring at the ceiling, heart hammering. Was she trapped? Terrified? Was he hurting her?
By dawn, Id made my decision.
I threw on my coat, climbed into my car, and drove straight to her flat in Bristolfour hours without a break. Every mile weighed heavier. My mind conjured horrors: bruises, locked doors, whispered pleas for help. I had no strategy, just a mothers gut screaming *go*.
When she finally opened the door, I barely knew her.
She was gaunt, shadows clinging under her eyes like she hadnt slept in months. Her smile was fragile, her gaze darting past meas if someone might appear any second.
My pulse roared. I stepped closer, whispered, Youre coming with me. *Now*.
She shook her head. I cant. Not yet.
The words sliced through me. Why? *Tell me*.
Silence. Then, she moved aside. Youd better come in.
The flat was a *warzone*. Cushions torn, curtains in tatters, *straw* strewn across the kitchen tiles.
I gaped. What in Gods name?
A blur of movement. Thena tiny, tail-wagging Labrador puppy trotted into view, chewing a mangled slipper like it was the best day of its life.
I stared. Is that a *sheep* in your loo?
She winced. Two, actually.
Turns out, she and James had volunteered to foster rescue animalsjust for a fortnight, she said. But two weeks became *fourteen* creatures: two sheep, four kittens, three pups, and a pair of rabbits with a taste for Laura Ashley fabrics.
I stood there, stunnedfour hours of dread, imagining the worstonly to find my daughter had morphed into a full-time zookeeper.
I burst out laughing. First a snort, then helpless, tear-streaked giggles. She joined in, and soon we were both wheezing, clinging to each other like madwomen.
All that fear, all those nightmaresand the truth was a house bursting with fur, hay, and pure, chaotic love.
I stayed to helpscrubbing, feeding, cuddling the pup whod started it all.
As dusk fell, she squeezed my hand. You always know when I need you, Mum.
I suppose a mothers instinct *never* misfireseven when it leads you to a sitting room full of sheep.
