Emily stood in the hallway, arms crossed, her usually warm voice sharp with irritation. Olivia, her sixteen-year-old daughter, slowly unlaced her trainers, avoiding her mothers gaze. A tiny stud glinted in her nose like a defiant spark.
*»Thats a piercing, Mum. Everyone has them.»*
*»Everyone? Whos ‘everyone’? That new friend of yoursSophie, with the ten earrings? Is that who ‘everyone’ is? I told you not to hang around with her!»*
*»Sophies fine! You dont even know her!»* Olivia finally looked up, her eyes glistening with angry tears. *»And I didnt ask permission. Its my body.»*
*»Your body?»* Emily took a step closer. *»While you live under my roof, on my money, your body is my concern! Do you have any idea what happens if this gets infected? Tetanus? Did you do this in some filthy basement with a dirty needle?»*
*»I went to a proper studio! Everything was sterile! Why do you always jump to the worst?»*
*»I jump? I waited up past midnight, calling hospitals when you wouldnt answer your phone! And here you are, getting ‘beautified’! Take that thing outnow!»*
*»No!»* Olivia squared her shoulders, nearly matching her mothers height. *»Its my life, and Ill decide how I look! You hate everything I likemy music, my friends, my clothes!»*
*»Because its all leading you nowhere!»* Emilys voice cracked. *»You should be studying, applying to university, not ruining yourself and running wild!»*
Olivia shoved past her, slamming her bedroom door so hard the china in the display cabinet rattled.
*»I hate you!»*
The words echoed in the silent hallway. Emily leaned against the wall, legs trembling. Her pulse pounded in her throat. *Why?* Shed given up everythingworked two jobs, sacrificed her own happinessjust to give Olivia the best. Tutors, holidays, clothes as nice as her friends. And this was her thanks. *Hate.*
In the kitchen, she filled the kettle mechanically, hands shaking. Memories flashed: Olivia as a little girl with ribboned pigtails, trusting and bright-eyed; her first day of school, clutching gladiolus stems; whispered *»Mummy, youre the best.»* Where had that child gone? When had her sweet girl become this bristling stranger?
The next morning, Olivia refused breakfast. The flat felt thick with silence. Emily cleaned obsessivelydusting, moppinguntil only Olivias room remained. An excuse to breach the icy standoff.
*»Liv, I need to mop. Open up.»*
The door cracked open. Olivia stood by the window, headphones on. Emily entered, bucket in hand. The room was chaoticclothes strewn, sketchbooks piled high. As she wiped the floor, something caught her eye: a pink journal under the bed. The one shed bought Olivia last birthday, the one her daughter had scoffed at. *»Who keeps diaries anymore?»*
Her heart stuttered. *Dont.* It was a violation. But that word*hate*burned inside her. She had to understand.
Later, when Olivia left to meet Sophie, Emily crept back in. The lock was flimsy; a paperclip sprung it open.
The entries began mundanelyschool stress, a new song by some band Emily didnt recognise. Then, last weeks:
*»Aunt Laura came over today. Again with the ‘Emily, youre a saint, raising such a brilliant girl alone! Olivias your pride and joy!’ I smiled like an idiot. But inside, I was screaming. ‘Pride and joy’? More like her project. Do I get to want anything? Or am I just here to tick her boxesgood grades, the right uni, the perfect daughter?»*
Emilys fingers went numb. Shed *never* thought
Next page:
*»Mum lost it because I was an hour late. Screamed till the neighbours probably heard. Then the tears’Im alone, Ive got no one but you.’ Classic guilt trip. She does this every time. Like I owe her for being born. Like my lifes hers to control.»*
A lump rose in her throat. Was that how Olivia saw her fear? As manipulation?
Further in, each line cut deeper. Her advice, twisted into criticism. Her care, recast as smothering. Then, the worstlast nights jagged scrawl:
*»I HATE HER. She wont let me breathe. Controls who I see, what I wear, what I think. This piercingit was my choice. My step toward being me. And she’Take that rubbish out.’ Didnt even ask why. Because it doesnt fit her perfect world. I want to run. Anywhere. Just away from her judging eyes. I hate her ‘love.’ I hate HER.»*
Emily clutched the journal, shaking. This wasnt her Liv. Her little girl.
That night, she called her oldest friend, Sarah.
*»I read her diary. Sheshe *hates* me.»*
Sarah sighed. *»Em, listen. You *do* keep her under a microscope. Remember when we dyed our hair neon and sneaked to Bowie concerts? Our mums nearly had coronaries. Its the same. She doesnt hate *you*. She hates the leash.»*
*»What do I do?»*
*»Change. Slowly. Show interest in *her* worldnot as her boss, as her ally.»*
The next weeks were agony. Emily bit back lectures. Asked, didnt demand. Once, she paused at Olivias musica chaotic, growling track.
*»Whats this about?»*
Olivia blinked, then explained the lyricssome protest anthem. Emily nodded, catching every third word. But her daughters eyeswarm, *seen*were worth it.
One evening, they sat in comfortable silence over tea.
*»Mum,»* Olivia ventured. *»About uni Theres this fashion design course. II think I want to try.»*
Emilys old instinct flared: *Design? What about law?* But the diarys words echoed: *Her project.*
*»That sounds exciting,»* she said carefully. *»What do you need? A portfolio?»*
Olivias eyes widened. *»Youyoure okay with it?»*
*»Liv I wanted *my* version of happiness for you. But yours matters more.»*
Tears welled in Olivias eyes. She hugged Emilyproperlyfor the first time in years.
*»Thanks, Mum.»*
Emily held her tight. That pink diary had shattered her. But in the wreckage, shed found her daughter again.
