**Diary Entry 12th March**
Found my daughters journal today. Opened it, and there it wasscrawled in ink, raw and furious: *I hate her.*
I stood frozen, the words burning into me.
The row last night had been brutal. Emily had come home lateagainwith that bloody nose ring glinting in the dim hallway light. Id lost it.
What on earth is *that*? Id demanded, voice sharp as shattered glass.
Its a stud, Mum. Everyones got one. She barely looked at me, toeing off her trainers like I wasnt even there.
*Everyone*? You mean that girl Sophie, with the ripped tights and the purple hair? Thats your crowd now?
Sophies fine! You dont even know her! Her voice cracked, angry tears welling. Its *my* body.
Your body? Id stepped closer, pulse hammering. While youre under *my* roof, eating *my* food, I *will* have a say! Do you even know the risks? Tetanus? God knows where you got this donesome filthy back-alley parlour?
I went to a proper studio! It was sterile! Her face twisted. Why do you always assume the worst?
Because I was *waiting*! Phones ignored, no wordI rang hospitals, for Christs sake! And you were off getting *pierced*?
Im *not* taking it out! Shed squared her shoulderstaller now, nearly my height. Its *my* life. My music, my friends, *my* choices. You hate everything I do!
Because those choices lead *nowhere*! My voice had risen to a shout. Youre meant to be studying, aiming for uninot ruining yourself!
Shed shoved past me.
I *hate* you! The door slammed so hard the china in the cabinet trembled.
The word *hate* echoed in my skull long after. Id slumped against the wall, breath ragged. Why? After everythingworking two jobs, skipping holidays, pouring every ounce into her futurethis was my reward?
The next morning, silence. Breakfast uneaten. No usual Saturday chatter. The house felt hollow.
I cleanedscrubbed floors, wiped surfacesanything to quiet my mind. Then, under her bed, I saw it: a pink leather journal, the one Id given her last birthday. Shed laughed then*Mum, who keeps diaries anymore?*
I shouldnt have. But that *hate*I had to *know*.
The pages were a punch to the gut.
**3rd March:** *Aunt Lisa came over, gushing*Oh, Emilys *so* clever, such a credit!* I smiled like a puppet. But inside? Im just Mums project. Her *perfect* doll. Does she even see *me*?*
**15th February:** *She screamed when I was late, then cried about being alone. Classic guilt-trip. Like I owe her my life for raising me.*
And then, last nights entry: *I HATE HER. She suffocates me. Controls my friends, my clothes, my *thoughts*. That stud? It was *mine*. A choice *I* made. But noshe just sees something to *fix*. I want to RUN.*
My hands shook. Was this truly how she saw me? Not as her mother, but a jailer?
I confided in Sarah, my oldest friend. You *are* smothering her, she said bluntly. Remember us at sixteen? Sneaking out to gigs, dyeing our hair? Shes *supposed* to rebel.
So I tried. Bit by bit.
Next time Emily left, I swallowed my fear. You seeing Sophie?
She tensed. Yeah.
I forced calm. The stud its not my taste. But if you like itjust keep it clean, alright?
She gaped. No fight? Just *Okay.*
Weeks passed. I listened*really* listenedto her garish music. Asked about her sketches (bloody good, actually). Stopped lecturing.
Then, over tea one evening:
Mum Ive been thinking. Design college. For costume work.
Old me wouldve scoffed. *Proper degree or nothing.* But I saw her facehopeful, *alive*and remembered the journal. *Her* life. Not mine.
Sounds brilliant, I said. Lets prep your portfolio.
She hugged me thenfirst time in years.
That pink diary broke me. But it saved us, too.
**Lesson learned:** Love isnt control. Its letting goeven when every instinct screams *hold tighter*.
