Lucy always felt her mum didn’t love her. No—not exactly. It was more like Dad loved her more than Mum did. Her father always smiled when he picked her up from nursery, never shouted, never scolded. When she started school, he patiently helped with her homework.
Mum rarely smiled. Instead, she snapped at Lucy over the smallest things, calling her a nuisance, her misfortune. “Go away!” “Stop bothering me.” “Always underfoot, you’re nothing but trouble,” Mum would snap whenever Lucy asked for anything. She lost her temper easily.
“Mum, I can’t figure out this maths problem. Can you help?” Lucy would ask. Her mother would glance at the workbook and shake her head.
“How can you be so thick? What’s so hard about this? You’re used to your dad spoon-feeding you everything. Use your brain and figure it out yourself. I’m busy. I worked all day, lugged heavy shopping bags home, and now I’m cooking. I’m exhausted, and here you are with stupid questions—”
Tears would drip onto the neat rows of numbers and letters, making the ink bleed. When Mum noticed the smudges, she shouted louder. Lucy hunched her shoulders, squeezed her eyes shut—then came a sharp smack to the back of her head or a towel snapped against her back. The workbook would hit the floor. Lucy cried silently—if she sobbed, Mum would get angrier.
“Take a new book and rewrite it,” Mum ordered.
So Lucy wrote again, her hand shaking, letters wobbly.
When Dad came home from work, he’d stroke her hair and praise her. She waited patiently for him to finish dinner so he could help with homework—but he’d fall asleep in front of the telly.
If he stayed awake, Mum complained about Lucy. “She can’t think for herself—and it’s your fault! You spoilt her!” Dad weakly defended himself, but Mum just piled on more blame. Because of him, she’d dropped out of uni, now worked for pennies. Why hadn’t he let her get rid of the baby? Now they were stuck with this useless child…
“Stop it! Lucy will hear,” Dad would say.
“Let her hear! Let her know she ruined my life, took everything from me! And you’re no better—”
Lucy heard it all from her room. She knew Mum would be happier without her. Mum said so herself. Lucy wished she could disappear—fly away in a storm, carried far off to some wizard who’d fix everything.
Eventually, the shouting stopped. Mum fetched a bottle of wine from the fridge.
“Again? You promised to stop,” Dad said.
“Your fault. You’ve wound me up. A drink’ll calm me.”
After drinking, Mum grew chatty, even laughed.
One night, Dad finally snapped. “I’ve had enough. It’s always someone else’s fault. Other wives work, shop, cook—they don’t moan like you. I can’t live like this. If I annoy you so much, maybe I should just leave.”
“Go on then. Ruined my life, now running off?” Mum slurred.
A cup smashed.
Lucy wanted to run out, stop Dad—but she was scared of Mum. Mum muttered to herself in the kitchen before finally going quiet. Lucy crept out, swept up the shards, then stared at Mum passed out on the bed, still in her clothes. Suddenly, Mum’s eyes opened.
“What’re you staring at? Go to your room.”
“Is Dad coming back?” Lucy whispered.
“Where’s he gonna go? Turn the light off.” Mum rolled over.
Lucy obeyed. She curled up in bed, listening for Dad’s return. In the morning, she got ready alone, shook Mum awake, then bolted to school.
“Dad still hasn’t come back?” she asked after school.
“He’s gone. Sick of us. You should go too, find a new mum. Think she’ll love you more?” Mum’s drunken tears fell.
Dad never returned. Two days later, he met Lucy outside school. She hugged him, crying.
“Dad, why did you leave? Take me with you.”
“Nowhere to take you, love. I’m barely getting by myself. Don’t cry. Your mum doesn’t love me. None of it’s your fault.”
At first, they met often. He waited after school, bought her sweets, walked a bit before his lunch break ended. But slowly, the visits stopped. By the time Mum got home, Lucy had boiled pasta or peeled potatoes. Mum never praised her. They barely spoke—unless Mum had been drinking.
As Lucy grew older, she talked back. Mum drank daily now. When Mum passed out, Lucy cleared the table, tossed empty bottles, washed up, then retreated to her room. She’d stare at the moon through the clouds, dreaming of escape.
One day, Mum brought a man home. He barely drank, didn’t let her get drunk either. She obeyed him.
“Your daughter’s pretty,” he said, eyeing Lucy.
“Touch her and you’re out,” Mum warned.
Lucy locked herself in her room, avoided home unless Mum was there, stayed at a friend’s. She made it to graduation.
“Mum, I need a dress for prom,” Lucy asked one day.
“No money,” Mum snapped.
“You never have money. Drink less.”
“Cheeky. Ask your dad. He’s doing well—thinks child support covers it? Make him cough up. Go to his workshop.”
“You’ve seen him?” Lucy asked.
“Hardly. Payments come from there.”
Lucy hadn’t seen Dad in years. Would she recognise him? Her memories were of a big, kind man. Why hadn’t she thought to visit?
“Want me to come?” her friend asked.
“No, I’ll go alone.”
Dad worked in a furniture repair shop. The guard wouldn’t let her in, just called him. When Dad finally emerged in dusty overalls, wiping his hands, he’d greyed, grown paunchy—but it was him. He knew her, didn’t seem surprised or happy. They sat on a bench outside.
“You’ve grown. Look like your mum when she was young. How is she?”
“Same. Drinks. Shouts when sober.”
“What year are you in?”
“Just finished. Prom’s left. That’s why I’m here. Could you help with a dress? Mum’s skint as usual.”
“Course, but I’ve no cash on me. Got a card?”
“Yeah.”
He transferred money to her phone. While waiting, Lucy asked about his family.
“Got a wife, two kids. Her eldest from her first marriage works now. Ours is in Year 5.”
Her phone pinged. “Thanks! That’s loads!”
“Buy what you need. Uni plans?”
“Distance learning. Work too. Moving to Manchester with a mate.”
“What about your mum?”
“What about her? She won’t miss me.” Lucy stood. “Keep my number. Call if you need,” Dad said.
They stared at each other. Then, surprising herself, Lucy hugged him.
“Don’t hate me, love. You know why I left.”
“Why didn’t you ever come?”
“At first, nothing to show for myself. Then married… I saw you at school. You walked right past.”
After prom, Lucy left town. She and Mum had a row the night before. “Just like your dad!” Mum screamed. “Dumping me!”
“Do you even want me?” Lucy zipped her suitcase. “You told me to leave for years. Said I ruined your life. Well, now I am.”
Mum glared. “Big talk. Fine. Go.”
Lucy wheeled her case out. Mum didn’t say goodbye.
In Manchester, Lucy and her friend stayed with relatives who barely tolerated her. She worked, only came home to sleep—still, she was in the way. She considered renting but couldn’t afford it.
Then she spotted an ad: live-in carer needed. They wanted experience, but she talked her way into an interview. The job was looking after an elderly woman with dementia. The daughter explained—too small a flat, two kids. A carer came mornings, but evenings were exhausting.
“I can’t pay much.”
“That’s fine. I just need a place.” So Lucy got the job.
For two years, life was steady—until the woman died of pneumonia. They let Lucy stay while she found somewhere. During exams, classmates suggested asking the uni for a dorm room.
“Only during term for distance students,” Lucy said.
“Go with a favour,” they winked.
The dean’s office wasn’t pleased—but the laundress had retired. Take her job, get a room. Lucy did, plus cleaned lecture halls. After graduating, she found proper work, rented a flat.
One day, Dad’s wife called—he’d died. Lucy went to the funeral, then straight back.
“Seen your mum lately?” the wife asked.
“No. We didn’t part well. Why?”
“She’s ill. Not long left. The drinking wrecked her. That man leftLucy hesitated, then returned to the hospital where her mother lay frail and bitter, and in that final week, as she wiped her brow and spoon-fed her soup, she realised love wasn’t always loud—sometimes it was silent, stubborn, and as heavy as the past they couldn’t undo.
