The Daughter Went to Her Aunt’s

“Mum, I can’t take it anymore!” shouted Poppy, throwing her schoolbag onto the floor. “I’ve had enough of your lectures!”

“What lectures?” Margaret jumped up from the sofa where she’d been sorting through old schoolbooks. “All I said was you should do your homework instead of being glued to your phone!”

“Exactly! It’s always the same thing! Homework, chores, helping around the house! When do I get to actually live? I’m fifteen, in case you forgot!”

“Oh, I haven’t forgotten,” Margaret’s voice trembled with hurt. “And precisely because you’re fifteen, you should know your responsibilities!”

Poppy deliberately pulled out her phone and began typing rapidly. Margaret watched, frustration rising as her daughter ignored her, lost in some conversation.

“Poppy! I’m talking to you!”

“Well, I don’t want to talk!” The girl didn’t look up. “I’m sick of it! Charlotte’s mum isn’t like this—she’s kind! You just shout all the time!”

Margaret felt a lump rise in her throat. Shout? Was that all her daughter thought she did?

“Poppy, love,” she softened her tone. “Let’s talk calmly. I don’t shout, I just worry—”

“Don’t bother!” Poppy snapped, finally looking up. “Just leave me alone! Aunt Lucy says kids need freedom, not constant nagging!”

At the mention of her sister, Margaret clenched her fists. Lucy had always prided herself on being the “cool aunt,” though she’d never had children of her own. Easy to criticise parenting when you’ve never had to do it.

“Aunt Lucy says a lot of things,” Margaret said carefully. “But I’m your mother, not her.”

“Yeah, and that’s the problem!” Poppy shot back. “Maybe I’d be happier with her!”

The words stung worse than a slap. Margaret turned to the window so Poppy wouldn’t see her tears.

“If that’s how you feel, you’re welcome to go live with her,” she said quietly.

“Really?” Poppy’s voice brightened unexpectedly. “You wouldn’t mind?”

Margaret turned back. Her daughter’s eyes sparkled as if she’d just been handed the best gift in the world.

“Of course not,” Margaret lied. “If you’re so unhappy here.”

Poppy snatched up her phone. Margaret caught fragments of the excited conversation:

“Aunt Lucy? It’s me… Yeah, Mum said it was fine… Tomorrow? Really?”

The call lasted ten minutes. Poppy chattered, laughed, made plans—while Margaret stood by the window, staring at the empty garden, feeling as though her heart had been torn in two.

“Mum?” Poppy approached from behind. “Aunt Lucy says I can come tomorrow. She’s got a spare room and everything—she’s been wanting me to stay over forever.”

“I see.”

“You’re not angry?”

Margaret turned. Poppy looked radiant, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes.

“No, I’m not angry. If this is what you want, go ahead.”

“Thanks, Mum!”

Poppy hugged her quickly and dashed off to pack. Margaret stayed in the kitchen, mechanically washing dishes, her hands trembling so badly the plates clattered.

How had this happened? That morning, they’d been an ordinary family—mother and daughter, arguing sometimes, but loving each other. Now her daughter was leaving.

Lucy lived across town in a chic three-bedroom flat. A high-flying marketing executive, she had money, freedom, no attachments. “Men just get in the way,” she’d say.

Margaret was the opposite—a primary school teacher, scraping by, but devoted to her students. Poppy had come along when she was twenty-two. Her father left when she was a baby, saying he “wasn’t ready.”

Since then, Margaret had raised Poppy alone. No luxuries, no fancy holidays—just love, worry, and the constant weight of doing it all herself.

Meanwhile, Lucy visited monthly, bearing expensive gifts and whispering to Poppy about freedom, travel, restaurants. “Life should be exciting,” she’d say.

“Mum, can I go first thing tomorrow?” Poppy peeked out, suitcase in hand.

“Of course.”

“Will you see me off?”

“Of course.”

The evening passed strangely. Poppy hummed as she packed; Margaret pretended to busy herself, her thoughts circling one question: *Why does she want to leave me?*

Had she really been so awful? Too strict? But how else do you raise a child alone? Who else would teach her responsibility?

That night, Margaret lay awake, listening to Poppy toss and turn next door. Was she restless too? Having second thoughts?

Breakfast was unusually quiet.

“Changed your mind?” Margaret ventured.

“No,” Poppy mumbled. “Just… will you miss me?”

“Terribly,” Margaret admitted.

“But you said I could go.”

“I did. And I meant it.”

The bus ride to Lucy’s was silent. Poppy stared out the window; Margaret studied her daughter—so beautiful, so clever, and so desperate to get away.

Lucy greeted them at the door with a gleaming smile.

“Poppy, darling!” She swept the girl into a hug. “I’m thrilled you’re here!”

“Me too, Aunt Lucy!”

“Come in! I’ll show you your room.”

Margaret’s heart sank as she stepped inside. Everything was stylish, expensive—nothing like their little two-bed with its worn furniture.

“This is yours, sweetheart.” Lucy flung open a door.

Poppy gasped. The room was like something from a magazine—white furniture, blush-pink curtains, a plush bed piled with cushions.

“Aunt Lucy, this is *mine*?”

“All yours! Live like a princess.”

Margaret lingered in the doorway, invisible. Poppy was already lost in her new world.

“Well, I should go,” Margaret said.

“Mum, wait!” Poppy turned suddenly. “Stay for tea?”

“No, thanks. Lots to do at home.”

Lucy walked her to the door.

“Don’t worry, Meg,” she murmured. “She’ll be fine with me.”

“I know,” Margaret said. “Just… don’t spoil her rotten.”

“Of course not.” Lucy winked. “I know what’s what.”

Margaret hugged Poppy goodbye—a brief, tight squeeze.

“Mum, I’ll call.”

“Please do.”

The journey home stretched endlessly. Margaret gazed out the bus window, wondering what came next. The house would feel so empty.

She cleaned obsessively—Poppy’s already-tidy room, the kitchen, anything to keep busy. When the phone finally rang at half nine, she lunged for it.

“Hello?”

“Meg, it’s Lucy.”

“Oh. Hi. How’s Poppy?”

“That’s why I’m calling. She’s been… quiet all day. Says she’s fine, but I can tell she’s not.”

Margaret’s pulse jumped.

“What’s she saying?”

“Nothing much. Just… withdrawn. Not even on her phone. Reading a book.”

“A *book*?” Poppy only read under duress at home.

“Mm. Some animal encyclopaedia. Keeps asking if I miss her.”

“Right.”

“Meg, maybe *you* should talk to her. I don’t know what to do.”

Margaret hesitated. She ached to hear Poppy’s voice—but didn’t want to seem weak.

“Put her on.”

“Poppy! Your mum’s on the phone!”

A pause, then:

“Hi, Mum.”

“Hi, sweetheart. Everything okay?”

“Mm.”

“Aunt Lucy says you’re sad.”

Silence. Then, softly:

“Mum… are you mad at me?”

“For what?”

“For leaving.”

Margaret’s throat tightened.

“No, darling. You wanted this.”

“I did,” Poppy whispered. “But… how are you coping alone?”

*I’m not.*

“I’m fine. Keeping busy.”

“Oh.”

Another silence. Margaret listened to her daughter breathe, aching to say so much—but the words stuck.

“Mum… can I come home tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow? You only just got there.”

“I know, but… I don’t like it here. I mean, Aunt Lucy’s lovely, and the room’s amazing, but… I don’t know how to explain.”

Margaret closed her eyes. Every fibre of her wanted to cry, *Yes, come home, I miss you!* But pride held her back.

“Think carefully, Poppy. Home’s still the same—homework, chores. Nothing’s changed.”

“I know,” Poppy sniffled. “But there, it’s… different.”

“How?”

“Well… you’re there. Here, no one tells me off—but no one asks about school either. Aunt Lucy works late, orders takeaway… We barely talk.”

Margaret pictured it: Poppy alone in that perfect room“Alright then,” Margaret whispered into the phone, her voice breaking just slightly, “I’ll see you at the bus stop tomorrow—and love, bring that book you’re reading, I’d like to hear about it.”