The Troubled Evening of Emily
My husband Edward and I were returning home with our little daughter Emily after spending the day at his sister’s. The evening was mild, yet an unease grew within me, Charlotte. Emily, our four-year-old joy, had been out of sorts all evening. Usually lively and full of chatter, she had sat quietly, barely touching her food, her eyes fixed on the floor. I tried to brush it off, but a mother’s heart knows—something was amiss, though I couldn’t place it.
Edward and I had been married seven years, and Emily was our greatest blessing. She had always been bright-eyed and curious, brimming with laughter. Visiting his sister Margaret’s was a tradition—she adored Emily, always baking her favourite treats, while her own children doted on her like a little princess. But that day was different. Emily refused to play, turned away from the cake she usually devoured, and barely reacted to Margaret’s jokes. I’d noticed at supper but told myself not to fret—perhaps she was merely tired?
In the car, as we drove home, I leaned over to Edward and whispered, “Ted, have you seen how quiet Emily’s been today? It’s as if she’s somewhere else.” He shrugged. “Lottie, she might just be worn out. Children have their moods.” But I could tell he was uneasy too, though he hid it well. Emily sat in the back, clutching her stuffed rabbit, silent. I reached out and stroked her hair. “Sweetheart, what’s troubling you?” She only shook her head and turned to the window. My heart clenched.
All evening at Margaret’s, I’d racked my brain for what could have upset her. Had the children been unkind? But her cousins had been as affectionate as ever. Had she overheard something? Margaret had spoken of troubles at work, but we’d kept our voices low. Was it the food? Had she eaten something that disagreed with her? I traced back every dish—the salads, the roast, the cake—nothing seemed amiss. So what then?
At home, I tucked Emily into bed, but she tossed restlessly. I sat beside her, humming her favourite lullaby, fighting back tears. A mother’s instinct screamed that something was wrong. When she finally drifted off, I found Edward in the parlour, watching the telly. “Ted,” I said, “we must take her to the doctor tomorrow. I mean it—she isn’t herself.” He sighed. “Lottie, you always fret. Mightn’t she just need more sleep?” But I saw his own doubt flicker.
I lay awake, thoughts churning. What if this wasn’t just a passing mood? Had she fallen ill? I recalled her catching a chill months before, but she’d been listless then, not this withdrawn. Or was it something deeper? Had something happened at nursery? Emily loved it there, but had someone upset her? I replayed the past days, searching for clues. Just yesterday, she’d been merry, drawing me flowers—yet today, it was as if another child stood in her place.
Come morning, I resolved to talk to her. She woke a little brighter, though still not her usual self. I sat beside her, pulling her close. “Darling, tell Mummy what’s troubling you. You can say anything.” She hesitated, then whispered, “Mummy, I’m scared you and Papa will shout like Aunt Margaret.” I froze. Margaret? Edward and I never quarrelled in front of Emily, but yesterday, Margaret had argued loudly with her husband over the telephone. Had Emily heard and taken it to heart?
I held her tighter. “Sweet pea, Papa and I love you, and we shan’t quarrel. Aunt Margaret was just tired—grown-ups have their troubles.” Emily nodded, but I saw the doubt lingering. Edward and I spoke later, and he agreed: we’d be more mindful of what we discussed around her. “Lottie,” he said, “she’s sensitive. We must talk with her more.” I nodded, though unease still prickled in my chest.
Now I watch Emily like a hawk. We’ve promised more time together—playing, talking of her feelings. I rang Margaret, who was aghast. “Charlotte, I never thought she’d hear! Forgive me!” I don’t blame her, but I’ve learnt: children take in everything, even what we dismiss as trivial. Emily’s slowly brightening; yesterday, she even laughed when Edward gave her a piggyback. Yet that pang of worry remains. To be a mother is to fret endlessly, isn’t it? But for her smile, I’d bear it all.