Daria's Mum

It started weeks ago. Daria was smiling more. Little, private smiles, like she was in on a joke nobody else knew about.

She spent more time in her room. More time on her phone. I’d knock to ask about dinner and she’d shout "I’m busy!" like I’d interrupted something sacred. I figured it was a boy.

I didn't love it, but there was no manual for how to navigate these waters. If I get really strict, she will just pull away. If I clamp down on her phone use, she'll get sneaky. If I snoop, I'll destroy her trust.

This puts me over a barrel, doesn't it?

That’s how dating works these days, through screens and usernames and coded emojis. Something she would no doubt remind me of if I did try to broach the subject.

So I don't want you to think I was a neglectful mother that I didn’t interfere. I did agonise over how best to parent through this. Don't forget, she is sixteen. At some point, you don’t get to vet their crushes anymore.

I'll be honest, I didn't think it would happen this early. But I suppose, all those little endings come sooner than you expect, right out of left field.

When she was really small, and we'd been away somewhere, sometimes she would fall asleep in the car on the way back. When we got home, I'd carry her inside to bed. Her little arms draped around my neck, her lashes long and thick over her cheeks.

It's the dad who often does that, so I understand it. But it's always just been her and me, what with one thing and another. I've had to do the things dads might normally do, and I haven't regretted a moment of it. Actually, as much as I'd dreaded the single parent life, I wouldn't change it for the world now. I look back on those precious times and I think, perhaps it was a blessing after all, that I didn't have to share them.

I don't know why I'm so maudlin, really. Maybe because your first real heartbreak is an even bigger milestone than your first love, and it's looks like that's where we are now.

She was banging about in the kitchen the other night, and then she went out "for a walk". That was a bit odd on the face of it. I wondered if she was going to meet him. Whoever he was. Did she look a bit strained when she popped her head round the door before she left? Or was I imagining it?

I regretted letting her go. Wished I'd stopped her. Imagined all kinds of awful things... But no. My anxiety was for nothing. She came home after barely twenty five minutes, and went straight to her room. I heard the thlump that meant she'd flopped down on to her bed. I thought I heard her crying, but when I knocked on the door, she squeaked at me to go away.

My own heart broke, and I think it stung worse than my own first break up, all those years ago. Her pain has always been worse to me than my own pain.

Since then, she’s been dry-eyed, but flat. I asked if she was okay and she said “fine” without looking up. I asked if it was a boy and she said "no". A bit too quickly if you ask me.

When I told her last night we were having shepherds pie for dinner, she didn't even pull a face. That's how bad it's got.

I checked the tracker app. I know, I know... boundaries. But I needed to know if she was safe. She’s been messaging someone called “Aster.”

Who is he? Or I should say, who was he; she hasn't said a word to him since that night. It looks like there are new messages from him, but I don't dare look because I'm not familiar with this messaging app. Will Aster know his messages have been read? Will Daria be able to tell? Would I be able to cover my tracks? It's not worth risking it.

A deep frown has replaced that secret smile, and another piece of my little girl has slipped away.

I suggested a movie night, and she resisted at first, but I pressed it. "Come on," I said, "When was the last time we sat together and watched a film?"

I got some clean blankets, popped some corn, and told her we would do it every week.

"You can choose," I said, "but next time it's my pick."

I say this cheerily, as if I'm not mourning for a time when her troubles were simpler , and I could fix them so easily. As if I'm not racking my brain to remember the last time I carried her, not knowing it would actually be the last.

She smiled at me, a feeble thing, as if she carried the weight of the world in the corners of her mouth...

But it was a start.

I know it's no good telling her she can talk to me. I have to show it. I have to make the right conditions. So I seized on that smile like a life raft, like she's the one rescuing me, hauling me in.

I'm right here, kid. Talk to me. Maybe I can't even help, but please just talk to me.