Joyous times, our daughter back home with husband and I. As parents, we relaxed, we inhaled the fresh, innocent air.
Our sensible, happy daughter, our funny, good-looking daughter, back with her family, for good. ‘Stay with me and dad, for as long as you like, before moving into your own place,’ I said.
She was happy with that.
I followed her around, hugged and kissed her, chatted the hours away, I was so happy to have her home; happy to have her ‘fixed’.
A couple of days went by – happy days.
Bella was getting restless, she didn’t like being told to pick up a dirty cup; she didn’t like going outside to smoke. She wanted to get on with her life; she wanted to move into her own place, and so she did.
I bought her new clothes, updated her wardrobe. I encouraged her to come home for meals. I visited each day. I took her out, included her in everything I did. I tried to protect her, I tried to keep her near.
She was now legally free to drive; her ban had expired. Her car was parked to the side of her house, waiting.
I called round to her house, to share coffee. Bella stood, then sat, kept looking out of the window, she was agitated.
‘What’s up I asked?’
‘Looking out for the postman, it’s ridiculous, where is my driving licence?’
‘Be patient, you’ve not been home two weeks, everything will slot into place.’ I did not like to see her agitated performance; it reminded me of days of bad behaviour.
‘How’s it going with the girl next door, the one we warned you about, the one who went after a man with a baseball bat?’ I asked.