The Ghost Between Us: Part One

I haven’t seen my daughter in a while. This isn’t unusual. She has her own life now. Twenty-one. Independent. Busy. Existing in that strange orbit adult children eventually drift into — close enough that you still feel their presence, far enough that you sometimes wonder if they remember to think of you at all. Close enough to love you, far enough to forget to text back for three weeks straight. I am no longer the centre of her world. Not the sun anymore. Just some distant little moon circling quietly on the outskirts, occasionally catching the light. And honestly? I’ve mostly made peace with that. That’s the deal isn’t it? You spend years teaching them how to live without you, then act surprised when they finally do. She knows where I am if she needs me. Still, in the dream, something feels wrong immediately. Not in a shadowy-figure-lurking-in-the-corners-collecting-souls sort of way. Nothing theatrical. Nothing obvious. Just the sudden silence of birds mid-song, as if something has quietly interrupted the sky. The strange feeling of the world pausing halfway through a breath, unsure whether to continue. I wake inside the dream already anxious. My chest tight. My thoughts sticky and frantic. I check my phone. Nothing. No messages. No missed calls. No sarcastic TikToks sent at two in the morning. Weeks pass. Then months. Time in dreams moves strangely — slippery, jagged around the edges. You okay? Love you. Just checking in x Read. Ignored. There’s a particular kind of grief that comes with being deliberately avoided by your own child. It’s not loud grief. It doesn’t scream or fling itself dramatically in front of moving trains. It’s quieter than that. Meaner, somehow. It corrodes. Slowly. Quietly. Like an old wound splitting open beneath carefully stitched skin. So I go looking for her. Because what else is there to do? The police station smells exactly as all police stations do: stale coffee, overheated printer ink, and the dense emotional residue of people having the worst day of their lives. A woman behind the desk blinks at me with the exhausted expression of someone who’s been verbally abused by the general public since approximately 7:03am. “My daughter’s missing,” I tell her. She asks how old Phoebe is. “Twenty-one.” There’s a pause. No sympathy in it at all. The sort of pause people use before gently explaining that perhaps you are being a tiny bit ridiculous. “She’s an adult, love.” “I know that.” “She’s allowed to not contact you.” “Yes, but—” “She’s probably just busy.” Busy. Right. Because apparently disappearing off the face of the Earth for several months now falls under healthy adult behaviour. “I just need to know she’s safe.” The officer softens slightly then, but only slightly. A hairline crack appearing briefly in the concrete. “There’s not much we can do.” Which is police-code for: Please leave before you become paperwork. So I leave. But the feeling follows me. That awful primal feeling. A mother’s instinct. People romanticise instinct, as though it’s some magical glowing force handed down by the universe. It isn’t. It’s ugly. Primitive. A bestial little thing with blood under its fingernails. It settles in my gut like it belongs there, already rooted, whispering: Something is wrong. Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong. Eventually I find an address. A bedsit. Of course it’s a bedsit. The building itself looks tired of surviving. Yellowing net curtains hang in the windows like tired, sagging skin. The brickwork sweats damp. Black mildew blooms in the corners like something quietly alive. Somewhere nearby, a dog barks with the exhausted despair of a creature that has fully accepted life is terrible but still feels obligated to complain about it. There’s a mattress propped against an outside wall. Never a good sign. Neither is the shopping trolley slowly rusting beside it, containing exactly one trainer, three lager cans, and what appears to be the spiritual remains of a Pot Noodle. A man in a string vest smokes outside the entrance and watches me with the detached curiosity of someone waiting for either a fight or an ambulance. I stand there staring up at the building. My stomach folds in on itself. Because there’s history here. Not with this building. With this feeling. Years of sleepless nights. Years of waiting for phones to ring. Years of hearing ambulance sirens and instinctively imagining the worst. Phoebe disappearing for hours. Phoebe drawn into dangerous situations. Phoebe self-destructing in slow motion while I stood helplessly on the sidelines, trying to hold back a flood with nothing but love cupped in my bare hands. But she’s grown now. A woman. And eventually mothers have to unclench their fists. Have to loosen their grip even when every nerve ending is screaming not to. I knock. Nothing. I knock harder. Still nothing. Then — Movement. A scuffle behind the door. Low voices. My pulse spikes. And suddenly my phone buzzes. A text. Mum. Not a good time. I have male company. I stare at it. Male company? Blunt as anything. My mind immediately unravels. Male company could mean anything. A boyfriend. A drug dealer. A man twice her age who owns exotic reptiles and refers to women exclusively as “females” with terrifying sincerity. I back away slowly. Force myself down the path. Tell myself to leave. She’s an adult. She’s allowed privacy. She’s allowed mistakes. My mother left me to make mine. But halfway down the road I stop dead. No. Nope. Something isn’t right. Every hair on my body stands up. I turn and storm back towards the building so fast my handbag starts violently slapping against my hip in rhythm with my frantic heart. I bang on the door again. Harder this time. “Phoebe!” Silence. Then the door swings open. And my entire body goes cold. Because she’s standing there. But she doesn’t look like my daughter anymore. Her hair hangs limply around her face. Her skin has that strange grey pallor people get when they’ve stopped sleeping properly or stopped caring whether they do. She looks thinner somehow. Sharper around the edges. As though parts of her have quietly worn away over time. But it's the eyes that undo me. Completely blank. As though someone has switched the light off behind them. She looks like life has been scooped out of her with a spoon, leaving only the shell of her standing there. And behind her stands a man. Tall. Broad. Hovering. The sort of man who fills space deliberately, like he enjoys making other people smaller inside it. Predatory stillness. “She doesn’t want to speak to you,” he says. For her. My eyes flick back to Phoebe. A tear slides silently down her cheek. Just one. That’s somehow worse. Not sobbing. Not screaming. Just surrender. “But—” The door slams in my face. To be continued…