These Words that Describe Melissa

"Free"

Well, she'd always been that in a way. Following as much of her semi-goth style as her parents would allow. She expressed herself in little ways, in moppish hair, changed shoes, in her huddled posture,and self-contained quiet. They owned her and they didn't.

But then. She was getting some good hours at the cinema, and we spent the small hours in the cafe going through newspapers looking at flats. We giggled about some of them over our lattes and sausage rolls, circled others.

We walked through a place with citrus walls and sunset carpets. It was small, and seemed like it might be cold in winter. But the little corner window showed a picturesque view of the town hall clock, of the trees that surrounded it, just starting to fade from green through shades of wine-yellow and orange. Zig-zag paved streets running beneath. It might be noisy, but for the likes of us that just meant lively.

"Can you afford it?" I asked her.

"Yeah." There was something quietly determined in the way she said that.

And then. She made it her own. I wondered if her pay was really going to stretch so far. But she'd found this old couch in a secondhand store, it was a little bit broken and seriously faded,threadbare, almost shaggy with those trailing threads. "Looks like these guys had cats. Like twenty of them."

Not that it mattered. She bought a silky-soft green throw; a dozen cushions, tossed them all over it, had some to spare for the floor,and for a little chair she found. We dragged in some bean-bags, a new tv, a few wall-hangings made in multi-colours from knotted wool. It was an odd and eclectic bunch of stuff, but it made a cramped little fourth storey apartment into a full-on home. She put cinnamon buns in the oven so the smell would leach everywhere. No flat-warming as such, just the two of us sitting on the couch watching a series of DVDs, drinking blackcurrant liqueur, and talking rubbish, freely, like we did sometimes back at school.

Her parents had taken it ambivalently, her moving out. Better than they'd taken the cinema job. They were maybe resigned to her following her own path. They helped move a few things, they looked Melissa up and down in her faded, frayed jeans, in a long, tasselled jersey, with her hair everywhere. The secretary-in-waiting was gone, even Melissa's rebel version of it. This goth-hippy take on their daughter was a whole other beast.

There was whispered arguing.

"You've never understood."

"Have you ever even tried... be our daughter... all the love we've..."

"No." And that having so much weight.

I should have said something maybe, reminded her that she'd need to make things right with them – you can't escape that kind of healing, or you shouldn't.

The moment was wrong though. I was over by the window as she closed the door behind them, leaned against it, dipped her head back, brought it back up again with a huge smile on her face. That expression was almost elation. She looked around her home and saw...I guess... home. She saw herself in her walls, in her mirror, and it was the first time she could remember.