‘Let's get your story straight' – the words that made my mum an ally, and a human

The Guardian

27-07-2025

When my parents told me they were splitting up, I was 15 and furious. It was an abstract, all-consuming kind of anger, alien to the hitherto conscientious, happy kid I had been. With the upset turbocharged by adolescent angst, I resolved to behave as badly as I could: if they were going to tear my life apart, well, I'd muck in.
In hindsight, my rebellions were pretty gentle – probably testament to how safe and stable things remained, even if I felt adrift. Nonetheless, I bravely cycled through teen cliches, beginning by escalating my casual smoking to the compulsive level of someone who had been promised a reward for every dog-end. That'll show 'em!
Alcohol, too, felt like sparkly mischief – I did my best to down some whenever the opportunity presented itself, staying out late and generally being as difficult to interact with as possible. But with my cosmopolitan parents barely batting an eyelid between them, I knew I needed to up the stakes – and as soon as it occurred to me, shoplifting seemed the perfect balm for my flailing little soul.
Breaking age restrictions (booze, fags) was one thing, but the actual law? How glamorous! And now I came to think of it, there were plenty of trinkets I coveted. Call them cosmic recompense for the turbulence I'd endured – I did. I don't remember the first thing I stole, but I do remember the thrill of walking successfully around the block with it still on me – no one had stopped me, and now it was mine. Could it really be so easy?
For a while, it was – until my proficiency was roundly undermined. When I arrived home from school one afternoon (pockets probably clinking with tat nicked from the high street), my mum was waiting for me. 'I had a call today, from a police officer,' she said, as my blood ran cold. 'He wants to come round this evening – apparently you walked out of Boots with some lipstick?' Oh God, of course I had: straight after picking up a prescription, thereby handing over my name, address and – evidently – home phone number in the process. D'oh.
A therapist might say this was the moment I had been waiting for – that I'd been acting out, subconsciously desperate to be caught – but in the moment, I was terrified. For all my swagger, I was still a kid, and this was the worst thing I'd ever done. I braced for my mother's commensurate fury. What she actually said would define our relationship for years to come: 'We've still got half an hour before he gets here, so let's get your story straight. Did you put it in your pocket? Could you say you forgot you had it on you?'
With all my stupid, rebellious chickens coming home to roost, feeling more out of control than I ever had, it was the kindest thing anyone could have said to me. Certainly, I didn't deserve it – my mum would have had every right to blow up, but she knew I needed an ally rather than an adversary at that moment. Very soon, I found out how.
After we'd dealt with the police officer – tears, promises never to do it again (honest, officer!), let off with a warning – my mum told me about her own light-fingered era, embarked on at a similar age during her parents' divorce. She laughed bleakly, telling me how she and her friends would egg each other on, stealing bigger and bigger things that they had to wear or carry out of a shop rather than hide up their sleeves. Notice me! Catch me! Parent me! No one did.
Not her, at least. Looking back, I see she took a risk in sharing her story – I could easily have taken it as tacit permission to carry on, especially considering what a brat I was becoming. But somehow, imagining my mum as a reckless teenager clarified my understanding of myself: the older I get, the more I realise how wise (and generous) she was to invite me to do so, soliciting sympathy for errant teenage girls across generations.
I never did shoplift again, but this isn't a story about learning the consequences of my actions or anything so dull. Rather, I wanted to be seen, and got more than I bargained for. Everyone has a moment when they realise their parents are just people who had children, instead of two-dimensional archetypes. While that revelation can be painful, I count myself very lucky that mine about my mother was offered with measured kindness, held up like a mirror when I needed it most.
Emily Watkins is a freelance writer based in London