‘Let’s go and see Lady Bird,

there’s a mother and daughter, they hate each other,

do it for me,’ she said, crackling

and urgent, the sound of fireworks

before the beauty follows.

She hated going to the movies,

so I felt I ought to​​ humour her.

‘So you do hate me, I knew it,’ I thought,

but I could only say ‘okay’.

We sat in the middle row, and all through the trailers

she complained: it was so expensive now,

what had that actress done to her face,

people wouldn’t put their phones away,

the seats were so small. She did not like it

when I learned from her, and said

maybe the seats were too small because she was too fat.

It was the rudest thing I could think of

because I was so afraid of looking like her,

double-chinned and​​ wrinkled, hair coarse and grey.

Then the film started, and we were no longer us. 

We were the friends our friends imagined us to be.

Laughing, crying, holding hands,

feeling in tandem.

Collecting ourselves, we sat in the car,

our cheeks red and damp, shining

like freshly rinsed Pink Ladies

watching the springtime sunset,

and I let her say ‘I told you so,’ and I let her

chatter all the way home.

‘It’s like watching myself when I was young —

but God, I’m glad I’m not that sort of mother.’

With one sentence she knocked me down;

the next day we were strangers again.

It frightened me that she could watch herself

on screen, clear as a dewdrop,

and feel nothing.

Now, twice a year, in silent ritual,

I hold my own hand,

and remember the hour or two in which

we​​ believed in love.

—Published 20th​​ December 2025

About Riley-Scarlett Wells​​ 

Riley-Scarlett Wells is a writer based in the UK. She has a Master's degree in Creative Writing from the University of Birmingham. Her work has been featured in Star Mail by Haloscope Magazine, The Field Project Zine and Seaglass Literary Magazine. She is currently working on her first novel.