Margaret grew like a weed by the roadside—untended, unloved, unnoticed. No tenderness, no care, not even a simple “I need you.” Her clothes were always hand-me-downs, so threadbare that her bony knees poked through the fabric. Her shoes were forever letting in water, soles flapping loose. To avoid fussing with hair, her mother sheared it short as a boy’s, yet the strands still stuck out wildly, as if screaming of the chaos in her life.
She never attended nursery school. Perhaps she wished to—somewhere with toys, warmth, other children. But her parents had greater worries: where to find the next bottle. Her father and mother drank, fought, vanished in search of more. When they disappeared, Margaret hid—in cellar corners, on stairwells. She learned early: the less seen, the safer. If she couldn’t escape in time, she’d conceal the bruises afterward.
The neighbors pitied her. They muttered about Jane, her mother, who’d once been decent but had fallen in with a brute and lost herself. Most of all, they pitied Margaret. Pity, though, was all they offered. Some tossed her scraps of food or an old jumper, but if anything was halfway decent, Jane sold it for drink. So Margaret wandered—ragged, barefoot, hungry.
She started school late, yet found refuge there. Lessons came easily. She wrote neatly, raised her hand, devoured every book she could reach. She lingered in the library till closing, turning pages as if they were sacred. Teachers marveled: how could such light dwell in this neglected, silent child?
But her classmates never accepted her. They didn’t understand. Didn’t pity. Feared her. The shabby clothes, the wild hair, the quiet—it all marked her as strange. She didn’t play, didn’t laugh, didn’t grasp their jokes. And then there were her parents. Children mocked drunken Jane, calling Margaret “Pauper.” The name stuck. First whispered, then shouted. Soon, no one remembered her real name.
The teachers saw the cruelty but stayed silent. Some feared offending the “proper” parents. Others felt powerless. Some were simply numb. And Margaret hid.
Her sanctuary was the old park behind the school, near the overgrown pond. There, beneath an ancient oak, she spent evenings—even slept—when home grew too dangerous. Stray cats and dogs kept her company. She shared food with them, hugged them, spoke to them. Under the rustling leaves, she could breathe.
Her father died when she was fourteen—frozen in a snowdrift, drunk. Only Jane and Margaret attended the funeral. Her mother wailed and raged, but Margaret stood silent. No tears, no words. Just quiet relief—and shame for feeling it.
Afterward, Jane lost herself entirely. Fits, screams, lost days. She often didn’t recognize Margaret. So the girl took odd jobs—scrubbing stairwells, fetching water, cleaning. Neighbors tossed her pennies. With them, she bought medical books, convinced she could someday heal her mother.
School grew worse. Someone discovered Margaret scrubbing floors, and the torment flared anew. Leading the charge was Regina—the school’s golden girl, daughter of wealthy parents.
“Oi, Pauper! Off to muck about in filth again?” she’d taunt as Margaret hurried away.
Margaret stayed silent, willing herself not to hear. Yet each barb settled inside like a stone.
“Why do they hate me?” she whispered to the stray dog nuzzling her leg. “What have I done? Is this fair?”
Then came William Reed. The new boy. Tall, dark-haired, handsome. A footballer, sharp but quiet. Every girl in school swooned. Margaret did too—but hid it. Her heart lurched whenever he passed; she prayed no one noticed.
Regina claimed him at once. Polished nails, perfumed hair, designer dresses—she waged her campaign. No one dared compete. Margaret never dreamed she could.
One day, late after tending her mother, Margaret dropped her medical book in class. Regina snatched it up.
“What’s this? ‘Psychiarty’? Gone mad like your mum, Pauper?”
Margaret bolted—shouldering past William in the doorway. He turned, confused.
She ran to the oak. Collapsed in the snow. Wept.
Then she saw the dog. Saw it step onto the frozen pond. Saw the ice crack. Saw it plunge in.
She scrambled forward, stripping off her coat. Crawled. Reached for the scruff—and fell through herself. The icy water stole her breath. The dog thrashed nearby. She struggled, losing strength—until strong hands hauled them both free.
William stood on the bank.
“Come on. My mother’s a doctor. You’re freezing. We live close,” he said, draping his coat over her.
Numb, she nodded.
The next day, they walked in together.
“Are you joking?” Regina shrieked. “She’s a Pauper!”
William spoke calmly. “Only hearts can be poor. And yours is the poorest I’ve seen.”
Regina recoiled. The class fell silent. Margaret took her seat—not alone, for the first time. Not with her head bowed.
Now she had someone who saw her—not as “Pauper,” but as herself. And there was Bella, the rescued dog, now living with William.
Sometimes, life grants a chance to those who’ve waited long enough.
