Alice grew up like a weed by the roadside—unloved, unnoticed, uncared for. No warmth, no kindness, not even a simple “I need you.” Her clothes were always hand-me-downs, so threadbare you could see her bony knees through the holes. Her shoes were always leaking—either filled with rain or soles hanging off. To avoid fussing with hairstyles, her mum just chopped Alice’s hair “pudding-bowl” short. But it still stuck out in every direction, like a rebellion against the chaos of her life.
She never went to nursery. Maybe she wanted to—somewhere with toys, other kids, warmth. But her parents were too busy chasing their next bottle. Her mum and dad drank, shouted, hit. When they vanished to find more alcohol, Alice hid—in basements, on stairwells. She learned early: the less you’re seen, the safer you are. If she didn’t escape in time, she’d cover the bruises later.
The neighbours pitied her. They’d mutter about Sharon—Alice’s mum, who used to be normal before she got tangled up with a troublemaker and lost herself. But mostly, they pitied Alice. Pity didn’t mean help, though. Some tossed her food, others gave her old jumpers, but if anything was decent, her mum sold it for booze. So Alice wandered—ragged, barefoot, starving.
She started school late. And suddenly, she found a place where she thrived. Learning came easily. Alice wrote neatly, raised her hand, devoured every book she could reach. She’d stay in the library till closing, turning pages like they were treasures. Teachers wondered: how could such a quiet, neglected girl shine so bright?
But her classmates never accepted her. Didn’t understand her. Didn’t pity her. They feared her. The tatty clothes, wild hair, silence—it all made Alice an outsider. She didn’t play, didn’t laugh, didn’t get jokes. And worst of all—her parents. Kids mocked drunken Sharon and called Alice “rubbish.” The name stuck. Whispered at first, then shouted. After a while, no one remembered her real name.
The teachers saw the cruelty but stayed quiet. Some feared upsetting “respectable” parents. Others felt powerless. Some were just used to it. And Alice kept hiding.
Her refuge was the old park behind school, near the overgrown pond. There, under an ancient oak, she spent evenings—sometimes nights, when home was too dangerous. Stray cats and dogs kept her company. She shared her food with them, hugged them, talked to them. Under rustling leaves, she could breathe.
Her dad died when she was fourteen. Frozen in a ditch, drunk. Only Sharon and Alice were at the funeral. Her mum wailed, screamed, thrashed—Alice just stood there. No tears, no words. Just lonely relief and shame for feeling it.
After that, her mum lost herself completely. Fits, screams, blank days. Sometimes she didn’t recognise Alice. So Alice started working—scrubbing halls, hauling water, cleaning. Neighbours tossed her spare change. She spent it on medical books, convinced she could fix her mum one day.
School got worse. Someone found out Alice cleaned for money—and the bullying flared. The worst was Poppy—the school’s golden girl, daughter of wealthy parents.
“Oi, rubbish! Off to scrub more muck?” she’d yell as Alice hurried past after class.
Alice stayed silent. Learned to tune it out. But every word left a bruise inside, heavy as stone.
“Why do they hate me?” she whispered to the stray dog nuzzling her leg. “What did I do? Is this fair?”
Then he showed up. Oliver Reed. The new boy. Tall, handsome, dark-haired. Moved from Manchester with his parents. Athlete, clever, quiet. Every girl in school fell for him at first sight. Alice did too—but she buried it. Every time he walked by, her heart jumped, cheeks burned. She prayed no one noticed.
Poppy claimed him instantly. Designer outfits, makeup, perfume—she went all in. No one dared compete. Alice didn’t even dream of trying.
One day, late after tending to her mum, Alice rushed into class and dropped her medical book. Poppy snatched it up.
“What’s this? ‘Psychiatry’? Gone mental like your mum, rubbish?”
Alice cracked. Clamping a hand over her mouth to stop screaming, she bolted—barging straight into Oliver on her way out. He turned, confused.
She ran to the park, to the oak, collapsed in the snow, and sobbed.
That’s when she saw the dog. It stepped onto the icy pond. The ice cracked. The dog fell in.
Alice didn’t think. She tore off her coat, crawled onto the ice, grabbed the dog’s scruff—then plunged in herself. The water burned, stole her breath. The dog thrashed nearby. Alice fought to swim, but her strength vanished—until hands grabbed her. Strong hands hauled her out. The dog too.
On the bank, Oliver stood, shrugging off his soaked jumper to wrap around her.
“Come on. My mum’s a doctor. You’re freezing. We live close,” he said.
Alice nodded, barely hearing.
Next day, they walked in together.
“Seriously?!” Poppy shrieked. “She’s rubbish!”
Oliver just said, “Only rubbish thing here is your heart.”
Poppy recoiled. The class fell silent. Alice sat down—not alone this time. And for the first time, she didn’t look at the floor.
Now she had someone. Someone who saw her—not as “rubbish,” but as a person. And there was Lucy, too—the dog they’d saved, now living with Oliver.
Sometimes, life gives a chance to those who wait.
