Molly and Her Mice
I keep a blog—I’m a psychologist, and I write about my life.
A few weeks ago, I met a girl sitting on a bench in Hyde Park, feeding pigeons with bits of bread. Talkative little thing. The third time I saw her, it hit me who she reminded me of—me.
Her parents had split. Her mum remarried and moved abroad; her dad lived with another woman (Molly’s words, not mine). Dad and his new wife, Emily, had a son together—Jacob.
Watching this child was like staring at my own reflection.
How could I help her? How could I stop her from writing posts like this one when she turned thirty-five?
—Molly, I work at a studio. Want to learn to paint?
—Yeah, she nodded eagerly.
I walked her home and offered her exhausted, frazzled mother—well, stepmother, though I pretended not to know—free art classes.
—Just need parental permission, I lied.
—I’m not her mum. Fine, my husband will decide.
Next day, Molly showed up at the studio.
I nudged her gently, guiding her—she had real talent. And she could sing. I pulled strings, got her into every workshop possible.
Don’t tell me it can’t be done.
If you want it enough, anything’s possible.
I tried giving her what I never had—connection, the certainty that she mattered, that she wasn’t just some spare child dumped on the sidelines.
We clung to each other. Her dad and stepmum assumed I was a social worker assigned to her.
Naïve? Or just indifferent?
Probably the latter. Molly was baggage from her father’s past—where else could she go? Mum had checked out entirely, sending money, fancy clothes, visiting once a year but never taking her.
Why? Because Mum’s new husband didn’t want someone else’s kid. He’d have his own.
And Dad? Oh, he loved Molly—in that heroic, long-suffering way.
Molly was a gem—to me, to the other kids, to the teachers. But who knew what she was like at home? Maybe a nightmare. Maybe bitter, prickly—because she was excess weight.
Unwanted. In the way.
Like me.
—Alice, why don’t you marry James?
—What? Where’d that come from? I blinked at her.
—Well… She shrugged. Everyone can see he fancies you. But you’re all… Ice Queen.
I work at the studio because I need to—because I’m fixing myself, or trying to. But I can’t help myself. I started this blog, spilled my guts, because I’m desperate. I’ll save everyone except me.
In Molly, I saw the little girl who’d needed saving.
I’d tried—God, I’d tried—to stitch things up with both my families.
Dad, his wife, my half-sister (not really my sister, just some stranger’s kid)—they were crystal clear. Dad finally mustered the courage to say it: Don’t call. Don’t visit. Don’t write.
—Sarah doesn’t want it, he mumbled, avoiding my eyes.
I was thirteen. Knobbly knees, oversized hands on bony wrists—crab claws, I thought then. Frog mouth, bug eyes. Ugliest kid alive. Of course no one could love that.
—Dad… but I’m your real daughter. Sarah’s just your wife’s kid.
—She’s struggling, love. Teenage years. We even took her to therapy. She needs extra care, you understand?
Yeah, Dad. Sure.
Mum, stepdad, and my brother lived their own lives. They’d laugh at jokes, then fall silent when I walked in. They pretended to be glad to see me—but I knew. I was a stranger. A burden.
Always alone.
But I craved being seen. Loved.
Dad mentioned Sarah’s bad grades. So I aced mine—maybe he’d notice. Maybe he’d see I was better. No trouble.
He didn’t.
I’ll be a psychologist, I decided. Maybe then he’d care.
Nope. Gone.
I spent my life pleasing people, being convenient—like Mum’s perfect child.
—Alice is so easy, she bragged to her friends. Cooks, cleans, babysits Jacob.
I can’t do relationships.
Because—
Because I suffocated men with love, suspicion, jealousy. I fixed everyone but myself.
I knew I’d been unloved. But living with it? Impossible.
I even considered a baby—just for me. But what if I couldn’t love her? I imagined a girl. Another unwanted spare.
I snap back to the present.
—Alice, you’ll go to dinner with James, yeah?
—What dinner, Mol?
—Oops. Spoiled it. He’s gonna ask you. Act surprised.
—Fine.
James did invite me. And I wasn’t scared—Molly had knitted me a tiny charm: a mouse holding cheese. Made it in crafts class.
Sweet.
James and I sat in a dim little restaurant, black-and-white photos on the walls, a streetlamp swaying outside.
—You like it here? he asked.
—Cosy. I sipped wine—rare for me. Feels like I’m sixteen, playing hooky.
He smiled.
—Alice—he paused—you don’t have to be strong. Not for me.
I stayed quiet. Not because I had nothing to say, but because—for once—I just wanted to listen. No defending, no arguing, no proving. Just being.
Next morning, I got to the studio early. Setting out brushes, paper.
Molly bounced in, glowing.
—Alice! Dad and Emily played Scrabble last night. I won!
—Clever girl.
—Then we made pancakes! And— She hesitated—Emily said I’m like a daughter to her.
My throat clenched.
—Know why that happened?
—Because you taught me. If you see the good in people, they feel it.
Right then, I realised—I’d changed too. Through Molly. Through caring. Through learning I could matter just by being there, not just by fixing things.
That night, I opened my blog. Wrote a post—not polished, not clever, not perfect. Just raw.
Sometimes the path to yourself is through someone else.
I don’t know how my story ends.
But today, I dropped an old backpack.
It was heavy. So heavy.
Thanks, Molly. You’ll never know what you’ve done for me.
I hit publish—first time without fear.
Not because I’m sure.
Because I’m real now.
Molly filled all the empty spaces.
She even convinced me to visit Mum.
Here’s how:
Molly was painting an Easter card when she suddenly asked, —When did you last see your mum?
—Ages ago.
—Why?
—We… lost touch.
—So go.
—It’s not that simple.
—Why? You’re a grown-up. You’ve got a licence. A car.
She was right. Just get in a car and drive.
But—
—Mol, sometimes it’s not the car. It’s the fear.
—Then take the mouse. It scares fear away.
I drove, Molly’s charm dangling from the mirror.
Three and a half hours. Her words looped in my head: You’re a grown-up.
True. But inside? Still that girl hoping Mum would praise her drawing, only to hear, —Cute. But you’ll never be an artist.
The house looked the same—except the tree was gone, the gate new. I froze at the door. Then it opened—Mum stepping out with the bins.
—Alice?
—Hi, Mum.
She frowned. —Alone?
—Yeah.
—Come in.
The kitchen was unchanged—white curtains, chipped mugs. But Mum had aged. And she was flustered. Not because she’d erased me—just… I’d lived alone so long, I was a ghost in her life. The easy child who’d flown the nest, needing nothing.
—You look well, she said, filling the silence.
—Thanks.
Pause.
—You live alone?
—Mostly. There’s James.
Mum nodded, eyes darting.
—Why’d you come?
There it was. I gathered every scrap of wisdom I’d ever given others.
—Because… I’m tired of being angry.
And hurt.
I won’t lug this old shawl of resentment anymore. I didn’t come to fight. Just… to see you.
Mum looked down, fingers trembling around her mug.
—I thought about you. Didn’t know how to start.
I understand. You thought—fed, clothed, what more does she need?
I’m sorry.
We talked for hours, stumbling through memories.
—You became a psychologistI drove home that night, the little mouse still missing, but somehow knowing that the love it symbolized would always find its way back to me, one way or another.
