**Molly and Her Little Mice**
I run a blog—I’m a psychologist, and I write about myself.
A few weeks ago, I met a girl sitting on a bench in the park, feeding pigeons with crusts of bread. She was so chatty. The third time I saw her, it struck me—she reminded me of me.
Her parents split up; her mum remarried and moved abroad. Her dad lives with another woman (that’s how Molly put it). They had a baby boy called Oliver.
Looking at her, I saw myself.
How could I help her? How could I stop her from writing posts like this at thirty-five?
*”Molly, I work at the youth centre. Want to learn how to paint?”*
*”Yeah,”* she nods eagerly.
I walk her home and propose to her weary stepmother—who I pretend not to recognise as such—that Molly should come to our studio.
*”It’s completely free. Just need parental permission,”* I lie.
*”I’m not her mother,”* she huffs. *”When her dad gets home, we’ll decide.”*
The next day, Molly turns up at the studio.
I guide her carefully, gently. She’s brilliant—not just at painting, but singing too. I talk to the others, and soon, Molly’s involved in every class.
*Don’t tell me it’s impossible. If you want it enough, anything is.*
I try to give her what I never had—someone to listen, to make her feel like she matters in this world. Not just some discarded leftover.
We gravitate towards each other. Her dad and stepmother think I’m some assigned social worker.
Naïve? Or just indifferent? Probably the latter. To them, Molly’s a relic from his past life. What are they supposed to do with her?
Her mum’s absent—sends money, clothes, visits once a year. Doesn’t take her with her. Why? Because her new husband doesn’t want someone else’s child. He’ll have his own.
Her dad? Oh, he *loves* her. What a hero, dragging that cross—Molly—around.
To us at the centre, she’s a delight. But at home? Maybe she’s unbearable. Maybe she’s bitter, spiky—because she’s the unwanted burden.
Just like I was.
*”Alice, why don’t you marry James?”*
*”What? What are you on about?”* I blink at her.
She shrugs. *”Everyone can see he fancies you. You’re just… well. A bit icy.”*
I work at the centre because I *need* to—because I’m fixing myself. Or at least trying.
But I can’t help *myself*. I started this blog, spilled my guts, because I need saving—I throw myself at rescuing everyone but me.
In Molly, I saw the girl I used to be.
God knows, I tried to patch things up with *both* my families. My dad, his wife, and my half-sister (well, not really—not at all, actually)—until he finally mustered the courage to say: *”Don’t call, don’t visit, don’t write.”*
*”It’s Sophie,”* he mumbled, avoiding my eyes. *”She’s going through a difficult phase. We’re seeing a psychologist. She needs love, okay?”*
Sure, Dad.
My mum, stepdad, and brother? They laughed together—then fell silent when I walked in. They pretended to be glad to see me, but I *knew*. I was the intruder.
Always alone.
But I *ached* to be noticed, to be loved.
Dad mentioned Sophie’s grades were slipping. So I studied harder—top marks, no trouble. He never cared.
*I’ll become a psychologist*, I vowed. Maybe then he’d be proud.
He wasn’t. He vanished.
I spent my life bending backwards to please, to be *convenient*. Mum used to brag: *”Alice is such an easy child.”* Cook? Clean? Babysit Oliver? No problem.
But I couldn’t keep a relationship. Why?
Because I smothered men—with love, jealousy, paranoia. Help others? Easy. But myself? Impossible.
I even considered having a baby—just for me. But…
What if I couldn’t love her? (I always pictured a girl—another unwanted leftover.)
I snap back to the present.
*”Alice, are you going out with James tonight?”*
*”Out where, Moll?”*
*”Oops.”* She grins. *”He’s planning to ask you. Pretend to be surprised!”*
Later, James invites me to dinner—and for once, I’m not afraid.
Molly made me a tiny talisman—a knitted mouse clutching cheese. She gave it to me, beaming.
With her, I’m learning how to live—*properly*.
I don’t know how to be light, how to flirt, how to sparkle. But with James? It’s effortless. He expects nothing.
We sit in a dim little restaurant, black-and-white photos lining the walls. A streetlamp sways outside.
*”You like it here?”* he asks.
*”Cosy.”* I sip my wine. *”Feels like I’m sixteen—skiving off school.”*
He smiles.
*”Alice.”* He hesitates. *”You don’t always have to be strong. Not for me.”*
I say nothing—not because I’m speechless, but because, for once, I just want to *listen*. No explaining, no defending. Just *being*.
The next day, I arrive early at the studio, prepping paints and paper.
Molly bounces in.
*”Alice! Mum and Laura played word games with me last night! I won!”*
*”Clever girl.”*
*”Then we made pancakes! And—”* She hesitates. *”Laura said… I’m like a daughter to her.”*
My throat tightens.
*”You know why?”*
*”Because you taught me—if you see the good in people, they feel it too.”*
And right then, I realise: *I’ve changed too.* Through Molly. Through caring. Through finally feeling *needed*—not as a saviour, just as me.
That night, I write a post—messy, raw, *alive*.
*Sometimes, you find your way back to yourself through someone else.*
I don’t know where my story’s heading.
But today, I let go of an old burden.
It was heavy. So heavy.
*Thank you, Molly. You’ll never know how much you changed me.*
I hit *publish*—and for the first time, I’m not scared.
Not because I’m certain.
But because I’m *real.*
Molly filled the hollow spaces inside me.
She even convinced me to visit my mum.
Here’s how it went:
She was painting an Easter card when she suddenly looked up.
*”How long since you saw your mum?”*
*”Ages.”*
*”Why?”*
*”We… lost each other.”*
*”Go see her.”*
*”It’s not that simple.”*
*”Why? You’re a grown-up. You drive.”*
And it hit me—it *was* that simple. Just get in the car and go.
But…
*”Moll, sometimes it’s not about the car. It’s fear.”*
*”Take the mouse then. He chases fear away.”*
So I drove.
Her little talisman dangled from the mirror.
Three and a half hours later, I stood outside—just like that girl, clutching a drawing, praying for approval.
The yard was the same, except the old tree was gone. I froze at the door—until it swung open.
Mum gawped. *”Alice?”*
*”Hi, Mum.”*
She frowned—same old habit—and glanced past me.
*”You alone?”*
*”Yeah.”*
*”Come in.”*
The kitchen hadn’t changed—same chipped mugs, same white curtains. But *she* had.
She was flustered. Not because she’d erased me—just… forgotten how to have me in her life.
The easy child—the one who never asked for love, help, or even *presence.*
*”You look well,”* she offered awkwardly.
*”Ta.”*
Silence.
*”You seeing anyone?”*
*”Sort of. His name’s James.”*
She nodded, eyes darting away.
*”So… why’d you come?”*
Finally, the question. I gathered every ounce of strength.
*”Because… I’m tired of being angry.”*
I wasn’t here to fight. Just to *be* with her.
Mum’s handsShe squeezed the little knitted mouse in her pocket, took a deep breath, and realized—for the first time in years—she was finally free.
