**Molly and Her Mice**
I keep this blog—a psychologist writing about herself. Weeks ago, I met a girl in the park, sitting on a bench, feeding pigeons with bits of bread.
She was chatty. By the third time I saw her, I realised who she reminded me of—myself.
Her parents had split. Her mum remarried and moved abroad; her dad lived with another woman (as Molly, the girl, put it). Dad and Elaine had a baby boy, named Harry…
Watching her, I saw myself.
How could I help? How could I stop her from writing posts like this at thirty-five?
“Molly, I work at the *** centre. Would you like to learn to draw?”
“Yes,” she nods eagerly.
I walk her home and offer the weary young girl—her stepmother, though I pretend not to know—a place in our studio.
“It’s completely free. Just need parental permission,” I lie.
“I’m not her mother. Fine—my husband will decide when he’s back.”
The next day, Molly turns up at the studio.
I guide her gently. She’s truly gifted—not just at drawing, but singing too. I pull strings, getting her into every class possible.
Don’t tell me it’s impossible. If you want something badly enough, you’ll find a way.
I try to give her what I never had—connection, the certainty that she matters. That she isn’t just some girl tossed aside.
We’ve grown close. Her dad and stepmum think I’m just another social worker assigned to their child.
Naïve? Or indifferent?
Likely the latter. Molly’s leftover baggage from the man’s past life—what’s he to do? Tolerate her, I suppose.
Her mum’s long gone—sends money, pretty dresses, visits once a year. Never takes her.
Why?
Because Mum’s new husband doesn’t want another man’s child. He’ll have his own.
And Dad? Well, he loves Molly, doesn’t he? Playing the martyr, dragging around this “burden.”
Molly’s a delight—to me, the other kids, the teachers. But what’s she like at home? Maybe unbearable. Maybe bitter. Because she’s excess weight.
Unwanted. In the way.
Like me.
“Alice, why don’t you marry Edward?”
“What? Where’d that come from?” I stare at her.
She shrugs. “Everyone sees he fancies you. But you’re all… Snow Queen-ish.”
I work at *** because my heart leads me there. Or maybe I’m just trying to heal myself.
But I can’t help me. That’s why I started this blog. Why I risked spilling it all—because I need help. I throw myself into saving others, never myself.
In Molly, I saw the little girl who needed saving.
I tried, honestly. Tried fixing things with both my families.
Dad, his wife, my half-sister (not that she’s really my sister at all)—they… Dad found the nerve to tell me not to call, visit, or message.
“Sophie doesn’t want it,” he muttered, avoiding my eyes. I was thirteen, all sharp knees and awkward wrists, convinced I was the ugliest girl alive. How could anyone love *this*?
“Dad… but I’m your daughter. Sophie’s your wife’s child.”
“Her teen years are tough. We even took her to a therapist—she needs love right now. Understand?”
Sure, Dad. Of course.
Mum, my stepdad, and brother—they had their own lives. They’d laugh at jokes, then freeze when I walked in. Pretended to be happy to see me. But I knew.
I was always alone.
But I craved to be seen. To be loved.
Dad said Sophie struggled at school.
So I excelled—maybe then he’d notice. He didn’t.
I thought, *I’ll be a psychologist—then he’ll be proud*.
Nothing. He vanished from my life.
I spent years pleasing everyone, being “easy.” Mum even bragged to friends about how *convenient* I was.
I can’t sustain relationships.
Because…
Because I smothered men with love, suspicion, jealousy. I helped others but couldn’t fix myself.
I *knew* I was unloved. But life goes on—only I couldn’t.
Once, I considered having a child—just for me. But what if I couldn’t love her? (It’d be a girl, I just knew.) Another unwanted leftover.
I snap back to the present.
“Alice, are you going to dinner with Edward?”
“What dinner, Moll?”
“Oops—forget I said anything. Act surprised when he asks.”
Later, Edward *does* invite me. And I’m not scared—Molly knitted me a tiny charm: a mouse holding cheese. (Made in crafts class.)
With her, I’m learning to live properly.
I don’t know how to be carefree. To flirt, banter, spark. But with Edward, it’s simple. He expects nothing.
We sit in a dimly lit café, black-and-white photos lining the walls. A streetlamp sways outside.
“Like it here?” he asks.
“Cosy.” I sip wine—rare for me. “Feels like I’m sixteen, skipping school.”
He smiles.
“Alice,” he pauses. “You don’t have to be strong. Not for me.”
I stay quiet—not because I’m lost for words, but because, for once, I just want to *listen*. No defences, no debates. Just *be*.
Next morning, I arrive early at the studio. Organising brushes, paper.
Molly bounces in, glowing.
“Alice! Last night, Dad and Elaine played Scrabble with me. I won!”
“Clever girl.”
“Then we made pancakes! And—” She hesitates. “Elaine said I’m like a daughter.”
My throat tightens.
“Know why?”
“Because you taught me… if you see good in people, they feel it.”
In that moment, I realise: I’ve changed, too. Through Molly. Through caring. Through feeling *needed*—not as a saviour, just as me.
That night, I open my blog. The post isn’t polished or clinically perfect—just *alive*.
*Sometimes, you find yourself through someone else.*
I don’t know where my story ends.
But today, I dropped an old backpack.
It was heavy. So heavy.
Thank you, Molly. You’ll never know how you changed me.
I click *publish*—unafraid. Not because I’m certain.
But because I’m *real*.
Molly filled all my empty spaces…
Even took her advice—visited my mum.
Here’s how it went:
Molly was painting an Easter card when she suddenly turned to me. “When did you last see your mum?”
I paused. “Ages ago.”
“Why?”
“We just… drifted.”
“So go.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Why? You’re a grown-up. You drive.”
She was right. Just *go*. But…
“Moll, sometimes it’s not about licences or cars. It’s fear.”
“Then take the mouse. It scares fear away.”
So I drove.
Molly’s charm dangled from the mirror—a three-hour trip. Her words echoed: *You’re a grown-up.* True. But inside, I’m still that girl, hoping for praise as Mum glanced at my drawings and said,
“Sweet. But you’ll never be an artist.”
The house was familiar—though the front tree was gone, the gate new. I stood frozen at the door… until it opened. Mum, taking out rubbish, stopped dead.
“Alice?”
“Hi, Mum.”
She frowned—habitual.
“You alone?”
“Yes.”
“Come in.”
The kitchen was unchanged: white curtains, chipped mugs. But Mum had aged. And she seemed… thrown. Not that she’d erased me—just, I’d been alone so long.
The *easy* child. No demands, no needs.
Mum fumbled. What did I want?
“You look well,” she offered.
“Thanks.”
Silence.
“You’re… still single?”
“Mostly. There’s Edward.”
A nod. Eyes darting.
“Why did you come?”
Here it was. I gathered every lesson I’d taught others.
“Because… I’m tired of being angry.”
And hurt.
No arguments—just truth.
“I wanted to see you.”
Mum’s hands shook.
“I… I thought of you. But didn’t know how to start.”
I understood. She’d buried herself in her new family—clothed, fed, what more did I need?
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
We talked for hours. Stumbling through memories.
“So—you *And as I watched the first snowflakes of winter fall outside Edward’s window, the little knitted mouse still tucked safely in my pocket, I realised that the weight I’d carried for so long had finally, quietly, melted away.
