We took an instant dislike to her the moment she stepped into our house.
Curly-haired, tall, and skinny.
Her cardigan was alright, but her hands were nothing like Mum’s. Her fingers were shorter and thicker, clasped tightly together. Her legs were thinner than Mum’s, but her feet were longer. My little brother, Alfie, who was seven, and I, Holly, who was nine, sat there glaring at her.
She was called Amelia—Milly for short—but we decided she was more like a mile long than a Milly!
Dad noticed our rudeness and snapped, “Behave yourselves! What’s wrong with you?”
“Is she staying long?” Alfie whined, because he could get away with it—he was little, and a boy.
“Forever,” Dad answered, his irritation obvious. If he lost his temper, we’d be in trouble, so we bit our tongues.
An hour later, Milly got ready to leave. She slipped on her shoes, and as she stepped out, Alfie managed to stick his foot out, tripping her. She nearly tumbled down the front steps.
Dad panicked. “What happened?”
“Just tripped over the shoes,” she said, not even glancing at Alfie.
“I’ll tidy them up!” he promised eagerly.
And we knew then. He loved her.
No matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t push her out of our lives.
Once, when Milly was home with us alone, she finally put an end to our nastiness. Calmly, she said, “Your mum died. That’s just how life is sometimes. She’s up there watching you right now, and I don’t think she likes how you’re behaving. She knows you’re acting this way on purpose, thinking you’re protecting her memory.”
We froze.
“Alfie, Holly—you’re good kids! Is this really how you honour your mum? A person is measured by their actions. I refuse to believe you’re always this prickly.”
Slowly, she chipped away at our defiance.
One day, I helped her unpack the groceries. She praised me so warmly, even giving my back a little pat.
Her fingers weren’t Mum’s, but… it still felt nice.
Alfie got jealous and rearranged the clean mugs on the shelf. Milly praised him too. That evening, she raved to Dad about what great helpers we were, and he was over the moon.
Her otherness still unsettled us. We wanted to let her in, but it wasn’t easy.
She wasn’t Mum.
A year later, we couldn’t remember life without her. And after one incident, we fell for her completely, just like Dad had.
…Alfie was having a rough time in Year 7. A boy named Jake Hardcastle—just as tall as Alfie, but twice as bold—picked on him relentlessly. Jake had chosen Alfie as his personal target.
His family was well-off, his dad backing him up, telling him, “You’re a man—hit first, ask questions later.” So Jake made Alfie’s life miserable, shoving him whenever he walked past.
Alfie never said a word to me, hoping it’d blow over. But bullies don’t stop unless someone stops them.
One day, I spotted bruises on his shoulders and dragged the truth out of him. He begged me not to tell Dad—worried things would escalate.
We didn’t know Milly was listening outside the door.
The next morning, she “coincidentally” walked us to school, then discreetly asked me to point Jake out.
Oh, she saw him all right.
During Alfie’s English lesson, Milly—dressed impeccably—politely asked Jake to step outside. The teacher assumed she was just another school official.
Once the door shut, she grabbed him by the collar, lifted him off his feet, and hissed, “What the hell do you want with my son?”
“W-what son?” he stammered.
“Alfie Richards!”
“N-nothing—”
“Good! Because if you so much as look at him wrong again, I’ll ruin you.”
“Miss, please—”
“Tell the teacher I’m your neighbour asking for a spare key. And you *will* apologise to Alfie. Understood?”
He squeaked out an apology later, white as a sheet.
Jake avoided Alfie completely after that.
She made us promise not to tell Dad—but we did. He was in awe of her.
Later, she set me straight too.
At sixteen, I fell hard for an unemployed, perpetually drunk pianist—all hormones, no sense. He spun pretty lies about me being his muse, and I lapped it up.
Mum wasn’t having it. She marched up to him and demanded, “Do you ever sober up? What’s your plan to support us?”
She’d consider allowing our “romance” only if he could prove he wasn’t a deadbeat.
His answer shamed me to my core.
“I thought you were smarter than this,” she said.
That was the end of that.
Years later, Alfie and I have families built on the values Milly instilled: love, respect, and the courage to call out mistakes.
She loves Dad fiercely. He’s happy, cared for, adored.
We only learned later—she’d left her husband after their son died because of his recklessness.
We hope we’ve eased her pain, even a little.
Now, the whole family flocks around her. We dote her, cherish her.
Because real mums—even when life trips them up—never stumble.
