We took an instant dislike to her the moment she stepped through our front door.
She was tall and thin, with curly hair.
Her cardigan was nice enough, but her hands were nothing like Mum’s—shorter fingers, thicker, clasped tightly together. Her legs were slimmer than Mum’s, her feet longer. My brother, Charlie, who was seven, and I, aged nine, glared daggers at her.
“Long Millie,” we sneered—a mile long, not sweet at all.
Dad noticed our disdain and hissed, “Behave yourselves! What’s the matter with you?”
“Is she staying long?” Charlie whined. He could get away with such questions—he was little and a boy.
“Forever,” Dad replied.
His tone was sharp, a warning. If he lost his temper, we’d be in trouble. Best not push him.
An hour later, Millie prepared to leave. She slipped on her shoes, and as she stepped out, Charlie managed to trip her. She nearly tumbled down the front steps.
Dad rushed over. “What happened?”
“Oh, just tripped over the shoes lying about,” she said, avoiding Charlie’s gaze.
“Sorry! I’ll tidy up!” he chirped.
And we understood—he loved her.
No matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t push her out of our lives.
Once, when Millie was home with us without Dad, she calmly addressed our spiteful antics:
“Your mum died. It happens, sadly. She’s watching from heaven now, and I don’t think she likes what she sees. She knows you’re acting out of spite. Is this how you honour her memory?”
We froze.
“Charlie, Sophie—you’re good kids! Is this really how you want to remember your mum? A person’s worth is in their actions. I refuse to believe you’re always this prickly.”
Slowly, with words like these, she wore down our nastiness.
Once, I helped her unpack groceries. The way she praised me! Even gave me a pat on the back.
Her fingers weren’t Mum’s, but… it still felt nice.
Charlie got jealous and neatly arranged the washed mugs on the shelf. Millie praised him too, then gushed to Dad later about what great helpers we were. He beamed.
Her unfamiliarity kept us on edge for ages. We wanted to let her in but couldn’t.
She wasn’t Mum—that was the problem.
A year later, we’d forgotten life without her. And after one incident, we fell head over heels for her, just like Dad had.
…Charlie struggled in Year Seven. A boy named Jack Harrison, just as tall but far bolder, had decided to make his life miserable for no reason other than sport.
Jack’s family was intact—he had his dad’s backing. “You’re a man—hit first, don’t wait for them to crush you,” his father told him. So Jack picked Charlie as his target.
Charlie came home bruised but silent, hoping it would blow over. Bullies don’t stop when their victims stay quiet—they grow bolder.
Jack openly shoved him now, punching his shoulder every time he passed.
It took all my effort to drag the truth from Charlie when I spotted the bruises. He refused to tell Dad, fearing it would escalate. He even begged me not to storm in and scratch Jack’s eyes out—though I wanted to.
Telling Dad risked disaster—he’d clash with Jack’s father, and things could turn ugly.
Friday came.
Millie walked us to school under the guise of shopping, then quietly asked me to point out Jack.
I did. Let him squirm.
What happened next was glorious.
Midway through English, Millie appeared at the classroom door—perfectly polished, smiling sweetly—and asked Jack to step out.
The teacher, suspecting nothing, agreed. Jack, assuming she was a school official, followed.
Millie grabbed his collar, lifted him clean off the ground, and hissed:
“What’s your problem with my son?”
“Wh-what son?” he stammered.
“Charlie Rivers!”
“N-nothing!”
“Good. Because if you so much as look at him wrong again, I’ll ruin you.”
“Miss, let go—I won’t!” Jack squeaked.
“Scram. And if you breathe a word about this, I’ll have your dad answering to the law for raising a thug. Tell your teacher I’m your neighbour asking for a spare key. And apologise to Charlie after school—I’ll be watching.”
Jack scuttled back inside, muttering about a neighbour.
He never troubled Charlie again—avoided him entirely. Apologised that same day, stiff and twitchy, but he did it.
“Don’t tell Dad,” Millie said. But we couldn’t keep it in.
He was impressed.
She steered me right, too, later.
At sixteen, I fell for an unemployed, perpetually drunk pianist—blinded by hormones, deaf to reason. He called me his muse; I melted like wax in his hands.
Millie paid him a visit.
“Are you ever sober?” she asked. “And how do you plan to support my daughter?”
If he had a real plan, she’d consider letting us proceed—provided he could actually care for me. A smoke-filled flat wasn’t enough.
He was five years her junior, twenty-five years older than me. She didn’t mince words.
His answers (which I won’t repeat) shamed me deeply, especially when she sighed, “I thought you were smarter.”
That was the end of that. No prison time—for him or Dad—just Millie’s timely interference.
Years passed. Charlie and I now have families built on love, respect, and the courage to call out wrongdoing—values Millie instilled in us.
No woman could’ve done more for us. Dad’s happy, cared for, loved.
We only learned later—after she’d already won us over—that Millie had suffered her own tragedy. She’d left her husband, unable to forgive him after their son’s death.
We like to think we softened her pain. Her role in raising us? Unmatched.
Now, our whole family revolves around her. We’d do anything to make her happy—because real mothers, no matter what obstacles lie in their path, never stumble.
