We took an instant dislike to her the moment she stepped through our front door.
Curly-haired, tall, skinny. Her cardigan wasn’t bad, but her hands were nothing like Mum’s—her fingers shorter, thicker, clasped tightly together. Her legs were thinner than Mum’s, her feet longer. My little brother Charlie—he was seven, I was nine—and I sat there shooting daggers at her with our eyes. *Lanky Lily*, more like a lamppost than any kind of “Lily!”
Dad noticed our disdain and hissed, “Behave yourselves! What’s wrong with you?”
“Is she staying with us for long?” Charlie whined. He could get away with it—he was little, and a boy.
“Forever,” Dad snapped. We could tell he was getting annoyed, and if he lost his temper, we’d be in trouble. Best not push him.
An hour later, Lily got ready to leave, slipping on her shoes. As she headed out, Charlie managed to stick his foot out, tripping her. She nearly went flying into the hallway.
Dad panicked. “What happened?!”
She didn’t even glance at Charlie. “Oh, just tripped over someone’s shoes.”
“I’ll tidy them up!” he promised quickly.
And we knew. Dad loved her. No matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t cut her out of our lives.
Once, when Lily was home alone with us (Dad wasn’t there), we were being particularly horrible. She just said, calm as anything:
“Your mum passed away. That’s just how life is sometimes. She’s up there watching, you know. And I don’t think she likes what she sees. She knows you’re acting like this on purpose—like you’re keeping her memory safe by being nasty.”
We froze.
“Charlie, Sophie, you’re good kids. Is this really how you honour your mum? People are remembered for their actions. I refuse to believe you’re really this prickly all the time.”
Slowly, she talked us out of being awful.
One day, I helped her unpack the shopping. The way she praised me! Even gave me a little pat on the back. Yeah, her hands weren’t Mum’s, but… it still felt nice.
Charlie got jealous. He started putting away the clean mugs, and she gave him the same praise. Later, she made sure Dad knew what great helpers we’d been—he was chuffed.
For the longest time, her *otherness* kept us distant. We *wanted* to let her in, but we just… couldn’t. She wasn’t Mum.
A year later, we’d forgotten what life was like without her. Then one thing happened, and we fell for her just as hard as Dad had.
…Charlie had a rough time in Year 8. This lad, Jake Hardcastle, bullied him mercilessly—same height as Charlie, but twice as brazen. He’d picked Charlie as his personal target for no reason.
Jake’s dad had his back: “You’re a lad, son. Hit first, don’t wait for them to start on you.” So Jake did—shoving Charlie whenever he passed him in the corridor.
Charlie never told me, his own sister. Just hoped it’d blow over. But bullies don’t stop unless someone stops *them*.
I only found out when I saw the bruises. He made me swear not to tell Dad—it’d only make things worse. And begged me not to go scratch Jake’s eyes out (though I *really* wanted to).
We had no idea Lily was listening outside the door.
The next day, Friday, she “coincidentally” walked us to school—then quietly asked me to point Jake out. So I did. *Let’s see how tough you are now, you little rat.*
What happened next was brilliant.
In the middle of English class, Lily—all done up, hair neat, nails polished—peeked in and sweetly asked, “Could Jake Hardcastle step out for a moment? There’s something I need to discuss.”
The teacher let him go, none the wiser. Jake just thought she was organising something—maybe flowers for Remembrance Day.
Wrong.
Lily grabbed him by the collar, *lifted him off the ground*, and hissed:
“What exactly is your problem with my son?”
“W-w-what son?!”
“**Charlie Rivers.**”
“N-nothing!”
“That’s what I thought. Because if you *ever* lay a finger on him again—if you so much as *look* at him wrong—I will *end* you.”
Jake squeaked, “Miss, please—I won’t!”
She dropped him. “Tell your teacher I’m your neighbour asking about a spare key. And you *will* apologise to Charlie after school. I’ll be watching.”
He scurried back in, trembling.
Jake avoided Charlie like the plague after that. Even mumbled an apology.
Lily made us promise not to tell Dad. We did anyway—he was *thrilled*.
She set me straight too. At sixteen, I fell for that stupid, hormone-drunk “love” where you ignore every red flag.
Cringe warning: I dated an unemployed, perpetually drunk pianist. He’d whisper about me being his “muse”—ugh—and I melted. First proper boyfriend.
Lily? She marched over, asked him two questions: “Are you ever sober? And how exactly do you plan to support my daughter?”
If he had a solid plan, *maybe* she’d consider it. But a smoke-stained flat wasn’t cutting it.
(I won’t repeat what he said. Never been so ashamed.)
“Thought you were smarter than this,” was all Lily told me.
That was the end of that. No jail time for Dad, no drama—just Lily stepping in.
Years later, Charlie and I have families built on the same things she taught us: love, respect, calling each other out when needed.
No one could’ve done more for us. Dad’s happy, cared for, loved.
We didn’t know until much later—Lily left her husband for Dad. She’d had a son before, lost him because of her ex. Never forgave him.
Maybe we eased her pain a little. Either way, we’ll never downplay what she did for us.
Now? The whole family flocks around her, falling over ourselves to make her happy. We cherish her.
Because real mums don’t trip—not even when someone sticks their foot out.
