**Diary Entry**
I hurried home tonight. It was already past ten, and all I wanted was to reach my house, have dinner, and collapse into bed. What a tiring day. My husband was already home—dinner was ready, our son fed.
I work at a small hairdresser’s, and today was my closing shift. By the time I’d tidied up, set the alarm, and locked the doors, I was running late.
My walk takes me through a quiet park. Usually, it’s peaceful—just elderly folks on the benches during the day, empty by evening with the lamplights glowing. Not a place that ever felt unsafe.
But tonight, one bench wasn’t empty. Huddled together sat two children—a boy, maybe nine or ten, and a little girl no older than five. I slowed down and approached them.
“What are you doing out so late? Let’s get you home!”
The boy studied me carefully before tightening his hold on the girl.
“We’ve nowhere to go. Our stepdad threw us out.”
“Where’s your mum?”
“Inside. Drunk. With him.”
I didn’t hesitate long.
“Come with me. We’ll sort it tomorrow.”
Reluctantly, they stood. I took the girl’s hand, reached for the boy’s, and led them home.
Explaining to my husband and our twelve-year-old son wasn’t difficult—they knew me too well to argue. Instead, they showed the children where to freshen up, then sat them at the table. The kids ate hungrily but quietly, polishing off every bite.
Later, I knocked on our neighbour’s door—she had a daughter in Year One—and asked for spare clothes. People always have extra these days, outfits outgrown but still usable.
I bathed the girl—Lucy, she was called—and dressed her in clean clothes. The boy, Oliver, washed himself and wore some of our son’s old things.
I put them both on the sofa in the living room—Lucy wouldn’t leave her brother’s side, and he kept holding her close. Exhausted and fed, they fell asleep quickly.
My husband and I stayed up late, whispering about what to do next.
The next morning, I got up early, saw my husband off to work (my shift started later), and prepared breakfast for the children. After they ate, I decided to walk them home, taking along their freshly washed clothes in a bag.
They led me to a nearby flat—third floor, door unlocked. The kids stopped on the threshold. I stepped in beside them.
I wanted to look their mother in the eyes, to ask how she’d slept without them.
Out shuffled a woman—young, but worn down, a deep bruise under her eye. She barely glanced at the children.
“Oh. You’re back. And who’s this?”
“Auntie Emma. We stayed with her.”
“Mm. Fine.”
She turned away. I was stunned. *This* was their mother?
But then she returned. “Come to the kitchen.”
Oddly, it was shabby but spotless—no clutter, dishes washed, floor swept. Even her dressing gown was clean, though frayed, missing buttons.
“Sit.”
She looked at me with that battered face and asked, “You have kids?”
“A son. Twelve.”
“Listen. If anything happens to me… don’t let my children go uncared for. They’re good kids.”
“You’re planning to leave them?”
“I can’t stop anymore. Tried. He won’t let me.” She jerked her chin towards the room where snores rumbled.
“Call the police!”
“I have. He gets fifteen days, comes back worse. And I can’t quit the drink. Every day. He throws the kids out. He’s not their father.”
“Their dad?”
“Drowned when Lucy was one. Been drinking since.”
“Work?”
“Cleaned floors at a shop. Got sacked last week for skipping shifts.”
“Him?”
“Odd jobs. Scraping by.”
Her eyes locked onto mine. “Just promise you’ll watch over them. Please. You seem kind. Even if it’s just visiting them in care.”
I left, head spinning.
The children hugged me at the door. Tears spilled before I reached the street—people stared.
That evening, I told my husband everything. He agreed without hesitation: if it came to it, we wouldn’t abandon them. Our son, listening, joined us at the kitchen table. We held each other in silence.
Three days later, Oliver came running. His mum was gone. His stepdad arrested. Lucy was with a neighbour, but social services were taking them that day.
They found their mother the next morning—in the Thames. Signs of violence. Maybe she’d known. Maybe that’s why she’d begged me.
We fought through paperwork for custody. No relatives came forward. So Oliver and Lucy stayed.
I quit my job. Lucy was skittish—trusted only her brother, flinched at my husband’s movements, terrified of punishment. Winning her over took time. Oliver, older, understood they were safe now.
Slowly, Lucy warmed—chatting, playing with me and our son, though my husband still made her nervous. He never pushed, just waited. He’d always wanted a daughter.
Then, one day—breakthrough. He’d been away on business. Lucy and I met him at the door. He crouched, arms open.
And she hugged him.
He lifted her, beaming. Our son joined. Then me. We stood there, wrapped together, laughing.
In this family, we’d be alright.
