**Diary Entry**
From the moment she stepped into our house, my brother Alfie and I despised her.
Curly-haired, tall, and thin.
Her cardigan wasn’t bad, but her hands weren’t like Mum’s. Her fingers were shorter, thicker, clasped together. Her legs were thinner than Mum’s, her feet longer.
Alfie, seven, and I, nine, sat glaring daggers at her.
Bloody *Millie*—a name that suited her about as much as “angel” suited a stray cat.
Dad noticed our disdain and hissed, *”Mind your manners! What’s wrong with you two?”*
*”Is she staying long?”* Alfie whined. He could get away with it—being the youngest and a boy.
*”Forever,”* Dad snapped, irritation creeping into his voice. If he lost his temper, we’d regret it. Best not push him.
An hour later, Millie got ready to leave. As she slipped on her shoes, Alfie—clever little devil—stuck his foot out. She nearly went flying into the hallway.
Dad panicked. *”What happened?”*
*”Just tripped over the shoes,”* she said, not even glancing at Alfie.
*”I’ll tidy up!”* he promised eagerly.
And just like that, we knew. He loved her.
No matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t cut her out of our lives.
Once, while Dad was out, Millie caught us being horrible and said calmly, *”Your mum died. It happens. She’s watching from heaven, and I doubt she likes what she sees. You think you’re honouring her memory by being awful? You’re not.”*
We froze.
*”Alfie, Sophie—you’re good kids. Is this how you want to be remembered? Deeds make a person. I refuse to believe you’re just little hedgehogs all prickles and no softness.”*
Slowly, she wore us down.
One day, I helped her unpack groceries. The way she praised me—even patted my back.
No, her hands weren’t Mum’s. But it still felt nice.
Alfie got jealous. He lined up the clean mugs, and Millie made a fuss over him too. Later, she gushed to Dad about what *helpers* we were. He beamed.
For ages, her *otherness* kept us distant. We wanted to let her in, but she wasn’t Mum.
Yet within a year, we couldn’t remember life without her. Then one incident made us love her as much as Dad did.
Alfie, in Year 7, was struggling. A boy—Johnny Prescott—bullied him. Same height, twice the nerve.
Johnny had a proper family, a dad who egged him on: *”You’re a bloke—hit first, ask later.”* So he picked Alfie as his target.
Alfie came home bruised but silent, waiting for it to blow over. It never does. Bullies thrive on fear.
I only got the truth out of him when I saw the marks. *”Don’t tell Dad,”* he begged. *”It’ll make it worse.”*
Little did we know, Millie was listening.
The next day, she “coincidentally” walked us to school, then asked me to point out Johnny.
What followed was glorious.
During Alfie’s English lesson, Millie—perfect hair, immaculate nails—peeked in and sweetly asked Johnny to step out.
The teacher nodded. Johnny, thinking she was some organiser, followed.
Millie grabbed his collar, lifting him clean off the ground.
*”What exactly do you want with my son?”* she hissed.
*”W-what son?!”*
*”Alfie Redford.”*
*”N-nothing!”*
*”Good. Keep it that way. If you so much as *look* at him again, I’ll ruin you. And if you breathe a word, I’ll have your dad locked up for raising a thug. Got it?”*
Johnny squeaked *”Yes, miss!”* and fled.
After class, he mumbled an apology. From then on, he avoided Alfie entirely.
*”Don’t tell Dad,”* Millie said. We did anyway. He was thrilled.
She set me straight, too. At sixteen, I fell for a washed-up, drunk pianist—my first “love.” All hormones, no sense.
Millie cornered him: *”Are you ever sober? How will you provide for her?”*
His answers (not worth repeating) shamed me deeply. Especially when she sighed, *”I thought you were smarter.”*
That ended that.
Years on, Alfie and I have families built on love, respect, and honesty—thanks to her. Dad’s happy and cared for.
Millie had her own tragedy—a lost son, a failed marriage. Maybe we dulled that pain a little.
Now? We dote on her. Never sure how to show it—what slippers to fetch, how to repay her.
But one thing’s certain: real mums don’t stumble—no matter who trips them up.
