“I’m not going!” Emily shouted, slamming her bedroom door shut with a bang.
“Oh, listen to her majesty!” Helen spat, straightening her dressing gown. “Lives off me, yet gives orders.”
Emily was fifteen. Her father had died in a crash two years back. Though her parents were divorced, her mum, Grace, couldn’t cope with the grief: first tears, then drink, then an ambulance. After that, silence. Her heart stopped.
Social Services didn’t take Emily away because her aunt, her dad’s sister, Aunt Margaret, a stern, quiet woman with a grey bun, stepped in. She got legal custody. But six months later, she palmed Emily off: “Emily’s impossible, won’t listen, doesn’t want to live here, and my husband’s against it. Helen’s got room.”
That’s how Emily ended up with her stepmother. Helen was her father’s second wife. The one her mum had cried over years ago. Emily used to hate her from afar. Now she was stuck living under her roof.
“Want some dinner?” Helen grouched, banging a spoon on a saucepan.
“No,” the girl replied curtly.
“Suit yourself. But don’t go hunting for crisps. I didn’t buy any.”
Helen’s house was old, but spacious and very cosy. Her dad had managed a renovation before he went: a kitchen with coffee-coloured units, beige wallpaper in the lounge, even a new boiler. But cosy though it was, Emily always felt cold inside it.
“Let’s have it out straight,” Helen said one day, finally losing patience. “Look, I don’t love you. And you don’t love me. It’s mutual. But I gave your dad my word: I wouldn’t kick you out. You study, I’ll cook, house stays clean – live here, but don’t order me about or play the poor little orphan. I’ve had my share of hardship too.”
Emily clenched her fists but stayed silent.
“My mum died when I was seven,” Helen continued. “Dad drank. I worked three jobs from fifteen to make ends meet. And your dad, mind you, ran after me himself. So don’t blame me for him.”
That settled it. After that, their chats grew shorter and their looks sharper. They never fought outright, but the house reeked of tension.
One day, Emily got back from school, saw a note on the table, and froze:
>Gone to my sister’s in Norwich. Back in a week. £20 on table. Buy potatoes, cook for yourself. Don’t forget the cat eats to schedule. H.
No “love you”, “take care”, “miss me”. Just the cat, potatoes, and a schedule. Emily actually felt hurt.
She realised how empty it was. Television off, kettle cold, dust still settling on the sill. For the first time, she felt scared.
“What if she doesn’t come back? What do I do then?” she whispered into the emptiness.
Emily went into Helen’s room, peered into the wardrobe, the drawer… and found photos. A little Helen with pigtails. A younger Helen in a nurse’s uniform. One with her dad. And one with Emily herself, a toddler of about three on Helen’s lap. Helen’s smile in that picture was real.
Emily sat on the edge of the bed and cried for no reason she could name. Pain, resentment, and fear swirled inside her.
—
The days without Helen passed slowly, yet felt strangely… free.
Emily played music loud, ate straight from the pan, lazed with the cat on the sofa. But even in this lazy independence, a peculiar feeling crept in – like something was missing. Or someone.
By day four she felt bored. Day five brought anxiety.
On day six, Helen was back.
Emily was doing homework at the kitchen table when the front door banged.
“That cat’s gone mad,” Helen called from the hall. “Yowling like an opera singer. Did you even feed him?”
“Yes, to schedule,” Emily mumbled, standing up.
But looking at Helen, she froze. The woman looked exhausted. Heavy bags, pale face, and an envelope clutched in her hand.
“Look what I brought back for you,” Helen said, softer than usual, holding out the envelope. “Something about your mother.”
Emily’s heart leapt. “My mum?”
“Your mum had a sister. Married a Dutchman and moved away. She was looking for you… I met her in Norwich. She left you a letter and a photo. Says if you want, you can write.”
Emily’s fingers trembled as she opened it. Inside was a picture – a woman with a faint resemblance to her mum, with a daughter and a husband. On the back, in neat handwriting:
>Dearest Emily, We didn’t know about your trouble. Come see us if you wish – I’m waiting. Remember, you’re not alone.
“Why did you bring me this?” Emily asked, confused, looking at Helen.
“Because you ought to have family. Up to you to choose. You know I’m not your mother. Though I try.”
The admission took Emily by surprise. Something shifted between them.
“You… try?” Emily echoed, sounding sceptical.
Helen gave a dry laugh. “Course I do. Haven’t chucked you out, have I? And believe me, I wanted to sometimes. Especially when you spend an hour in the bath like Queen of Sheba.”
They both laughed. Awkwardly, a bit stiff. But it was their first shared laughter.
A week later, Emily wrote back to her aunt, saying she’d stay with Helen for now. After sending it, she sat a long time, pondering what she truly wanted.
One evening, Emily said: “Helen… You’re… not such a scary stepmother after all.”
Helen raised an eyebrow. “Oh? So I’m Gandalf the Good now?”
“More like… a witch with a heart. Like in fairy tales. Starts nasty but turns out alright.”
“Right. Well, dried frogs for tea tomorrow, then.”
And they laughed again.
Two years passed.
Emily left school with honours. For the graduation, Helen wore a smart green suit, pride shining in her eyes. Life with Emily held plenty of ups and downs: rows and slammed doors were common once, but that was the past. Now, it was mutual respect.
Then, one day in court, when Helen submitted adoption papers, she stated: “I’m not her birth mother, but I ask to change my legal status. I want to officially be her adoptive mother. So she knows she has a home. One she can always come back to. For good.”
Emily wept openly in the courtroom.
“Right then, Emily,” Helen grumbled later, setting plates down. “Undersalted the stew again?”
“Mum, I did my best!”
Both froze, startled by the word. It was the first time.
Emily had said ‘mum’.
Helen looked away. Then she smirked.
“Did her best, did she? Alright, I’ll let it slide
That kitchen echoed with warmth most evenings, filled with the aroma of fresh baking and the comfortable bickering of a family forged not by blood, but by fierce loyalty and shared laughter.
The Stepmother’s Secret
