Lorraine slammed her bedroom door with a sharp crack. “I won’t go!” The sound echoed down the narrow hallway.
“Think you own the place?” snapped Laura Victoria, tugging sharply at her dressing gown cord. “Lives under my roof, eats my food, yet she lays down the law!” Resentment hardened her voice.
Emily was fifteen. Her father had died in a crash two years prior. Though her parents were divorced, her mother Isabel had drowned in grief: endless tears, then cheap gin, then paramedics. After that, silence. Her heart stopped. The authorities didn’t place Emily in care; her father’s sister Grace Peterson took her in – a stern woman with a tight silver bun coiled at her nape, who arranged guardianship. But within six months, Emily became a millstone. “Wild, disobedient,” Grace complained. “Won’t settle. My husband objects. Laura’s place has room.”
So Emily landed at her stepmother’s. Laura Victoria was her late father’s second wife – the one Isabel had wept over endlessly years ago. Emily’s former hatred blazed from afar. Now she lived under the same roof.
“Dinner?” Laura demanded, rapping a wooden spoon against a dented saucepan.
“No,” Emily replied curtly.
“Fine. Stay hungry,” Laura retorted. “Don’t expect crisps lying about. I didn’t buy any.”
Laura’s house was worn but spacious. Emily’s father had updated it: coffee-brown kitchen units, cream wallpaper in the lounge, even a new boiler installed. Yet, despite the cosiness, Emily still felt a biting chill within these walls.
“Let’s be truthful,” Laura stated bluntly one evening, dropping pretence. “You know I don’t love you. And you don’t love me. Mutual. But I gave your father my word: I won’t kick you out. You study, I cook, house stays clean – live here. Just don’t play the poor little orphan martyr. I’ve swallowed my share of hardship.”
Emily knuckled her fists silently.
“My mum died when I was seven,” Laura continued sharply. “Dad drank himself useless. By fifteen I worked three jobs. And your dad? Chased after me, he did. So save your blame.”
That settled it. Gradually, words grew sparse, exchanged glances sharper. No open rows, but tension thickened the air.
One afternoon Emily returned from school to find a note:
> Gone to my sister’s in Leicester. Back next week. Money’s on the sideboard. Buy potatoes. Cook your own meals. Remember the cat eats on schedule. L.
No “take care,” no “miss you” – just cat, potatoes, schedule. Emily flushed with hurt.
Suddenly, the emptiness overwhelmed her. The telly silent, kettle cold, dust motes undisturbed on the sill. And for the first time since arriving here, fear seized her. “What if she doesn’t come back?” she whispered into the stillness.
She crept into Laura’s room, rifling through drawers, the wardrobe… finding photographs. A child Laura, pigtails braided tight. Then Laura grown, crisply uniformed as a nurse. And another – Laura holding Emily’s father’s arm… and Laura holding Emily herself, aged three, laughing. Laura’s smile then was utterly truthful.
Emily sank onto the bed edge, inexplicable tears falling fast, a confused swell of pain, resentment, and dread rising within her.
—Days passed slowly without Laura Victoria, yet somehow freely. Music blasted loud. Emily ate straight from pans, lounged on the sofa with the cat. Yet even within this lazy independence grew a peculiar longing – for something missing, or someone. Boredom crept in by day four. Anxiety prickled by day five. Day six brought Laura’s return.
Emily sat doing homework when the front door slammed.
“That cat’s lost his marbles,” Laura yelled, dumping bags. “Yowling like a Covent Garden opera singer. Did you feed him?”
“Yeah. Schedule,” Emily muttered, rising. She paused, startled. Laura looked exhausted, pallid-faced, hauling heavy bags… clutching an envelope.
“Here,” Laura said unexpectedly softly. “Something for you.” She extended the envelope. “About your mother.”
“Mum?” Emily breathed.
“Your mum had a sister. Married an Irishman, moved away. Been searching for you…” Laura caught her breath. “Met her in Leicester. She sent a letter and photograph. Says write her… if you want.”
Emily’s hands trembled. She ripped open the envelope. Inside, a photo of a woman faintly reminiscent of Isabel, holding a child beside a man. On the back, neat, careful handwriting:
> Darling Emily. We didn’t know your pain. Come visit – I’ll be waiting. Remember, you’re not alone.
“Why bring this?” Emily asked, bewildered eyes fixed on Laura.
“Because you deserve family,” Laura replied firmly. “Your choice. Know I’m… not your mother. Though I try.”
The admission shocked both. Something shifted between them.
“You… try?” Emily echoed, hesitant amusement tinging her voice.
Laura snorted. “Course I do. See? Didn’t turf you out. And Lord knows I wanted to! Especially when you hogged the bathroom – Queen of Sheba herself!”
An awkward, stifled laugh escaped both. Their first shared laughter.
A week later Emily penned her reply, deciding to stay with Laura Victoria. Later, she pondered deeply, truly pondering what she wanted.
One evening Emily ventured, “Laura Victoria… You’re not such a wicked stepmother.”
Laura arched an eyebrow. “Oh? So I’m a kindly Gandalf now?”
“No,” Emily murmured. “More… a witch who found her heart. Kinda scary at first, then… kind.”
“Right,” Laura nodded gravely. “You’ll eat dried frog stew tomorrow.”
And laughter filled the hall once more.
—Two years slid by. Emily graduated school with honours. Laura attended the ceremony wearing emerald green silk, pride brimming in her eyes. Life held arguments, clashes – but now respect held strong between them.
Later, Laura petitioned adoption at court: “I’m not her natural mother. But I petition to change my status – become her legal guardian. So she knows: she has a home. Always. Forever.”
Emily wept openly in courtroom silence.
“Well then, Emily,” Laura grumbled later, placing bowls on the kitchen table. “Underseasoned the borscht again?”
“Mum, I tried!” Emily gasped.
Both froze at the word uttered aloud. The first time. Emily had called her Mum. Laura looked away… then managed a small smile.
“She tried, would you believe?” Laura muttered wryly. “Alright. Tonight, forgiven. You cook tomorrow.”
—Five years rolled on. Emily married for love – Daniel, a steady, gentle university friend with oversized hands and endless patience. A year later, their son Oliver arrived: huge eyes, a grin stretching ear to ear. Labour proved arduous. Laura Victoria rushed from her village cottage – an overnight bag bursting with homegrown produce, commander-eye fixed firmly ahead.
“Hand Ollie here,” she ordered sharply, scooping the infant securely, confidently, as if she’d held him always. “You rest. You’re knackered.”
A neighbour in the maternity ward whispered to Emily, “Is that your mum?”
“Yes,” Emily beamed. “Completely real.”
Now three voices filled their home nightly:
“Where’re his socks?”
“Who left an empty bottle in the
Alina softly rested her head against Larissa’s shoulder, breathing in her familiar scent of tea and baking flour. Years would unfurl like worn book pages, filled with ordinary evenings like this one, where silence spoke louder than words ever had. Makar would grow tall, Larissa’s hair would fade to silver-white, and through it all, their unlikely bond would remain the bedrock beneath their feet. Time proved itself a gentle alchemist, turning shared sorrow into unspoken devotion. Larissa had once been an unwelcome anchor; now, she was the harbour itself, sturdy and sure against any storm. The kitchen light glowed gold as they tidied together, moving in the easy rhythm of those who need not rush. Outside, autumn leaves fell like quiet promises, settling on the wet London pavement as dusk deepened into indigo. Alina placed the final cup in the cupboard, turned, and caught her mother’s eye in the dimness — that slight, understanding tilt of a head saying all there was to say. They had learned to weave warmth from scraps of grit and forged family where blood had faltered, and that would be enough until the end of their days.
