**Mum for Annie**
“Oliver, come and eat,” said Nanny Tessa softly.
“No,” he replied, staring out the window, “no.”
“Ollie, come on now.”
“Nooo!” he shrieked, stamping his skinny little legs in brown tights. “No, Mummy’s there!”
“Mummy’s coming later, come along.”
“What’s going on here? Theresa Mildred, what on earth have you let happen? March to the dining room this instant!” A cross woman snatched Oliver by the collar of his shirt and dragged him to the table. She shoved a spoonful of cold, grey spaghetti into his mouth as he wriggled and screamed. The other children clattered their spoons against aluminium bowls in nervous silence.
“Why must you be so rough, Eleanor? They’re just children,” whispered Nanny Tessa, her voice breaking.
“Children?” the woman sneered. “Future criminals, more like. Same as their mothers—thieves, murderers, the lot.”
“Waaah!” Oliver wailed, collapsing on the floor, red-faced and writhing. “Want Mummyyyy!”
“Shut it, you little brat.”
“What’s all this noise?” Another stern woman appeared, and even Oliver froze. “Well?”
“This one’s refusing to eat.”
“Whose is he?”
“Annie Dobbs’.”
“Ah, that mad one. Take him out—his mother’s here.”
Oliver yelped and bolted ahead of the caregiver, flinging himself at his mother’s sharp, bony knees. “Mum, Mum!”
She sank straight to the floor, cradling his thin little body, whispering words only the two of them understood.
“Blimey, I can’t bear it,” sniffed old Nanny Shirley, who’d seen enough in her time to fill ten novels. “Getting soft in my old age. Look how he loves her—and her? Wild as she is, she loves him something fierce. Other mums could learn a thing or two from this scrap of a girl.”
“Don’t talk daft,” Eleanor scoffed. “She just wants an easy time. They’ll take him soon enough, and she’ll bring another. I know her sort.”
“You’re heartless, Eleanor.”
“Got no soft spot for fools, that’s all.”
“Not all of us turn to stone just ’cause we never had kids,” muttered another staff member.
“Tess never had any, and she’s still got a heart. Poor lamb.”
“Hmph. Give it time. That boy’ll be in care before he’s three, mark my words.”
Walking home after her shift, Tessa chewed over Eleanor’s words. Was she right? Harsh as she was, was there truth in it? She’d grown fond of Oliver—and of his sharp-eyed young mum, Annie Dobbs, locked up on serious charges.
Tessa had worked here for years. Retirement wasn’t far off. She’d saved enough, bought a little cottage by the sea. No siblings, no mother left—just her. But she hadn’t hardened. Not quite.
Years of looking after inmates’ children, never getting attached. Until Oliver.
He stood by the window, waiting. His tiny heart knew—she was coming.
“Mum…”
“Ollie!”
They hugged, sobbing. What could anyone do with them?
“Annie,” Tessa called. The girl turned, her wary gaze sharp. “We need to talk.”
Trust didn’t come easy to Annie. These people trusted no one.
“You get some kick out of helping me?” she asked later, head tilted.
“I’m helping myself, really. I’ve grown fond of your boy. Like a grandson. And you… you could’ve been my daughter.” She rushed on, “Not that I’m pushing. Just… I want to help. It’ll be hard for him, otherwise.”
“I’ll think about it,” Annie muttered, walking away.
Two days and nights she thought.
“You plotting something, Dobbs?”
No answer. The women whispered: “She’s gone soft.”
“You meant what you said?” Annie asked finally.
“Every word.”
Annie flinched. “Granny”—just like she’d called her as a child.
“How? You’re nobody to me.”
“Let’s try, love. And if it fails, I’ll follow him. Work at that home. Stay close.”
“Why?”
“Ollie pays me… in love.”
A dry “Fine. Let’s try.” No smile, no thanks.
But Tessa pulled strings. It worked.
“Ta,” Annie whispered, lips tight.
“Mum, I go with Gran now. Train! Then come back for you!”
Annie wiped her tears, forcing a smile. And her days stretched even greyer.
Then, one day, an unexpected visit.
“Dobbs—long visit.”
Her heart lurched. Him?
“It’s your mother.”
“NO!” Annie recoiled. “Tell her I’m sick. Dead! NO!”
“Don’t be daft. They’re waiting.”
Shoved into the room—
“Ollie!”
“Mum!”
Three days together. By the third evening, Annie finally spoke.
“Lived with Gran. Mum had her own life. When Gran died, Mum sold the house—left to me, but I was thirteen. Took me in.”
At first, it was fun. No rules. Skip school? Fine. Smoke? Why not.
Then she found a bloke. Seemed all right at first—trips, presents.
Then… the beatings. Her and me.
At sixteen, met Eddie. Eighteen. A year together. Then…
“Eddie came just in time. That bloke never got far. Mum ran off.”
Eddie gave him what-for. But he came back.
“You took the blame?” Tessa whispered. “You were pregnant, underage—Eddie talked you into it?”
Annie wiped her eyes and said no more.
Tessa visited when she could. Annie thawed, bit by bit. But Tessa knew—once free, Annie would take Oliver and vanish.
Next visit, old coworkers eyed Tessa.
“You’ve bloomed, Theresa! Sea air suits you.”
“And my Ollie,” she laughed.
“You’re daft, Tess.”
“How’s that?”
“That ex-con’ll rob you blind, dump the kid, and vanish.”
“You’re cruel, Eleanor.”
“Not wrong, though.”
Letters flew between them. In writing, Annie was bold—in person, shy.
Then—news. Annie finished school, starting a trade.
“Dear daughter,” Tessa wrote, weeping.
Oliver started school. They waited for Mum’s letter.
Then—a knock.
“Gran… it’s Mum.”
There she stood. Beautiful.
“Mum!”
“Ollie!”
Hugging, crying.
Then Annie looked up.
“Hello… Mum.”
***
“Just started school, and now he’s getting married!” Annie fretted.
“Don’t remind me!”
“Gran, Mum—stop fussing! All’s perfect.”
“Ollie, you look so handsome.”
“And you two are beauties. Good enough to marry off!”
“Annie, why not you? You always said Ollie was too little. Now?”
“Nah, Mum. I’m happy with you. Grandkids next!”
Tessa knew Annie had a man—sometimes she came home with flowers. But she never introduced him. Fair enough.
They’d survived. Tessa’s love had pulled Annie from despair. Now Annie ran a fabric shop, a tidy little business. Comfortable.
Tessa thanked the heavens for her daughter and grandson. Annie thanked her mum.
“Mum… if you hadn’t found us that day… I can’t bear to think what might’ve been.”
“Don’t, love. Don’t.”
