**Mum for Annie**
“Paul, come and eat,” said Nanny Tanya softly.
“No,” he replied, staring out the window. “No.”
“Paulie, come now.”
“NO!” he shrieked, stomping his thin legs in brown tights. “No, no, no! Mum’s there!”
“Mum will come later, love. Come on.”
“What’s all this racket? Tanya Mikhailovna, what nonsense have you let happen here? March him to the dining hall this instant!”
A cross woman grabbed little Paul by the scruff of his shirt and dragged him to the table, shoving cold, grey pasta into his mouth as he writhed and screamed.
“Eat it, you little brat, EAT!” she hissed.
The other children clattered spoons against their tin bowls in silence.
“Why must you be so cruel, Helen?” whispered Nanny Tanya, her voice breaking.
“Cruel?” the woman spat. “These aren’t children—they’re future criminals, just like their mothers. Thieves, killers, trash!”
“WAAAH!” Paul collapsed, red-faced, kicking wildly. “Wan’ Mummy! Mummyyyy!”
“Shut your mouth, you filthy little rat!”
“What’s all this noise?” Another stern woman loomed, and even Paul went quiet. “What’s going on here?”
“Oh, this one’s refusing to eat, causing a fuss.”
“Whose is he?”
“Annie Dobbs’.”
“Ah, *that* madwoman. Take him out. His mum’s here.”
Paul squealed, yanking free and sprinting past the matron, flinging himself at the sharp, familiar knees.
“Mum-mum-mum…”
Mum sank to the floor, kissing his thin little body, cradling him like a broken bird. Whispering words only they could hear.
“Lord, I can’t bear it,” wept old Nanny Shura, who’d seen enough suffering for ten novels. “Look how much he loves her. And her? Truly mad, wild as a storm—but no mother could love him more if they tried.”
“Pfft, she loves *leniency*. They’ll take him soon enough, and she’ll just pop out another. Mark my words.”
“You’re *hard*, Helen.”
“And you’re soft! She’ll play the victim again, get her way—”
“Have you no heart? You’re a woman!”
“She’s got no kids of her own, she doesn’t get it,” muttered a staffer.
“Neither does Tanya, but she’s not turned to stone. Bless you, Tanya.”
“Oh, spare me your *saints*! They don’t care how many brats they drop or who fathers them—”
Tanya walked home after her shift, chewing over Helen’s words. Was she right?
Harsh, but honest? She’d grown too fond of little Paul—and his mother, Annie, those wide, wary eyes. Annie Dobbs, locked up young on a heavy charge.
“Ahh…”
Tanya had saved enough. Her cottage waited by the sea, just as Mum left it. No siblings, no brothers, no Mum now. But not *hard*—just careful. Years of tending inmates’ kids, never once attached… until Paul.
Paul stood by the window, waiting. His little heart fluttered—she was coming.
“Mum—”
“Paulie.”
They sobbed in each other’s arms. What could anyone do?
“Annie,” Tanya called. The girl turned, wary. Smile gone. “We need to talk.”
Annie trusted no one here.
“Why’re *you* helping?” she asked, after a silence.
“I’m not—I’m *selfish*. Paul’s like a grandson to me. And you… could’ve been my daughter. But I’m not pushing, just… I know what waits for him. He’s too small to remember.”
“Maybe,” Annie muttered, walking off.
Two days she thought. Nights too.
“Lost your spine, Dobbs? They’ll take your boy soon,” a cellmate sneered.
Annie just stared, silent.
“Was… that true?” she asked Tanya later. “What you said?”
“Yes, love.”
Annie flinched. *Grandma*—the name she’d buried.
“How? You’re no one to me.”
“People will help. If it fails, I’ll follow him. Work at that orphanage. However long.”
“Why? I can’t pay.”
“Paul already paid me, Annie. In love.”
“…Fine. Try.”
No smile. No thanks.
But Tanya pulled strings—and it *worked*.
“Ta,” Annie mumbled, dry-lipped.
“Mummy, I go wif Gran! Then come back, choo-choo!”
Annie wiped tears, forcing a grin.
Days turned greyer. Was *this* the life she wanted?
Then—a visitor.
“Dobbs, long-term call.”
Not *him*. Not after three years—
“Your mum. *Go*.”
“NO! Tell her I’m—tell her I’m *dead*!”
“*MOVE*, you little witch!”
She stumbled in—
“MUMMY!”
“Oh, Paulie—”
It wasn’t Annie’s mother. It was *Tanya*.
Three days together. On the last night, Annie whispered:
“Gran raised me. Mum was busy… with men. When Gran died, she took me in. Let me skip school. Eat junk. Then *he* came—her new bloke. Played nice… till he didn’t.”
Sixteen, she met Ivor. *He* beat the man bloody when he tried to—
“Oh, mercy.”
“You get it now? I took the fall for Ivor. He was eighteen, me barely seventeen when Paul came. Mum signed the statement, screaming she *hated* me.”
They never spoke of it again.
Tanya visited with Paul when she could. Annie thawed—but Tanya knew: once free, she’d vanish with him.
One visit, ex-colleagues gossiped:
“You’ve bloomed, Tanya! Sea air suits you.”
“She’s daft, is what,” sneered Helen. “That con’ll gut her and dump the boy anyway.”
“Cold as ice, you.”
“Not stupid, though.”
Letters began—Annie shy in person, bold on paper. Paul started school. They waited for her release date.
Then—
“Gran… Mummy’s late?”
Tanya hugged him, weeping.
And then—
“Gran! *Look!*”
There she stood. Smiling.
“Hello… Mum.”
Years later—
“Just started school, and now *married*!”
“Mum, stop fussing!” Paul laughed.
“Grandma, you’re worse than *her*!”
“Annie, love—found a nice chap yet?”
“Maybe,” she grinned, hiding flowers from *someone*.
Tanya never pried. They’d survived. Annie owned a fabric shop now, never wanting.
“Mum… if you hadn’t found us…”
“Hush, love. Don’t think of *what if*.”
