“Your mum’s here to pick you up, get your things.”
People say every kid in care dreams of hearing those words. But Emily flinched like shed been slapped.
“Come on, love, dont just sit there.”
Mrs. Thompson frowned, baffled by the girls lack of excitement. Life in a childrens home wasnt exactly a picnicsome kids even ran away to the streets. Yet here was Emily, being taken back to her own family, and she looked like shed rather stay.
“I dont want to go,” Emily muttered, turning to the window. Her mate, Lily, shot her a sideways glance but stayed quiet. Even she didnt get itshed give anything to go home, but no one wanted her there.
“Emily, whats the matter?” Mrs. Thompson pressed. “Your mums waiting for you.”
“I dont want to see her. I dont want to go back.”
The other girls were all ears now, and Mrs. Thompson decided this wasnt a conversation for an audience. “Come with me.”
She led Emily into an office and gave her a sympathetic look.
“Your mums made mistakes, love, but shes trying. They wouldnt let her take you otherwise.”
“You think this is the first time?” Emily scoffed. “Ive been in care twice. Last time, she hid the bottles, cleaned the flat, even got a jobjust long enough for social services to check in. Then they gave me back, and she went right back to it. She only wants me for the benefits.”
“Emily, I cant change that. And homes still better, surely”
“Better?!” Emilys voice cracked. “Do you know what its like to go hungry? To wear shoes with holes in winter? To lock yourself in your room praying her drunk mates dont come in? Why wont they just take her rights away?!”
Tears welled up. The home wasnt perfect, but at least she got fed and clothed. At least she was safe.
“I wish I could help,” Mrs. Thompson sighed.
Emily was sharptoo sharp for a care home kid. Maybe her mum had been clever once too, before the drink took over. In seven years of fostering, Mrs. Thompson had never met a child who begged not to go home.
“Cant I live on my own?” Emily asked. “Id work, rent a room”
“Not till youre eighteen.”
“Im nearly sixteen! Im not a kid!”
Mrs. Thompson thought the sameEmily had grown up too fast. But her hands were tied.
“You need a guardian. Is there anyone else? Someone who could petition for custody?”
“Theres no one. Nan made things bearable, but shes gone now.”
“What about your dad?”
“Dead. Drank himself to death.”
She said it flatly, like it was nothing. To her, it was.
“Any relatives on his side?”
Emily hesitated. “Think his mums alive. But she cut him off. Cant blame herI would too.”
“Alright,” Mrs. Thompson leaned in. “Try living with your mum for now. Ill look into your nan. Deal?”
Emily nodded. What choice did she have?
Her mum put on a showsobbing, begging forgiveness, clinging to her. Emily stayed blank. She knew the act would drop the second they got home.
And it did. Day one, her mum held it together. Day two, she came back from the shops with vodka.
Back to hell. Back to hunger, to her mum losing another job. Until one night, a drunk bloke stumbled into her room. Emily fought him off, shaking. Enough.
Luckily, Mrs. Thompson had given her number. Emily called. “Its the streets or the home. I cant stay here.”
“I found your nan,” Mrs. Thompson said. “Ill talk to her. If she agrees, she could take you in.”
Emily begged to go along. Shed never met the woman, but she prayed she wouldnt slam the door. Just two more years, and shed be free.
A striking woman in her sixties answered. “Can I help you?”
“Margaret Whitmore?” Mrs. Thompson asked.
“Yes?”
“Im your granddaughter,” Emily blurted. No point dancing around it.
“Excuse me?”
“Your sons daughter.”
Margarets face stayed blank. “And what do you want?”
“Can we talk?” Mrs. Thompson cut in before Emily could say more.
“Fine. But Ive got work soon.”
Margaret served tea, eyeing Emily like she was some alien. Mrs. Thompson laid out the situation.
“Emily could go back into careor you could take guardianship.”
“Why would I?”
“Shes your family.”
“I dont know her. And frankly, Id rather forget my son ever existed.”
“But shes living in awful conditions”
Emily interrupted. “Look, Ms. Whitmore, I dont know you either, and Im not itching to. I just need paperwork and a roof till Im eighteen. Im finishing Year 11, then Ill work. Ill buy my own food, clotheseverything. The state money for fostering me? Keep it. I just need to get through this legally. If I had other family, I wouldnt be here.”
Mrs. Thompson shot her a warning look, but Margaret seemed impressed.
“They say drinkers kids are slow, but youre sharp. So youd live with me two years, then leave?”
“Promise.”
“Fine. Rules: dont call me Nan, dont touch my things, no friends over. Clear?”
“Crystal.”
Mrs. Thompson pulled strings. Another welfare check, another court petition. Margaret filled the forms, and just like that, Emily had a guardian.
She acted tough, but she was terrified. Two months of school left, no moneywhat if Margaret really let her starve?
But that first night, Margaret called her to dinner. Proper home-cooked foodsomething Emily hadnt had in years.
The next day, Margaret eyed Emilys worn trainers and sighed. “Were getting you decent shoes after school. No arguing.”
“I cant pay”
“My money. Id rather spend than be embarrassed.”
Emily didnt complain.
Margaret bought her piles of clotheseven asked her opinion. A week later, she quizzed Emily about school.
“How are your grades?”
“Alright.”
“Show me your planner.”
“Its all online now,” Emily smirked.
“Good grief. Since when is paper a luxury? Fine, show me the online one.”
Emily wasnt ashamedshed always known no one would hand her opportunities. Shed worked hard.
“Well done,” Margaret said. Emily blinkedno one praised her. “With marks like these, youre staying for sixth form, then uni.”
“Yeah, if youve got parents bankrolling you”
“Youre staying. End of.”
Emily almost cried. Shed wanted to keep studying but never dreamed she could.
Slowly, the walls came down. Margaret asked about her lifeeven, tentatively, about her son.
Emily aced her A-Levels, got into uni. Margaret even hired tutors those last two years. That summer, Emily found a jobready to move out as agreed.
Then, late August, Margaret had a heart attack.
Emily found her collapsed at home, barely breathing. She panicked, called an ambulance, terrified shed lost her.
Thank God, she pulled through. At the hospital, Emily burst in.
“Nan!” She caught herself. “Sorry. Ms. Whitmore, how are you?”
Margaret smiled, stroking her hair. “Call me Nan. Its… nice. Ill be alright, just a long recovery.”
“Ill look after you! Ill stay till youre better!”
“I dont want to be a burden.”
“You put up with me for two yearsa stranger dumped on you. You gave me more than my mum ever did. Let me do this.”
Margaret took a shaky breath. “Fine. One condition.”
“What?”
“No student halls. Youre staying with me.”
“Deal.” Emily hugged her tightsomething shed wanted to do for ages.
