**Diary Entry – 12th June**
Another morning, and little Emma woke to the sound of shouting from the kitchen—Mum and Dad at it again, their mates from last night joining in. At nine years old, she’d never known anything different. Other kids had parents who loved them. Emma couldn’t imagine what that felt like.
Pulling on her faded, unwashed dress, she crept past the kitchen, careful not to be seen. Not that anyone noticed. Empty bottles littered the floor; the lot of them were drunk.
*Just get out. I can’t stand the noise.*
She slipped into the back garden, hiding behind the old shed—her spot. Quiet. No screaming here. Curled into a ball, knees hugged tight, she wiped tears with dirty sleeves. Hungry again. Always hungry.
As long as she could remember, her parents had been like this: shouting, smashing things, fists flying. Summer was easier—she could escape. But in winter? Come home from school, do her sums, then duck behind the bed when the row started. Wait it out. Sometimes Dad took a swing at her too.
Nothing ever changed. Food was scarce. Emma barely ate, thin as a reed. This summer was worse. Mum used to go sober sometimes, talk to her. Not anymore.
No grandparents. Dad grew up in care; Nan died when Emma was born. Neighbours pitied her. Girls at school shared their sandwiches, never bullied.
Today, like always, she sat behind the shed, sniffling.
*Maybe tomorrow they’ll stop. Maybe tomorrow will be different.*
Wiping her face, she looked up—ripe pears hung over the neighbour’s fence. Small, some blushed pink. Her stomach growled.
*If I sneak in… but what if they catch me? Call me a thief?*
Through the trees, she saw the house—two stories, a bit run-down. An older woman lived there. Emma had spotted her a few times.
*Why’s she alone in such a big house?*
Big to her, anyway. The place had an attic. The woman—Margaret Hayes—was fifty-eight, stern-looking. A copper, retired.
Then she saw them: pears on the ground. Temptation won. A rotten plank in the fence gave way. She wriggled through.
Grabbing a pear, she bit in. Sweet. Heaven. She didn’t notice Margaret until she spoke.
“Hello, love.”
Emma froze. *Caught. Now I’ll get it.*
But Margaret’s eyes were kind. “What’s your name?”
“Emma,” she whispered.
“Hungry, Emma? Fancy tea and jam at mine? Keeps me company.” A smile. “Call me Auntie Maggie.”
Emma couldn’t believe it.
Inside, the house was warm—proper, unlike hers. Margaret pointed to the sink. “Wash up, then tuck in.”
The table held biscuits, jam sandwiches, a pot of tea. Emma wolfed it down. Margaret watched, sad.
She’d had a good life—decent job, a husband lost four years back, friends. But no kids. Now, seeing Emma, her chest ached.
“Your parents…?” Margaret trailed off as Emma’s face fell.
“Come anytime, love. Stay for pancakes.” She showed her photo albums, kept her all afternoon.
For five days, Emma came. Breakfast, lunch, laughter. A bond grew—two lonely souls. Margaret bought her a new dress, told stories. For the first time, Emma felt safe.
At night, she dreamed: *What if Auntie Maggie were my mum?*
Margaret barely slept, worrying. Then—Emma didn’t come. Not the next day either. Only her drunk dad stumbling about.
On the third day, Margaret marched over. The yard was a mess. Emma’s mum answered, reeking of booze.
“Where’s Emma?”
“Social services took her,” her dad slurred. “Who’re you?”
Margaret left, heart heavy. *A care home. With parents like that, she’ll never go back.*
She rang an old colleague, Jenny. “Need a favour.”
Jenny traced Emma to the local home. Margaret appealed to the manager—Sarah Bennett, an acquaintance.
“I want her. I know I’m older, single—but I’ve got love to give.”
Paperwork sorted, the day came. Margaret walked into the playroom. Emma, gazing out the window, spun around—then barrelled into her.
“Mum! You came!”
They held each other, crying.
“Yes, love. We’re together now.”
Sarah dabbed her eyes as Emma skipped to the bus, grinning. For the first time, she had a home. A real one.
**Lesson learned:** Kindness can rewrite a life. Sometimes family isn’t blood—it’s who stays.
