**Diary Entry**
It was late—past ten—and I just wanted to get home, have dinner, and collapse into bed. Another exhausting day. My husband was already back, dinner was ready, and my son had been fed.
I work at a small salon, and today was my shift to close up. By the time I’d tidied everything, set the alarm, and locked the doors, it was already dark. The walk home cuts through a little park. Usually, it’s quiet—just elderly folks on the benches during the day, and empty at night. The lamplights keep it safe enough.
But tonight, one bench wasn’t empty. Huddled together were two kids—a boy around nine or ten and a girl no older than five. I slowed down and approached them.
*”What are you doing out here so late? You should be home!”*
The boy studied me warily, then tightened his grip around the girl.
*”We’ve got nowhere to go. Our stepfather kicked us out.”*
*”Where’s your mum?”*
*”With him. Drunk.”*
I didn’t hesitate. *”Come with me. We’ll sort it out tomorrow.”*
They stood reluctantly. I took the girl’s hand and held out mine to the boy.
At home, I explained everything to my husband and twelve-year-old son. They knew me well—no arguments, just quiet acceptance. They showed the kids where to wash up and sat them at the table. The pair ate hesitantly at first but then cleared their plates ravenously.
Later, I went next door to a neighbour whose daughter had just started school and asked if she had any spare clothes. Between donations from her and others, we ended up with plenty—every household keeps hand-me-downs.
I bathed little Emily (that’s what the girl was called) and dressed her in clean clothes, while the boy, Thomas, washed himself and wore some of my son’s old things.
I settled them both on the sofa in the lounge—Emily wouldn’t leave her brother’s side, and he kept pulling her close. Exhausted, they fell asleep almost immediately. After sending my son to bed, my husband and I stayed up whispering about what to do next.
In the morning, I rose early, saw my husband off to work (I was on the afternoon shift), and made breakfast for the kids. I decided to walk them home. Their washed and dried clothes were folded into a bag for them to take.
They led me to a nearby flat—third floor, door unlocked. Inside, their mother stood in the doorway, a young woman but worn down, a dark bruise under her eye. She barely glanced at the children.
*”Oh. You’re back. Who’s this?”*
*”This is Mrs. Wilkins. We stayed with her last night,”* Thomas said.
*”Right.”* She turned away.
I wanted to scream. *This* was their mother?
But then she reappeared. *”Come to the kitchen.”*
Surprisingly, the place was tidy—nothing out of place, dishes washed, floor swept. Even her dressing gown was clean, though threadbare, missing buttons. She sat across from me, her bruised face unreadable.
*”Got kids?”*
*”Yes, a twelve-year-old son.”*
She exhaled. *”Listen. If anything happens to me… don’t leave mine alone. They’re good kids.”*
*”Are you planning to abandon them?”*
*”I can’t stop. I’ve tried. And *he* won’t let me.”* She jerked her chin toward the bedroom, where snores rumbled.
*”Call the police!”*
*”I have. He gets fifteen days inside, comes back worse. And I can’t even quit drinking anymore. He throws them out—he’s not their dad.”*
*”Where is their father?”*
*”Drowned when Emily was one. Been drinking since.”*
*”Do you work?”*
*”Used to clean at the corner shop. Got sacked last week.”*
She stared at me, pleading. *”Just promise me. If it comes to it, look out for them.”*
I left, numb. The children hugged me at the door, and I barely held back tears until I was outside.
Three days later, Thomas came running. Their mother had disappeared; the stepfather was arrested. Emily was with a neighbour, but social services were coming that day.
Her body was found the next morning in the river—beaten to death. Maybe she’d known it was coming.
We fought through paperwork, and since they had no other family, we were granted custody. I had to quit my job—Emily was terrified, flinching if my husband so much as moved too quickly. It took months for her to trust us. Thomas understood sooner—he knew they were safe here.
Little by little, Emily warmed up. She’d talk and play with me and our son, though she still hesitated around my husband. But he was patient—he’d always wanted a daughter.
Then came the day she finally hugged him. He’d been away on business, and when he knelt to greet her, she wrapped her arms around his neck. He lifted her, and we all stood there, smiling, arms around each other.
In this family, things would finally be alright.
