Walton Merritt

**Molly and Her Little Mice** I run a blog—I’m a psychologist, and I write about myself. A few weeks

Lily walked home from school in high spirits. Today, her class had collected money for flowers and a

**A Home for My Sons** I was always the sort of man who could manage anything. I built a house, raised

The canteen hummed with the chatter of students, the clink of cutlery, and the stubborn whir of the vending

It’s always been just the two of us—me and my son. His father walked out when my boy was barely four.

Lucy set out the porridge bowls, drawing a funny face with jam on her son’s. “Boys! Breakfast!”

So, there I was, sitting across from my little girl at this lovely little café in Manchester, watching

Late-night calls always set my teeth on edge. Decent folk wouldn’t disturb anyone at such an hour unless

The small hospital room was bathed in soft, dim light from a bedside lamp, barely touching the face of

**March 8th** *Dear Diary,* “Are you alright? Maisie, open up.” Polly rapped her knuckles