Maisy doesn’t want to go home. Her dad dropped the bombshell this morning: he’s bringing another “lady friend” over to meet her today. Again, she’ll have to force a smile and play the dutiful daughter, just so this stranger might stick around. But Maisy’s exhausted from this endless charade.
Since her parents’ divorce, their flat in Manchester has felt like a revolving door. Dad parades one “mum” after another, and sometimes Maisy regrets choosing to live with him. Her mother, though, was as cold as an English winter—work always came first. Maisy grew up under her grandparents’ watchful eyes while her mum scolded her for the smallest misstep. Love? Care? Those were just distant dreams.
Her mum kept the family afloat, earning enough, but at what cost? Maisy often wondered: wouldn’t it be better if she were just a mum, not a money-making machine? When their marriage fell apart, her parents split like shedding dead weight. Each started anew, but Maisy was left behind, unwanted by either.
She tried to get her mother’s attention—skipping school, talking back to teachers—anything to make her notice. But the response was always shouting and humiliation. After one final row, when the headteacher called her mum in, she slapped Maisy and threw her out. The girl packed her rucksack and moved in with her dad. Her mum didn’t even try to stop her—if anything, she seemed relieved.
Life with Dad was easier. Maisy felt his warmth, his genuine love. She straightened up, started doing well in school, stopped acting out. Her grandparents helped with chores while her dad worked long hours to keep them comfortable. In their flat on the outskirts of Manchester, a fragile peace settled—the kind Maisy had craved for so long.
But everything changed when Dad decided he wanted a new wife. Since then, their home had been flooded with strange women. Maisy met them with icy rudeness, deliberately scaring them off. She didn’t need “mums” who saw her as a nuisance. But this time, Dad was firm: “Maisy, enough of this! I’m trying for you—I want us to be a proper family!”
Stepping inside, Maisy heard a familiar voice. Her heart leapt. She kicked off her trainers and peeked into the living room. There, at the table, sat her favourite teacher, Miss Eleanor Whitmore. Maisy adored her—kind, fair, always ready to listen. But why was she here?
Turns out, Miss Whitmore had come to discuss Maisy’s grades. The girl was stunned. For a moment, she let herself hope—could her teacher be the one? Maybe she was meant to be part of their family. Maisy froze, afraid to scare the thought away. But the conversation ended, and Miss Whitmore left, leaving Maisy in turmoil.
Before she could gather herself, the doorbell rang. On the step stood a stranger—young, with bold makeup and a smug smile. Maisy’s heart sank. She’d hoped so badly that Miss Whitmore’s visit meant something! Desperate, she bolted to her room, slammed the door, and sobbed.
She stayed there until late, when Gran finally came. Maisy poured out her fears, her hurt. “I don’t want any stepmothers! Why can’t Dad see how awful this is?” she cried. Gran listened, then hugged her tight. She understood—Maisy’s heart was bruised from loneliness and betrayal.
Gran had a word with Dad. They agreed: no more “lady friends” unless Maisy was ready. But in the girl’s mind, a plan was forming. She was determined to bring Dad and Miss Whitmore together. If dreams could come true, why not help this one along? Maisy vowed to do whatever it took to make her favourite teacher part of their family.
Deep down, she believed it would happen. After all, even the darkest day has a little light—doesn’t it?
