It was said that every child in the orphanage longed to hear those words: “Your mothers come for youget your things.” But Emily flinched as if struck when Mrs. Whitmore said them.
“Come on, hurry upwhy are you just sitting there?” Mrs. Whitmore frowned, puzzled by the girls lack of joy. Life in the orphanage was no picnic, after all. Many children ran away simply to live on the streets. Yet here was Emily, being returned to her own home, and she wasnt pleased.
“I dont want to go,” Emily muttered, turning to the window. Her friend Sophie shot her a glance but said nothing. She couldnt understand the reaction either. Sophie would have given anything to go homeif only she had one.
“Emily, whats wrong?” Mrs. Whitmore pressed. “Your mothers waiting for you.”
“I dont want to see her. And I dont want to go back.”
The other girls listened intently, and Mrs. Whitmore decided the conversation wasnt for their ears. “Come with me.”
She led Emily into an office and studied her with sympathy. “Your mothers made mistakes, yes. But shes clearly trying to change. They wouldnt let her take you otherwise.”
“You think this is the first time?” Emily scoffed. “This is my second time in care. The first time she took me back, she pretended to turn her life around. Hid the bottles, cleaned the flat, bought food, got a job. When the social worker came, everything looked perfect. Then they sent me back, and she went right back to her old ways. She only keeps me for the benefits.”
“Emily, I cant do anything about that. And surely home is better?”
“Better?!” Emilys voice cracked. “Do you know what its like to starve? Or go to school in threadbare shoes when its freezing? Or hide in your room praying your mums drunk friends dont come in? Why wont they just take me away for good?”
Tears welled in her eyes. She didnt like the orphanage, but at least she was fed, clothed, and safe. Home was different.
“I cant help you,” Mrs. Whitmore sighed.
She pitied Emily. The girl was sharp, spiritedremarkable for someone in care. Maybe her mother had been someone once, before the drink ruined her. In seven years at the orphanage, Mrs. Whitmore had never met a child who refused to go home.
“Cant I live on my own?” Emily asked. “Id work, rent a room.”
“Not until youre eighteen,” Mrs. Whitmore said.
“Im nearly sixteen! Im grown enough!”
Mrs. Whitmore privately agreed but couldnt bend the rules. “You need a guardian. Is there anyone else? Someone who could petition for custody?”
“Theres no one. My nan made things bearable when she was alive, but now its unbearable.”
“What about your father?”
“Dead. Drank himself to death.”
She said it flatly, as if it were ordinary. In her world, it was.
“Any relatives on his side?”
Emily hesitated. “He had a mother, I think. But they didnt speak. Cant blame her. I wouldnt have either.”
“Listen,” Mrs. Whitmore leaned in, “try living with your mum again. Meanwhile, Ill look into your grandmother. Agreed?”
Emily nodded. What choice did she have?
Her mother put on a showweeping, begging forgiveness, clinging to her. Emily didnt react. She knew the act would drop the moment they got home.
And it did. Day one, her mother held it together. Day two, she came back with vodka.
Everything returned to hell. Her mother drank, lost her job. Emily lived in fear again.
Then, one night, a drunken man stumbled into her room. She fought him off, barely. That was enough.
Luckily, Mrs. Whitmore had given her a number. Emily called. “Its the streets or the orphanage.”
“I found your grandmother,” Mrs. Whitmore said. “Ill speak to her. If she agrees and meets the requirements, she could take you.”
Emily insisted on going. She didnt know her grandmother, but she hoped she wouldnt turn her away. Just two more years, and shed be free.
A stately woman in her sixties opened the door. “What do you want?”
“Margaret Dawson?” Mrs. Whitmore asked.
“Yes?”
“Im your granddaughter,” Emily cut in. No point dancing around it.
“What?”
“Your sons daughter.”
“I see. And what do you want?” Margarets voice was cool.
“May we talk?” Mrs. Whitmore interjected before Emily could say more.
“Fine. But quickly. Ive work to get to.”
Margaret served tea, eyeing Emily strangely but saying nothing. Mrs. Whitmore explained the situation.
“Your granddaughter will likely go back into care. But you could apply for guardianship.”
“Why would I?”
“Shes your family.”
“I dont know her. And frankly, Id rather forget my son ever existed.”
“Emilys living in terrible conditions”
Emily interrupted. “Mrs. Dawson, you dont know me, and I dont know you. Id rather forget my parents too. But the law says I cantnot yet. All I need is paperwork and a place to stay until Im eighteen. Ill buy my own food, clothes, everything. The allowance youd get for me? Keep it. I just need to get through this. If I had anyone else, I wouldnt be here.”
Mrs. Whitmore shot her a warning look. But Margaret seemed struck.
“They say drinkers children are slow. Youre not. So youll stay two years, then leave?”
“I promise.”
“Fine. But rules: dont call me Nan, dont touch my things, dont bring friends here. Understood?”
“Understood.”
Mrs. Whitmore arranged the paperwork. Social workers visited Emilys mother again. This time, they petitioned the court to strip her of parental rights. Margaret, after signing everything, became Emilys guardian.
Emily put on a brave face, but she was terrified. She had two months left of school, no money. What if Margaret really wouldnt feed her?
But that first evening, Margaret called her to the table. The meal was the best Emily had eaten in yearsreal home cooking. Her mother had never bothered.
The next day, Margaret eyed Emilys battered trainers and sighed. “After school, were buying proper shoes and clothes.”
“Ive no money,” Emily mumbled.
“Ill pay. Id rather spend than be shamed.”
Emily nodded. Fine by her.
Margaret bought her piles of clothes, even asking her opinionsomething Emily hadnt expected.
A week later, Margaret summoned her. “Hows school?”
“Fine.”
“Show me your grades.”
“Its all online now,” Emily smirked.
“Good grief. As if papers extinct. Well, show me.”
Emily wasnt ashamed. Shed always worked hard, knowing no one would pay her way.
“Well done,” Margaret said. Emily flushed. “With marks like these, you should stay for Sixth Form, then university.”
“Easy if your parents pay. Not for me.”
“Heres how it is,” Margaret said firmly. “Youll stay for Sixth Form. And for uni. Understood?”
“Understood.”
Emily couldnt believe it. Shed wanted to keep studying but thought it impossible. Now, it wasnt.
Gradually, the wall between them crumbled. Margaret asked about Emilys life, sometimes even about her sonthough fleetingly, as if ashamed to care.
Emily finished school, got into university. Margaret hired tutors, helping her catch up. That summer, Emily found work, saving for independence.
Then, in late August, Margaret had a heart attack.
Emily found her collapsed at home, terrified she was dead.
She survived. When Emily visited, she burst in. “Nan! Are you?” She stopped. “SorryMargaret, how are you?”
Margaret smiled, stroking her hair. “Call me Nan. Its nice. Ill recover slowly, but Ill manage.”
“Ill take care of you! Ill stay till youre better!”
“I wont be a burden.”
“You took me in when I was one. You gave me more than my mother ever did. And Ill look after you, whether you like it or not.”
Margaret inhaled deeply, fighting tears.
“Fine. But one condition.”
“What?”
“No student halls. Youll live with me.”
“Deal,” Emily said, hugging her at last. Shed wanted to for years.
