We took an instant dislike to her the moment she stepped through our front door.
Curly-haired, tall, and skinny—her jumper was fine, but her hands weren’t like Mum’s. Her fingers were shorter, thicker, clasped together like a locked gate. Her legs were thinner than Mum’s, and her feet were longer.
My little brother Johnny and I—he was seven, I was nine—sat glaring at her like she’d kicked a puppy. Long Mila? More like Mila-the-mile!
Dad clocked our rudeness and hissed, “Behave yourselves! What’s wrong with you?”
“Is she staying long?” Johnny whined. He could get away with it—he was little and a boy.
“Forever,” Dad said, sounding like a kettle about to whistle. And when Dad lost his temper, it never ended well. Best not poke the bear.
An hour later, Mila was leaving. She slipped on her shoes, and as she stepped out, Johnny managed to stick his foot out. She nearly went flying into the hallway.
Dad panicked. “What happened?”
“Oh, just tripped over the shoes,” she said, not even glancing at Johnny.
“I’ll tidy them up!” he chirped, suddenly helpful.
And that’s when we knew. He loved her.
No matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t freeze her out of our lives.
Once, when Mila was home alone with us (Dad blessedly absent), she calmly remarked on our latest atrocious behaviour:
“Your mum died. That’s just… how things go sometimes. She’s watching from up there, you know. And I don’t think she likes what she sees. She knows you’re acting out because you miss her. You think you’re protecting her memory this way.”
We froze.
“Johnny, Emily, you’re good kids! Is this really how you honour your mum? A person’s remembered by their actions. I refuse to believe you’re always this prickly.”
Bit by bit, she sanded down our sharp edges.
Once, I helped her unpack groceries. The way she praised me! Even gave me a pat on the back. Not Mum’s hands—but nice all the same.
Johnny got jealous. He rearranged the washed mugs on the shelf just to get his own praise. That evening, Mila loudly told Dad what brilliant helpers we were. He beamed.
Her otherness kept us wary for ages. We wanted to let her in—but she wasn’t Mum.
A year later, we barely remembered life without her. Then one day, we fell for her just as hard as Dad had.
…Johnny had a rough time in Year 7. Quiet, awkward—he was prime target material for Tommy Hardwick, a kid just as tall but twice as obnoxious. Tommy had decided Johnny was his personal punching bag.
The Hardwicks were picture-perfect, and Tommy’s dad egged him on. “You’re a bloke—hit first, ask later.” So Tommy did.
Johnny came home silent. I only got the truth out of him when I spotted the bruises. Boys don’t snitch—not even to big sisters.
He begged me not to tell Dad—it’d only make things worse. And under no circumstances was I to march up and scratch Tommy’s eyes out (though I wanted to).
Involving Dad meant involving Mr. Hardwick—and that could end in handcuffs.
The next day, Friday, Mila “happened” to walk us to school. Casually, she asked me to point out Tommy.
I did. Let the weasel squirm.
What followed was glorious.
During Johnny’s English lesson, Mila—hair done, nails polished—peeked in and sweetly asked Tommy to step outside. The teacher waved him off, none the wiser.
Tommy strolled out, assuming she was some PTA mum. Maybe handing out poppies for Remembrance Day.
Mila grabbed him by the collar, hoisted him up, and hissed:
“What’s your problem with my son?”
“Wh-wh-what son?” Tommy squeaked.
“Johnny Ridley!”
“N-nothing!”
“That’s what I thought. Because if you so much as look at him wrong, I will ruin you.”
Tommy whimpered. “L-let go!”
“Run along,” she said, dropping him. “And don’t breathe a word—or I’ll have your dad in jail for raising a delinquent. Tell your teacher I’m your neighbour asking about spare keys. And apologise to Johnny. I’ll be watching.”
Tommy scurried back inside, adjusting his blazer. Mumbled something about a neighbour.
…He never so much as glanced at Johnny again. Avoided him entirely. Apologised that same day—short, sharp, terrified.
“Don’t tell Dad,” Mila said.
We told him anyway. He was smitten.
She straightened me out too, eventually.
At sixteen, I fell for the worst kind of love—the kind where hormones drown common sense. A jobless, perpetually drunk pianist, spinning me lines about being his muse. I melted like butter.
Mum paid him a visit. Two questions: “Are you ever sober? And how exactly do you plan to support my daughter?”
If he had a solid life plan, she’d consider allowing our “romance”—provided he could actually provide. A smoke-stained flat didn’t cut it.
(He was five years younger than her, twenty-five older than me. She didn’t mince words.)
I won’t repeat his answers, but I’ve never been so ashamed—especially when she sighed, “I thought you were smarter.”
That was that. Messy, humiliating—but no one went to prison.
Years on, Johnny and I have families built on what Mila taught us: love, respect, and calling out nonsense when we see it.
There’s no woman on earth who’s done more for us. Dad’s happy, cared for, loved.
We only learned later—she’d had her own tragedy. A son, lost because of her ex-husband. She left him, never forgave him.
We like to think we dulled her pain a little. Either way, we’ve never downplayed what she’s done for us.
Now? The whole family orbits around her. We’d lay out slippers with golden linings if we could.
Because real mums—no matter what gets thrown underfoot—never stumble.
