My fathers wife became my second mum
When I was only eight years old, my mother vanished like mist at sunrise. Left with Dad, the world became a patchwork of hunger and faded wallpaper; there were evenings when the cupboards echoed with emptiness, and I would go to school with pockets filled only by crumbs and cold air. I was always asking for bits of bread from classmates, clothes didnt quite fit, lessons passed by me in a foguntil teachers began to notice I was living on the wrong side of a fairytale.
Social workers in sensible shoes floated in and out of our terraced house, their voices hovering like moths in the sitting room. One day, my father was given stern conditions: if he did not become a respectable parent, I would be taken. Something in him shifted. The rum bottles vanished, laughter became more regular than rain, and the visits from officials began to conclude more smoothly.
Later, my father carefully announced he wanted me to meet someone dear to him. We wandered through misty side streets to Aunt Margarets house. At first, I shrank from her, the echoes of my mother too loud and raw, and my heart didnt approve of their Sunday teas together.
But as we sat by her old spaniel curled up on the hearth, Margarets kindness seeped into me. Her son, Thomas, a year older and always with muddy knees, became my companion at athletics club. Dad beamed at our small friendship, and after a month, bags were packed and we moved into Margarets place. Our flat, smelling faintly of paint and memories, was let out, bringing a steady stream of pounds to the familys purse.
Dad never had the chance to marry Margaret. One frosted morning, a drunk driver swept him away forever. The world grew silent, and officially, I was nothing to Margaret, no more than a ghost in her hallway. The system collected me like a lost mitten and swept me into the echoes of an orphanage, where the air carried the stern chill of disinfectant and dreams were rationed alongside breakfast.
Before I left, Margaret promised to bring me back the very moment rules allowed. True to her word, two calendar pages later I was home again. Those weeks in the childrens home were enough to steep me in gratitude and silence. Margaret was spring after frost, a real mother for me again, and Thomas my brother in laughter and loyalty.
Time waltzed by. Now we are grown, with our own children and lives that swirl between school runs and supermarket queues. But Mother Margaretshe remains the heart of our patchwork family. Twice a mother-in-law, never once a name spoken in bitterness; both my husband and Thomass wife call her Mother Margaret, for theres no truer phrase for her kindness and gentle humour. Every time someone says it, you can see a light flicker in Margarets eyesa joy so true that even in dreams, it never fades.
