**A Diary Entry: I Don’t Want a Stepmother!**
I didn’t want to go home today. Dad had casually mentioned this morning that he’d be bringing yet another “lady friend” to meet me. Another evening of plastering on a fake smile, playing the obedient daughter, just so this stranger might stick around. But I’m so tired of this endless charade.
Ever since the divorce, our flat in Manchester has felt like a revolving door. Dad cycles through one “mother figure” after another, and sometimes I regret choosing to live with him. Mum was always as cold as a winter’s day—work came first, no matter what. I grew up under my Nan’s watchful eye while Mum only ever scolded me for the smallest slip-up. Love? Affection? I could only dream of it.
Mum provided for us, earned every penny—but at what cost? I often thought she’d have been better off just being a mum instead of a machine for making money. When their marriage crumbled, they split like they’d dropped a dead weight. Both moved on, but I was left behind, unnoticed, unwanted.
I tried to get Mum’s attention—skipping school, mouthing off to teachers—anything to make her see me. But all I got was shouting and shame. After one particularly nasty row, when the headteacher called her in, she slapped me and threw me out. I packed my bags and left for Dad’s. She didn’t even try to stop me—if anything, she sighed in relief.
Life with Dad, James, was easier. I felt his warmth, his real love. I straightened up, started doing well in school, stopped acting out. My Nan helped around the flat while Dad worked long hours to keep us afloat. Our little home on the outskirts of Manchester held a fragile peace, the kind I’d craved for so long.
But everything changed when Dad decided he wanted a new wife. Suddenly, our house was full of strange women. I met them with icy rudeness, driving them away on purpose. I didn’t need “mums” who looked at me like I was just baggage. But this time, Dad was firm: *”Emily, enough of this nonsense! I’m doing this for you—I want us to be a proper family!”*
Stepping inside, I heard a familiar voice. My heart skipped. I kicked off my trainers and peered into the lounge—there, at the table, sat my favourite teacher, Miss Eleanor Whitmore. I adored her: kind, fair, always ready to listen. But why was she here?
Turns out she’d only come to discuss my grades. I was stunned. For a wild moment, I thought—could she be *the one*? Maybe Dad’s mystery guest? I froze, afraid to chase the hope away. But the conversation ended, and Miss Whitmore left, leaving me in a daze.
Before I could recover, the doorbell rang. On the doorstep stood a stranger—young, with bold makeup and a smug grin. My stomach dropped. I’d let myself believe Miss Whitmore was here for more! In despair, I bolted to my room, slammed the door, and sobbed.
I stayed locked away until late when Nan finally arrived. I poured out all my fear and hurt. *”I don’t want any stepmums! Why can’t Dad see how much this hurts me?”* Nan held me close. She knew how hard it was, how my heart ached from loneliness and betrayal.
She talked to Dad, and they agreed—no more “lady friends” until I was ready. But a plan was already forming in my mind. I swore I’d find a way to bring Dad and Miss Whitmore together. If dreams can come true, why not help this one along?
Deep down, I believed it could happen. After all, even the darkest days have a little light, don’t they?
