**Diary Entry**
Growing up in the little town of Willowbrook was once pure happiness—a loving mother and father, a cosy home, the sound of children laughing. Then tragedy tore everything apart, dividing my life into “before” and “after.” Mum fell ill and faded away, leaving Dad and me in an aching emptiness. He couldn’t bear the grief—turned to drink, and soon the bottle was his only comfort. Our lives became a nightmare, and I, just a little boy, stood on the edge of despair.
The fridge was always empty, food scarce. I wore torn, filthy clothes, and classmates pointed fingers, whispering behind my back. Shame drove me away—I stopped going to school, terrified of their mocking. Neighbours noticed and threatened Dad with social services. For a while, he pretended—cooked meals, cleaned, played at being normal. But it was only an act. He drank more than ever, and soon, another woman stepped into our lives.
Her name was Eleanor. I, ten-year-old Thomas, eyed her warily. How could Dad bring someone into our home after Mum? But I knew—if he married her, social workers would leave us alone. So Eleanor stayed, and to my surprise, she was kind. She had a son, Oliver, my age, and we became fast friends. Dad rented out his flat, and the four of us lived in Eleanor’s spacious house. Life seemed to mend, and I let myself believe in better days.
But happiness shattered too easily. Two months later, Dad passed. His heart gave way to drink and sorrow. I was alone, my world in ruins. Right after the funeral, they took me to a children’s home—Dad and Eleanor had never married, so I wasn’t legally hers. I sat in that cold room, staring out the window, feeling hope slip away. No one wanted me. My life was over.
Then Eleanor came back. Every day, she visited—brought sweets, talked to me, held me tight. She fought for me, gathered papers for adoption, ran between offices. I didn’t believe it could happen—too many had let me down. But one day, the matron said, “Thomas, pack your things. Your mum’s here.” I ran to the gates, saw Eleanor and Oliver, and tears fell without restraint. I clung to them, terrified they might vanish. Through sobs, I called her *Mum* for the first time and couldn’t stop thanking her.
Coming home felt like a miracle. Warmth, safety, love—things I thought were lost. Eleanor wasn’t a stepmother but my real mum—the word “step” doesn’t fit. She gave me family, a home, hope when I had none.
Years flew by. I finished school, went to university, landed a job. Oliver and I stayed brothers—not by blood, but by choice. We have our own families now, but Eleanor is still our heart. Every weekend, we drive to Willowbrook, where she greets us with her famous pies, warm hugs, and wise advice. She celebrates our victories and comforts us when life is hard. Looking at her, I never stop thanking fate for giving me such a mother.
Eleanor saved me when no one else cared. She gave me a life full of love and meaning. Sometimes I wonder—what if she hadn’t come for me? Could I have survived alone? Her love proves family isn’t about blood, but the heart. I want to tell her: *Mum, thank you for everything.* And may the whole world know how extraordinary she is.
