Lizzie woke again to the sound of shouting from the kitchen—her parents at it once more, plus the usual assortment of their drunk mates who’d turned up last night. At nine years old, she couldn’t recall ever seeing anything good in life. She’d heard somewhere that parents were supposed to love their children, but whatever that looked like, she certainly hadn’t seen it.
Slipping on her threadbare, unwashed dress, she tiptoed past the kitchen, hoping not to be noticed. Not that they’d care—empty bottles littered the floor, and everyone at the table was three sheets to the wind.
*”Just get out. Don’t listen to this rubbish,”* she thought, darting into the backyard and hiding behind the old shed—her safe spot. Here, it was quiet. No screaming. Curling into a ball, arms wrapped around her knees, she sat, trying not to think about how hungry she was. But the gnawing ache only made tears spill over, streaking her grubby cheeks.
Lizzie couldn’t remember a time when her parents weren’t drunk. Fights, smashed plates, the occasional scuffle—that was her normal. In summer, at least, she could escape. Winter was worse. Straight after school, she’d hunker down with her homework, only to hide behind her bed the moment the yelling started, praying she wouldn’t be dragged into it. Dad had smacked her more than once when he was in one of his moods.
Days passed, but nothing ever changed. There was never enough food. Lizzie had learned to eat little, staying painfully thin. This summer was the worst yet. She used to see Mum sober sometimes, but not anymore.
No grandparents to speak of—Dad had grown up in care, and Nan had died when Lizzie was born. The neighbours pitied her. Girls at school shared their lunches, never teased her.
Now, sniffling behind the shed, she let herself dream: *”Maybe tomorrow they’ll stop. Maybe tomorrow will be different.”*
Wiping her face, she glanced up and spotted pears ripening on the neighbour’s tree just over the fence. Small, but some had a rosy blush. She stared, stomach growling.
*”What if I pinch one? Would anyone notice?”*
Peering through the trees, she could just make out the old two-storey house where an elderly woman lived—Lydia Whitmore, fifty-eight, ex-police. Strict-looking, but Lizzie had seen her a few times by the gate and wondered how one person needed so much space.
Then—jackpot. Fallen pears lay under the tree. The temptation was too strong. Spotting a loose board in the fence, she wriggled through and snatched one up, biting into it like it was the first proper meal she’d had in weeks. She didn’t even hear the footsteps.
“Alright there?”
Lizzie nearly jumped out of her skin. Lydia stood there, arms crossed, dark hair cropped short, wearing trousers and a deep red jumper.
She’d seen Lizzie before—knew about the shouting, the drinking. From her attic window, she’d watched the girl hide behind that shed more times than she could count.
Lizzie froze, bracing for a slap.
But Lydia just sighed. “What’s your name, love?”
“L-Lizzie,” she whispered.
“Right. Hungry, are we? Fancy some tea and jam? Bit dull drinking it alone.” She smiled. “Call me Aunty Lydia.”
Lizzie couldn’t believe her ears. She followed mutely into the warm, tidy house—nothing like the chaos at home.
“Wash up, then tuck in,” Lydia said, setting out biscuits, sandwiches, strawberry jam. Lizzie devoured it all like she’d never eaten before.
Lydia watched, heart aching. She’d had a good life—decent job, a husband (gone four years now), friends—but never children. Now, faced with this scrawny, neglected girl, something in her snapped.
“Where’s your folks?” she asked gently.
Lizzie shrugged toward the shouting. Lydia didn’t push.
“Come by whenever. Brings a bit of life to the place.”
For five days straight, Lizzie did. Breakfast, lunch, stories—Aunty Lydia even bought her a new dress. For the first time, Lizzie knew what safety felt like.
Then—she vanished.
Lydia waited. Peered out the window. Nothing. Just Lizzie’s dad stumbling about, drunk as usual.
On the third day, she marched over and banged on their door. Lizzie’s mum answered, reeking of booze, Dad scowling behind her.
“Where’s Lizzie?”
“Social services took her,” Mum slurred. Dad sneered, “Who’re you, then?”
Lydia left without another word. A kid in care with parents still breathing—what a world.
She called an old colleague, Donna. “Need a favour.”
Donna tracked Lizzie down to the local children’s home. Lydia drove there the next day, paperwork in hand.
The director, Sarah Carter, blinked in surprise. “Lydia Whitmore? Never thought I’d see you here.”
“I’m taking Lizzie home.”
And just like that, it was done.
When Lizzie saw her in the playroom, she sprinted over, clinging tight. “Mum! You came!”
Lydia held her, both crying. “Yeah, love. We’re sticking together now.”
Sarah wiped her own eyes behind them.
On the bus home, Lizzie couldn’t stop grinning, skipping every other step. Finally—*finally*—tomorrow would be different.
