“I’m not going!” shouts Olivia, slamming her bedroom door hard.
“Get a load of Her Majesty,” mutters Lauren Victoria under her breath, adjusting her dressing gown. “Lives under my roof and still sets conditions.”
Olivia is fifteen. Her father died in a car crash two years ago. Though her parents were divorced, her mum, Imogen, couldn’t bear the grief: first tears, then the bottle, then sirens. After that, silence. Her heart stopped.
They didn’t take the girl into care because her aunt, her father’s sister Georgina Peters – a stern, quiet woman with a silver bun – took her in. She even became Olivia’s guardian. But after six months, Georgina got rid of her. “Olivia’s impossible, won’t listen, doesn’t want to live here, and my husband objects. Lauren has space.” So Olivia ended up at her stepmother’s house.
Lauren Victoria was her father’s second wife. The very one her mum used to cry over. Olivia used to hate her from afar. Now, she lives under the same roof.
“Going to eat?” Lauren asks roughly, tapping a spoon on a saucepan.
“No,” the girl answers curtly.
“Suit yourself. Just don’t go hunting for crisps. I didn’t buy any.”
Lauren’s house is old but spacious and cosy. Her father managed to renovate: a coffee-coloured kitchen, beige wallpaper in the sitting room, even a new boiler. Yet, despite the cosiness, Olivia always felt cold inside.
“Let’s be brutally honest,” her stepmother said one day, losing patience. “You know I don’t love you. You don’t love me. It’s mutual. But I promised your father: I won’t turn you out. You’ll study, I’ll cook, the house stays clean – live here, but don’t boss everyone around or play the poor little orphan. I’ve had my share of hardship too.”
Olivia clenched her fists but stayed quiet.
“My mum died when I was seven,” continued Lauren. “Dad drank. I’ve grafted three jobs since I was fifteen. And your dad, by the way, chased after me himself. So don’t hold that against him.”
They left it at that.
Slowly, their talks grew shorter, their looks sharper. They never argued openly, but tension filled the air.
One day, Olivia returned from school and gaped at a note on the table:
> ‘Gone to Winchester to see my sister. Back in a week. Money’s here. Buy potatoes, cook for yourself. Don’t forget the cat’s schedule. L.’
No ‘love’, ‘take care’, or ‘miss you’. Just cat, potatoes, and schedule. Olivia felt unexpectedly hurt.
She suddenly grasped the emptiness. The telly was off, the kettle cold, dust hadn’t even settled on the windowsill. For the first time, fear crept in. “What if she doesn’t come back?” she whispered into the stillness.
Olivia went into Lauren’s room, looked in the wardrobe, the drawers… and found photos. A young Lauren with pigtails. Then her, older, in a nurse’s uniform. Here with Olivia’s father. And one with Olivia herself, a tiny three-year-old in Lauren’s arms. Lauren’s smile back then was genuine.
Olivia sat on the edge of the bed and wept, overcome by a jumble of pain, resentment, and fear.
The days without Lauren Victoria passed slowly, yet somehow freely. Olivia played music loud, ate straight from the pan, lounged on the sofa with the cat. But this lazy independence brought a strange feeling – like something was missing. Or someone.
By the fourth day, she felt bored. The fifth brought anxiety.
On the sixth, Lauren returned. Olivia was doing homework at the kitchen table when the front door banged. “That cat’s lost its mind,” Lauren called from the hallway. “Yowling like an opera singer. Did you even feed it?”
“Yes, on schedule,” Olivia mumbled, standing up. But seeing her stepmother, she froze. Lauren looked exhausted. Heavy bags, pale face, and in her hand… an envelope.
“Look what I’ve got for you,” Lauren said unexpectedly softly, holding it out. “Something about your mother.”
Olivia’s heart jumped. “Mum?”
“Your mum had a sister. She married a Latvian and moved away. She looked for you, but… I met her in Winchester. She left you a letter and a photo. Says you can write if you want.”
Olivia’s hands trembled. She opened the envelope. Inside was a photo – a woman faintly resembling her mum, with a daughter and husband. On the back, neat handwriting read:
> ‘Dearest Olivia. We didn’t know about your trouble. If you want to come, I’m waiting. Remember, you’re not alone.’
“Why did you bring me this?” Olivia asked, looking bewildered at Lauren.
“Because you deserve family. The choice is yours. You know I’m not your mother. Though I try.” The admission was unexpected. Something shifted between them.
“You… try?” Olivia repeated, slightly mocking.
Lauren scoffed. “Well, yeah. See – didn’t kick you out, though Lord knows I wanted to. Especially when you hog the bathroom like the Queen of Sheba.”
They both laughed. Awkwardly, stiffly. But it was their first shared laugh.
A week passed. Olivia wrote back to her aunt, saying she’d stay with Lauren for now. Then she sat long, pondering what she truly wanted.
One evening, Olivia said, “Lauren Victoria… You’re not such a terrible stepmother after all.”
The older woman raised an eyebrow. “Oh? So I’m Gandalf the Good now?”
“No. More like… a witch with a heart. Like in cartoons. Starts off mean, turns nice.”
“Right. Tomorrow’s dinner is dried frog spawn.”
And they laughed again.
Two years flew by. Olivia graduated with honours. For graduation, her stepmother wore an emerald suit, eyes brimming with pride. They’d argued plenty, but that was past. Mutual respect remained.
Then, in a courtroom, where Lauren Victoria petitioned for formal adoption, she stated: “I’m not her birth mother, but I ask you to change my status. I want to be her mother legally. So she knows she has a home. A place she can always come back to. For good.”
Olivia cried openly in court.
“What’s wrong now, Olivia? Stew not salty enough?” Lauren grumbled, setting plates down.
“Mum, I tried!”
Both froze, startled and scared by the word. It was the first time. Olivia had said ‘Mum’. Lauren looked away. Then she smirked. “Tried, did she? Alright, forgiven today. You’re cooking again tomorrow.”
Five more years passed. Olivia married. Not for money, for love. To Daniel, a classmate since uni. He was funny, dependable, big hands and endless patience. A year later, their son, Oliver, arrived. Big eyes, wide smile. The birth was difficult, and Lauren Victoria rushed from her village to help her Olivia, armed with a tote bag full of homegrown veg and pure military command.
“Pass me Oliver, you get some rest. Tired out, aren’t you?” she declared, taking her grandson confidently, as if she’d held him forever.
A neighbour in the maternity ward asked Olivia, “Is that your mum?”
“Yes,” she smiled. “Absolutely the real
I won’t go! Alina yelled, slamming her bedroom door hard. As if she owns the place! Larissa muttered, adjusting her dressing gown. Living under my roof and giving orders. Alina was fifteen. Her father died in a crash two years back. Though her parents were divorced, her mum Ingrid couldn’t cope – first tears, then the bottle, then paramedics. Then silence when her heart stopped. Alina avoided foster care when her aunt, her dad’s stern sister Gillian, took her in. But within six months, Gillian passed her on like unwanted luggage: “She’s uncontrollable, won’t listen, doesn’t want to live here.” So Alina ended up with stepmum Larissa Victorovna, her dad’s second wife. The woman who once made her mum cry. Alina used to hate her from afar. Now they shared a roof.
Having supper? Larissa grumbled, banging a spoon on the saucepan. No, the girl replied flatly. Fine. Don’t eat my crisps either – I didn’t buy any. Larissa’s old house felt spacious and welcoming thanks to Alina’s dad’s renovations – coffee-coloured kitchen units, beige wallpaper, new boiler. Yet Alina felt cold inside. Let’s talk straight, the stepmum said finally. I don’t like you. You don’t like me. Mutual. But I promised your dad you’d have a home. Study, I’ll cook, house stays clean – live here but don’t boss me or play the orphan victim card. Life’s been hard for me too. Alina clenched her fists. My mum died when I was seven, Larissa added. Dad drank. I worked three jobs from fifteen. Your dad chased me, so don’t blame me for him.
After that, conversations grew shorter, glances sharper. Tension hung thick in the air. One afternoon, Alina found a note after school:
Gone to Winchester to see my sister. Back in a week. Money on table. Buy potatoes, cook. Feed cat on schedule. L.
No “hug”, “take care” or “miss you” – just cat, potatoes and timings. The emptiness hit Alina. Telly off, kettle cold, dust motes hovering. For the first time, she felt afraid. What if she never comes back? Alina searched Larissa’s room. Photos showed little Larissa with pigtails, then in a nurse’s apron, then with Alina’s dad. Another with toddler Alina in her arms – Larissa smiling genuinely back then. Alina sat on the bed and cried, pain and fear churning inside.
Days without Larissa Victorovna crawled by, yet felt strangely free. Alina blasted music, ate from pans, lounged with the cat. But even as independence sank in, something felt missing. By day four, boredom struck. Day five brought unease. Day six: Larissa returned. Alina was studying when the front door banged. Your cat’s gone mad, yelled Larissa. Sings like an opera star. Did you feed him properly? Yes, on schedule, Alina mumbled. Seeing her stepmum’s tired face and heavy bags, she paused. Look what I brought, Larissa said softly, handing her an envelope. About your mum.
Mum? Mum has a sister. She married an Irishman and left. Searched for you… I met her in Winchester. She sent a letter and photo. Wants you to visit if you choose. Alina’s hands trembled opening the envelope. Inside was a picture of a woman faintly resembling her mum, with a husband and child. Neat handwriting covered the back:
Darling Alina. We didn’t know your troubles. Come anytime – I’ll be waiting. Remember
Larisa gently bounced little Makar in her arms, the rhythmic motion settling him, and a profound contentment filled the kitchen as he nestled safe against the woman who had chosen to be his grandmother, always with Alina and Dan nearby, warmth flooding every corner of the home she had finally made her own.
