Millie and Her Little Mice
I run my own blog—I’m a psychologist, and I write about myself.
A few weeks ago, I met a little girl sitting on a bench in the park, feeding pigeons with pieces of bread. She was so chatty, and by the third time I saw her, I realised who she reminded me of—me.
Her parents had split up. Her mum remarried and moved abroad; her dad lived with another woman (as Millie—that’s the girl’s name—put it). Dad and his new wife, Alice, had a baby boy named Oliver.
Watching this little girl, I saw my own reflection.
How could I help her? How could I stop her from writing posts like these when she’s thirty-five?
“Millie, I work at ***. Would you like to learn how to paint?”
“Yes,” she nods eagerly.
I walk home with her and suggest to her exhausted stepmum that Millie join our art classes. I pretend not to know she’s not her real mother.
“It’s completely free, just need parental consent,” I lie.
“I’m not her mum. Fine, my husband will be back later, and we’ll think about it.”
The next day, Millie shows up at the studio.
I carefully guide her—she’s genuinely talented, not just at painting but singing too. I pull some strings, and soon Millie’s involved in every activity we offer.
Don’t tell me it’s impossible.
If you want something badly enough, anything’s possible.
I try to give her what I never had—connection, the feeling that you matter, that you’re not just a leftover girl who suddenly became unwanted.
We’ve grown close. Her dad and stepmum think I’m just a social worker assigned to their child.
Are they naive? Or just indifferent?
Probably the latter. Millie’s just baggage from her dad’s past life, tolerated but not truly wanted.
Her mum’s checked out—sending money, fancy clothes, visiting once a year but never taking her along.
Why?
Because her new husband doesn’t want someone else’s child. He’ll have his own soon enough.
And Dad? Well, he *says* he loves her. Playing the hero, bearing the “burden” of Millie.
Millie’s lovely—to me, to the other kids, to the teachers at the centre.
But what’s she like at home? Maybe unbearable, maybe bitter and prickly because she’s just… excess.
Unwanted. In the way.
Like I was.
“Helen, why don’t you marry James?”
“What? Where’s this coming from?” I stare at her.
She shrugs. “Everyone can see he loves you. But you’re so… Snow Queen about it.”
At ***, I work from the heart, or so I tell myself. I’m healing myself—trying, anyway.
But helping myself? That’s harder. I started this blog, spilled my guts because I *need* help. I’ll throw myself into saving others, but never me.
In Millie, I saw the little girl who needed saving.
I tried—really tried—to fix things with both my families.
Dad, his wife, and my half-sister (well, not really a sister—more like a stranger). Dad finally mustered the courage to say, “Stop calling. Stop visiting. Stop writing.”
“It’s what Sophie wants,” he muttered, avoiding my eyes. I was thirteen—all sharp knees, big hands on skinny wrists like crab claws, a froggy mouth, and slightly bulging eyes.
I was the ugliest kid alive—or so I thought. How could anyone love *that*?
“Dad… but I’m your real daughter. Sophie’s just your wife’s kid,” I tried.
“Sophie’s going through a hard time. We even took her to a therapist. She needs love right now. Understand?”
Sure, Dad. Got it.
Mum, my stepdad, and my brother lived their own lives. They’d laugh at a joke, then fall silent when I walked in. They pretended to be glad to see me—but I knew. My presence was a chore.
I was always alone. But I craved being noticed, being loved.
Dad said Sophie struggled in school. So I aced everything, desperate for him to see—*I’m better. I’m no trouble.*
He didn’t care.
*I’ll be a psychologist,* I decided. Maybe then he’d be proud.
Nope. He just… vanished.
I spent my life people-pleasing, making myself small, convenient—like Mum wanted.
“Helen’s so *easy*,” she’d brag to friends. Cook, clean, babysit Oliver—no complaints.
But I can’t have a proper relationship.
Why?
Because I suffocated every man with love, suspicion, jealousy. I could fix others but never myself.
I knew I was starved of love—but I still had to live. And I… couldn’t.
I even thought of having a baby—just for me. But what if I couldn’t love her? (I always imagined a girl.) Another unwanted leftover.
I snap out of my thoughts.
“Helen, are you going to dinner with James?”
“What dinner, Millie?”
“Oops! Pretend to be surprised when he asks.”
“Alright.”
James *does* invite me. And I’m not scared—because Millie gave me a tiny charm: a little mouse holding cheese, made in crafts class.
With Millie, I’m learning to live properly.
I don’t know how to be light, flirt, sparkle. But with James… it’s easy. He expects nothing.
We sit in a dim little restaurant with black-and-white photos on the walls. A streetlamp sways outside.
“Like it here?” he asks.
“Cosy.” I sip wine (a rare treat). “Feels like I’m sixteen, playing hooky.”
He smiles.
“Helen,” he pauses, “you don’t have to be strong. Not for me.”
I stay quiet. Not because I’ve got nothing to say—but because, for once, I just want to listen. No explaining, defending, pretending. Just *being*.
Next morning, I’m at the studio early, sorting brushes. Millie bounds in, glowing.
“Helen! Last night, Dad and Alice played word games with me! I won!”
“Clever girl.”
“Then we made pancakes! And…” She hesitates. “Alice said I’m like a daughter to her.”
My throat tightens.
“Know why that happened?”
“Because you taught me. If you look for the good in people, they feel it.”
Then it hits me—*I’ve* changed too. Through Millie. Through caring. Through realising you can matter just by *being there*.
That night, I write a raw, messy blog post—not polished, not smart, just *real*.
Sometimes the path to yourself is through someone else.
I don’t know how my story ends.
But today, I dropped an old backpack.
It was *so* heavy.
Thank you, Millie. You’ll never know how much you’ve changed me.
I hit “publish”—and for once, I’m not scared.
Not because I’m sure.
But because I’m finally *real*.
Millie filled all my empty spaces.
I even took her advice and visited Mum.
Here’s how it went:
Millie was painting an Easter card when she suddenly asked, “How long since you saw your mum?”
I paused. “Ages.”
“Why?”
“We just… lost touch.”
“Then go.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Why? You’re a grown-up. You’ve got a car.”
She was right. Just *drive there*. But…
“Millie, sometimes it’s not the car. It’s fear.”
“Then take the mouse. It scares fear away.”
So there I was, driving.
Millie’s charm dangled from the rear-view mirror. Three and a half hours later, I stood in the same old driveway—just missing the tree they’d cut down.
I couldn’t ring the bell. Then the door swung open—Mum, taking out the bins.
“Helen?”
“Hi, Mum.”
Her brow furrowed. “You alone?”
“Yeah.”
“Come in.”
The kitchen was unchanged—white curtains, chipped mugs. But Mum looked older. And startled. Not like she’d erased me—just… forgotten I existed outside her new life.
The easy child who never asked for love or help.
“You look well,” she said stiffly.
“Thanks.”
Silence.
“Still single?”
“Mostly. There’s James.”
She nodded, avoiding my eyes. “Why are you here?”
Finally, the question. I breathed deep.
“Because… I’m tired of being angry.”
Not to fight. Just… *be* with her.
Mum’s handsWe hug—awkward at first, but then tighter—and for the first time in years, it feels like coming home.
