**Daisy and Her Little Mice**
I keep a 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 bits of bread. Bright and chatty. The third time I saw her, it hit me—she reminded me of myself.
Her parents split up. Mum remarried and moved abroad. Dad lives with another woman now (Daisy’s words, that’s the girl’s name). He and Alina had a baby boy, Oliver…
Looking at her, I saw my own reflection. How could I help? How could I keep her from ending up like me—writing these very words at thirty-five?
“Daisy, I work at ***. Would you like to learn to paint?”
She nods eagerly.
I go home with her, speaking to her exhausted young stepmother, offering free art classes—lying through my teeth about needing parental consent.
“I’m not her mother. My husband will decide,” she replies curtly.
The next day, Daisy turns up at the studio.
I guide her gently—she’s a natural, not just with painting but singing too. I pull strings, get her into every group I can.
Don’t tell me it’s impossible. If you want something enough, you make it happen.
I try to give her what I never had—connection, the certainty that she matters. That she isn’t just some leftover child nobody wants.
We’ve grown close. Her father and stepmother assume I’m a social worker assigned to her. Naïve—or indifferent? Likely the latter. Daisy’s just baggage from his past life. Tiredly tolerated.
Her mother’s vanished—sends money, fancy dresses, visits once a year. Never takes her. Why? Because her new husband doesn’t want another man’s child. He’ll have his own.
And Dad? Oh, he *loves* Daisy—heroically bearing the *burden* of her.
Daisy’s lovely—to me, to the other kids, to the teachers. But at home? Maybe she’s unbearable, spiky, because she knows—she’s just an inconvenient extra.
Like me.
**—Alice, why don’t you marry James?**
I blink. *What? Where did that come from?*
She shrugs. *Everyone can see he loves you. But you’re all… Ice Queen.*
I work at *** because it fills some hollow place in me. Fine—I’m trying to heal myself. But I can’t. So I started this blog, spilled my guts, because *I* need help. I’ll throw myself at fixing others—never myself.
In Daisy, I saw that little girl who needed saving.
I *tried*, honestly. Tried with both sides of my fractured family.
Dad, his wife, my half-sister (not really a sister—not at all). He finally mustered courage to cut me off: *Don’t call. Don’t visit. Don’t write.*
“Sophie doesn’t want it,” he muttered, avoiding my eyes.
I was thirteen. Knobbly knees, big hands on skinny wrists—like crab claws. A froggy mouth, bulging eyes. The ugliest child alive. Unlovable.
“Dad… but I’m your *actual* daughter. Sophie’s just your *wife’s*—”
“She’s struggling. Teen years are hard. She needs love, understand?”
*Yes, Dad. Of course.*
Mum, my stepdad, and brother—they had their own rhythm. Laughing at jokes, falling silent when I entered. Pretending they were glad to see me. But I knew. I was the intruder.
Always alone.
Craving to be noticed. To be loved.
Dad mentioned Sophie’s grades were slipping. So I became top of the class—*See? I’m better. No trouble here.* He didn’t care.
*I’ll be a psychologist,* I decided. *Then he’ll be proud.*
No reaction. He just… disappeared.
Spent my life trying to please, to be *convenient*. Mum bragged to her friends—*Alice is so easy. Cooks, cleans, babysits Oliver.*
I can’t sustain relationships. Because…
Because I smother men—love choked by suspicion, jealousy. Fix everyone but myself.
I knew I was unloved. But living with it? Impossible.
Even considered having a child—for myself. But what if I couldn’t love her? (Of course it’d be a girl. Another unwanted extra.)
Daisy’s voice snaps me back. *Alice, are you going to dinner with James?*
*What dinner?*
She claps a hand over her mouth. *Oops. He’s going to ask you. Act surprised!*
James *does* invite me. And I’m not afraid—Daisy made me a tiny charm: a felt mouse clutching cheese. She made it in class.
With her, I’m learning to live properly. I’ve never been lighthearted. Never flirted, sparkled. But with James… it’s easy. He expects nothing.
We’re in a dim little bistro, black-and-white photos on the walls. A streetlamp sways outside.
*Do you like it here?* he asks.
*Cosy.* I sip wine—a rare indulgence. *Feels like playing hooky at sixteen.*
He smiles. *Alice…* A pause. *You don’t always have to be strong. Not with me.*
I stay quiet. Not because I’ve nothing to say—but because, for once, I just want to *listen*. No explanations, no defences. Just *be*.
Next morning, I’m at the studio early, sorting brushes. Daisy bounces in.
*Alice! Dad and Alina played word games last night. I won! Then we made pancakes! And…* She hesitates. *Alina said I’m like a daughter to her.*
My throat tightens.
*Know why?* I ask.
*Because you taught me. If you look for good in people, they feel it.*
And *that’s* when it hits me—I’ve changed too. Through Daisy. Through caring. Through realising you can matter just by *being there*.
That night, I blog. Not polished, not clever—just honest.
Sometimes you find yourself through someone else.
I don’t know how my story ends.
But today, I dropped an old backpack.
It was *so* heavy.
Thank you, Daisy. You’ll never know how much you’ve changed me.
I click *publish*—and for the first time, I’m not afraid. Not because I’m certain.
Because I’m *real*.
Daisy filled every hollow space in me…
I even took her advice—visited my mum.
Here’s how it happened:
Daisy was painting an Easter card when she suddenly asked, *When did you last see your mum?*
I paused. *Long time.*
*Why?*
*We… lost each other.*
*So go see her.*
*It’s not that simple.*
*Why? You’re grown. You drive.*
She was right. Just get in the car and go.
But…
*Daisy, sometimes fear stops you, not logistics.*
*Then take my mouse. It scares fear away.*
So I drove.
Her little charm dangled from the mirror. A three-and-a-half-hour journey, her voice in my head: *You’re grown.*
True. But inside? Still that girl hoping for praise, only to hear: *Cute. But you’ll never be an artist.*
The house was the same—except the old tree was gone, the gate new. I stood frozen at the door. Then it opened—Mum stepped out with the rubbish. We locked eyes.
*Alice?*
*Hi, Mum.*
She frowned—habitual. *You alone?*
*Yes.*
*Come in.*
The kitchen was unchanged: white curtains, chipped cups. But Mum… aged. Flustered. She hadn’t erased me—just… forgotten. I’d flown the nest too cleanly. The easy child who demanded nothing—not help, not love, not even presence.
*You look well,* she offered, breaking silence.
*Thanks.*
A pause.
*You’re… not married?*
*Not quite. There’s James.*
She nods, looks away.
*Why are you here?* Finally, the unspoken question.
I gather every lesson I’ve taught others.
*Because… I’m tired of being angry.*
And hurt.
I won’t clutch resentment like a tattered shawl. I didn’t come to fight. Just… *be* with you, Mum.
Her fingers trembled around her mug. *I… thought of you. Didn’t know how to start.*
*You couldn’t have,* I say softly. *You were fed, clothed—what more could you need?*
A beat. *I’m sorry.*
We talked for hours—We sat there, two women who’d forgotten how to be mother and daughter, sipping tea in the quiet comfort of a second chance.
