The Poverty of the Soul: The Story of Emily from Nottingham
Emily grew up like weeds by the roadside—unwanted, untamed. No one raised her, spoiled her, or showed her kindness. Her clothes were cast-offs, sometimes just rags that barely covered her thin knees. Her shoes were always too big and worn through. Her mother hacked her hair into a bowl cut to avoid the bother of styling it, but it stuck out in every direction, as if rebelling against the neglect.
She never went to nursery—her parents couldn’t be bothered. All they cared about was where to find their next drink. Her father was a cruel drunk; her mother, Linda, was always smoking and nursing a hangover. Emily hid in stairwells when they turned violent. Running meant escaping a beating. If she wasn’t fast enough, she’d cover the bruises later. Neighbours shook their heads and sighed. Linda, they said, had always been flighty, but after hooking up with a petty criminal, she’d gone completely off the rails. They pitied Emily. They fed her, brought her clothes. But anything decent her mother sold for booze. So the girl stayed in tatters.
When school started, Emily clung to learning like a lifeline. Reading became her escape—a world where no one hit her, screamed at her, or made her feel small. She devoured books, haunted the library, answered every question in class, raising her hand with quiet defiance, hoping someone would hear her.
But children are cruel, especially to those who stand out. Poor, odd-looking, with that ridiculous haircut, she was quickly branded “Pitiful.” Worse still, parents warned their kids to stay away—”the daughter of a drunk’s dangerous.” Teachers saw potential but stayed silent. It was easier to turn a blind eye than defend a girl with no family, no connections. So Emily grew up alone against the world.
Her refuge became an ancient oak by the pond in the park. Beneath its branches, she built a sanctuary. Here, she read books and dreamed. Sometimes she even slept there when home was unbearable. Only stray dogs and cats listened—the only ones who never betrayed her.
Her father died when she was fourteen—frozen in a ditch after another binge. At the funeral, only Linda and Emily stood by the grave. The girl felt no grief. Just shame and relief. After that, her mother spiraled. Rage gave way to oblivion. She hadn’t worked in years. To survive, Emily cleaned stairwells for spare change, buying secondhand medical books—she dreamed of becoming a doctor. Maybe then she could pull her mother from the depths.
But the bullying never stopped. One day, late for class, she dropped a psychiatry textbook. Regina—the class beauty and reigning queen bee—snatched it up.
“Psychiatry?” she sneered. “Christ, you’re not just pitiful—you’re as mental as your mum!”
Emily broke. Sobbing, she fled the schoolyard and ran to her oak. There, crumpled in the snow, she cried into her hands. “Why are they so cruel? What did I ever do?”
Then she saw the dog. It had wandered onto the thin ice of the pond—and fell through. Without thinking, she screamed and ran. Sprawling on the ice, she crawled toward it, grabbed the struggling animal—then plunged in herself. The cold punched through her chest, stealing her breath. She fought—for the dog, for herself, for every fragile thing she’d ever loved.
Just as her strength gave out, just as the ice felt like a coffin lid—someone pulled her free. It was William, a new boy recently transferred from Bristol. Handsome, sharp, reserved. The girls worshipped him. Yet he reached for Emily.
“Come on. You’ll freeze. My mum’s a doctor—she’ll help.”
He took the dog too. Sheltered them both. The next day, he walked into school beside Emily. Regina stormed over.
“You’re joking, right? She’s pitiful!”
“Only the soul can be pitiful,” he said, quiet but firm. “No amount of clothes or makeup hides that. The harder you try, the clearer it shows.”
Regina paled and fled. The classroom fell silent. And for the first time, Emily felt something new—she wasn’t alone. She had a friend. And Bella, the dog she’d saved. And most of all—a chance. A chance at a different life.
