**Emily and Her Little Mice**
I keep a blog where I write about myself—my thoughts, my life. A few weeks ago, I met a girl sitting on a park bench, feeding pigeons with bits of a baguette. So lively, so chatty. The third time I saw her, it struck me—she reminded me of *me*.
Her parents split up. Mum remarried and moved abroad. Dad lives with a new woman—Emily told me this herself, that’s her name. Dad and his new wife, Alice, had a baby boy, Oliver.
I stared at this child and saw myself.
How could I help her? How could I stop her, at thirty-five, from writing posts like this?
“Em, I work at the ***. Want to learn how to paint?”
“Yes!” She nodded eagerly.
I walked her home and suggested to her exhausted stepmother that she join our art club. I played dumb, pretending not to know she wasn’t Emily’s mum.
“It’s completely free. Just need parental permission,” I lied.
“I’m not her mother. Fine. My husband will decide when he gets home.”
The next day, Emily showed up at the studio.
I nudged her gently. She *could* paint. And sing. I pulled strings—got her into every class, every workshop.
Don’t tell me it’s impossible. If you want it enough, anything *is* possible.
I tried to give her what I never had—someone telling her she mattered. That she wasn’t just leftovers from a past life.
We clicked. Dad and stepmum think I’m just a social worker assigned to her. Naïve? Or indifferent?
Probably the latter. Emily’s baggage from a failed marriage—where else to dump her?
Mum bowed out. Sends money, dresses, visits *once* a year. Never takes her.
Why? Because *her* husband doesn’t want another man’s child. He’ll have his *own*.
And Dad? Oh, he *loves* Emily—what a hero, bearing the cross of her existence.
Emily’s *precious*—to me, to the other kids, to the teachers.
But what’s she like at home? A nightmare? Spiky, angry? Because she’s *excess*. Unwanted. Like me.
“Anna, why don’t you marry James?”
“What? Where’d *that* come from?”
She shrugged. “Everyone sees he loves you. But you’re all… *Ice Queen*.”
I work at *** out of passion—or maybe to fix myself. I *try*. But I can’t. So I started this blog, spilled my guts. I’ll save everyone—except *me*.
In Emily, I saw the little girl who needed saving.
I *tried* with my own fractured family. Dad, his wife, my half-sister (not really *mine*). At thirteen, Dad told me—don’t call, don’t visit, don’t write.
“Sophie doesn’t want it,” he mumbled.
“But I’m your *daughter*,” I whispered.
“Sophie’s a teenager—it’s *hard*. She needs love.”
Right. Of course.
Mum, stepdad, my brother—they laughed without me. Fell silent when I entered. *Tolerated* me. I was alone. Desperate to be *seen*.
Dad said Sophie struggled in school. So I aced mine—maybe he’d notice? He didn’t.
“I’ll be a psychologist,” I decided. *Then* he’d care.
He didn’t. Just vanished.
I spent years pleasing everyone—obedient, *convenient*. Mum bragged: *Anna’s so easy!* Cook, clean, babysit.
I can’t keep a man.
Because I smother them—love like a noose. Suspicion, jealousy. Helped others, never myself.
I wanted a child—but what if I couldn’t love her? Another unwanted girl.
I snapped back to reality.
“Anna, you *are* going to dinner with James, right?”
“What dinner, Em?”
She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oops. Act surprised!”
James *did* invite me. And I wasn’t scared—Emily made me a charm: a tiny felt mouse clutching cheese.
With her, I’m relearning how to *live*.
I’m not light. Can’t flirt. But with James? It’s *easy*. He expects nothing.
We sit in a dim bistro, black-and-white photos on the walls. A streetlamp sways outside.
“Like it here?” he asks.
“Cosy.” I sip wine—rare for me. “Feels like playing hooky at sixteen.”
He smiles.
“Anna,” he pauses, “you don’t have to be strong. Not for me.”
I stay quiet. Not because I’m speechless—but because, for once, I just want to *listen*. No defenses. Just *be*.
Next morning, I arrived early at the studio. Brushes cleaned, paper laid out.
Emily bounced in, glowing.
“Anna! Dad and Alice played Scrabble with me last night! I *won*!”
“Clever girl.”
“Then we made pancakes! And—” she gasped, “Alice said I’m like her *own*.”
My throat tightened.
“Why d’you think that happened?”
“Because you taught me. If you see good in people, they *feel* it.”
*That’s* when I knew—*I* changed too. Through Emily. Through caring. Through being *needed*.
That night, I wrote a raw blog post—no polish, no psychology—just *truth*.
Sometimes, you find yourself through someone else.
I don’t know how my story ends.
But today, I dropped an old backpack.
It was *heavy*.
Thank you, Emily. You’ll never know what you’ve done.
I hit *publish*—and for once, I wasn’t afraid.
Not because I’m certain.
But because I’m *real*.
Emily filled every hollow in me.
I even took her advice—visited Mum.
Here’s how it went:
Emily was drawing an Easter card when she suddenly asked, “When did you last see your mum?”
“Years ago.”
“Why?”
“We… lost touch.”
“So *go*.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Why not? You drive.”
And it hit me—just *go*. But—
“Em, sometimes it’s not the car. It’s *fear*.”
“Then take the mouse. He chases fear.”
So I drove.
Emily’s charm dangled from the mirror. Three and a half hours. Her words echoed: *You’re grown up*.
Yet inside? Still the girl clutching a painting, waiting for praise.
Mum had said, “Cute. But you’ll never be an artist.”
The house hadn’t changed much—just the tree gone, the gate replaced. I stood frozen. Then the door swung open—Mum, taking out trash.
“Anna?”
“Hi, Mum.”
She frowned. “Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Come in.”
The kitchen was the same—white curtains, chipped mugs. But Mum had aged. Flustered.
“You look well,” she offered.
“Thanks.”
Silence.
“Why’d you come?” she finally asked.
I breathed in. “Because I’m tired of being angry.”
No screaming. Just—*here*.
Mum’s hands shook. “I… thought of you. Didn’t know how to start.”
I understood. She’d buried herself in her new family. *Fed, clothed—what else does she need?*
We talked. Stumbled. Remembered.
“You *did* become a psychologist.”
“Yep.”
“I said it was pointless.”
“You were allowed to be wrong.”
No bitterness. Just fact.
She blinked—then smiled. “You’ve changed.”
“So have you.”
At the gate, she said, “Don’t disappear.”
“I won’t.”
“And… forgive me, if you can.”
I hugged her. Awkward, stiff—like hugging a stranger. But I *did it*.
No miracle. No sudden love. But something *settled* inside.
Driving back, I glanced at the charm—*gone*. Panic. I pulled over, crumpled, and *sobbed*.
Not for the mouse.
For *everything*.
I opened my laptop, smudged mascara, and wrote: *I’m free*.
The first comment: *How’s Emily? Find the mouse?*
I typed another post—leaning against the car, admitting:
There *is* no Emily.
She’s the little girl inside *me*.
We did this *together*.
That evening, James turned up unannounced.
He handed me a tiny knitted mouse—cheese in its paws.
“Some kid was selling them. Said it’s for *you*.”
And as I held that little mouse close, I finally understood—home wasn’t a place or a person, but the peace I’d been carrying inside all along.
