“I’m not going!” shouted Emily, slamming her bedroom door hard.
“Ooh, aren’t we the princess?” muttered Margaret Davies, smoothing down her dressing gown. “Lives under my roof, yet she throws demands around.”
Fifteen-year-old Emily lost her father in a car crash two years back. Though her parents were already divorced, her mum Anna couldn’t cope: first tears, then the bottle, then an ambulance. Then silence. Her heart gave out.
Social services didn’t take Emily because her father’s sister, Aunt Helen, stepped in—a stern, quiet woman with a silver bun. She became Emily’s guardian. But within six months, Aunt Helen passed her on like an unwanted package: “Emily’s impossible, disobedient, refuses to live by our rules, and my husband objects. Maggie has space.”
So Emily wound up with her stepmother. Margaret had been her father’s second wife—the reason Mum once cried so often. Emily used to loathe her from afar. Now they shared a roof.
“Eat?” Margaret grunted, rapping a spoon on a saucepan.
“No,” Emily replied flatly.
“Fine. But don’t hunt for crisps; I didn’t buy any.”
Margaret’s house felt old but roomy and tidy. Dad had done it up: coffee-coloured kitchen cabinets, beige wallpaper in the lounge, even a new boiler. But Emily felt cold inside its cosy walls.
“Let’s be honest,” Margaret said abruptly one day. “I don’t love you. You don’t love me. But I promised your father I’d keep you. You’ll study, I’ll cook, keep clean—just don’t parade as a victim. I’ve had my share of hardship.”
Emily clenched her fists but stayed silent.
“My mum died when I was seven,” Margaret added. “Dad drank. I slaved at three jobs since I was fifteen. Your dad chased me, mind. Don’t blame me for him.”
That settled things.
Conversations grew shorter, and glances sharper. They avoided open rows, but tension simmered.
Once, Emily came home to words jotted on notepaper and froze:
> Back from Chester in a week. Money on table. Buy potatoes. Cook for yourself. Cat eats on schedule. M.
No “love,” “take care,” or “miss you.” Just the cat, spuds, and routine. It stung.
She sensed the emptiness: TV off, kettle cold, dust yet to settle. For the first time, fear gripped her.
“What if she doesn’t return? What then?” she whispered to the quiet.
She wandered into Margaret’s room, peeked in drawers. A photo: young Margaret in braids. Another in her nurse’s uniform. Then one with Dad. And one holding three-year-old Emily—a real smile lighting Margaret’s face.
Emily sank onto the bed, tears spilling. Hurt, anger, dread—all churned within.
—
Margaret’s absence dragged but felt oddly…freeing.
Emily blasted music, ate straight from pans, lounged with the cat. Yet lazy independence couldn’t shake a strange lack—as if something, or someone, was missing.
By day four, boredom crept in. Day five brought unease.
Day six: Margaret returned.
Emily sat doing homework when the front door banged.
“Your cat’s gone barmy,” Margaret yelled from the hallway. “Howling like an opera singer. Did you even feed him?”
“Yes, on schedule,” Emily mumbled, rising.
But seeing Margaret, she halted. Margaret looked spent: heavy bags, pale face, clutching…an envelope.
“Look what I fetched you,” Margaret said unexpectedly gently, offering it. “About your mother.”
Emily tensed. “Mum?”
“Your mum had a sister. Married a Welshman and moved. She hunted for you, but… I met her in Chester. Left you a letter and photo. Says you can write.”
Emily’s hands trembled. Inside: a woman faintly resembling Mum, with a daughter and husband. On the back, neat script read:
> Sweet Emily. We never knew your pain. Please visit—I’ll wait. Remember you’re not alone.
“Why bring this?” Emily asked, bewildered.
“Because you need family. It’s your call. I’m not your mum, though I try.”
The confession stunned them. Something shifted.
“You… try?” Emily echoed, almost mocking.
Margaret huffed. “Course. Didn’t kick you out, did I? Wanted to—specially when you soak an hour like royalty.”
Both laughed—awkward, restrained—but together.
A week later, Emily wrote Aunt Sarah: she’d stay with Margaret Davies. Then she pondered what she truly wanted.
One night Emily said, “You know… you’re not such an awful stepmother.”
Margaret raised an eyebrow. “Oh? So grand Gandalf now?”
“No. More like… a witch with heart. Cranky but kind.”
“Right. Dried frogs for supper tomorrow.”
And they laughed again.
—
Two years passed.
Emily left school with top grades. Margaret wore green to her graduation, eyes proud. They’d argued plenty, but now respect held.
Then in court, petitioning to adopt, Margaret stated:
“I’m not her birth mother. But please change my status. She
Celia tightened her grip on little Mark, pulling him warm and close to her chest like she’d meant to hold him this tight all along, and for good.
