**Diary Entry**
We took an instant dislike to her the moment she stepped into our house. Curly-haired, tall, and skinny.
Her jumper wasn’t bad, but her hands were nothing like Mum’s. Her fingers were shorter, thicker, and she held them clasped together. Her legs were thinner than Mum’s, her feet longer. My brother Alfie, who was seven (I was nine), and I sat there glaring at her. *Milly’s as long as a mile, not sweet at all!*
Dad noticed our rudeness and hissed, *”Behave yourselves! What’s wrong with you?”*
*”Is she staying long?”* Alfie whined. He could get away with it—he was little and a boy.
*”For good,”* Dad snapped.
We could tell he was losing patience—and if he blew his top, we’d be in trouble. Best not push it.
An hour later, Milly got ready to leave. As she slipped on her shoes, Alfie somehow managed to trip her. She nearly went flying into the hallway.
Dad panicked. *”What happened?”*
*”Oh, I just tripped over the shoes,”* she said, not even glancing at Alfie.
*”It’s a mess—I’ll tidy up!”* he promised eagerly.
And we understood. He loved her.
No matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t cut her out of our lives.
Once, when Milly was home alone with us, after another round of our horrible behaviour, she said, voice steady: *”Your mum’s dead. That’s just how it is sometimes. She’s watching you from heaven now. And I don’t think she likes what she sees. She knows you’re being difficult on purpose. You think this is how you honour her memory?”*
We froze.
*”Alfie, Lucy—you’re good kids. Is this how you want to remember your mum? A person’s worth is in their actions. I refuse to believe you’re really as prickly as hedgehogs all the time.”*
Bit by bit, she talked us out of acting up.
Once, I helped her unpack the shopping. Milly praised me like mad, even gave my back a little pat. Yeah, her hands weren’t Mum’s—but it still felt nice. Alfie got jealous. He rearranged the clean mugs on the shelf, and Milly praised him too. That evening, she gushed to Dad about what great helpers we were. He beamed.
For ages, her *otherness* kept us guarded. We wanted to let her in, but we just… couldn’t. *Not Mum.*
A year later, we’d forgotten life without her. And after one thing, we fell for Milly just like Dad had.
Alfie was having a rough time in Year Seven. Timid and quiet, he was bullied by some lad—Jake Harper. Same height as Alfie, just nastier. Picked on him just because he could.
Harper’s family was solid—his dad had his back, even told him, *”You’re a lad—hit first, don’t wait for them to start on you.”* So Alfie became his target.
He’d come home and say nothing, not even to me, his sister. Hoped it’d sort itself out. But bullies don’t stop if no one stops them. Harper started openly shoving Alfie—every time he walked past, *thump* in the shoulder.
I finally dragged the truth out of Alfie when I saw the bruises. He thought *real lads* didn’t burden their sisters, even older ones.
We didn’t know Milly was listening outside the door.
Alfie begged me not to tell Dad—it’d only make things worse. *And* not to go claw Harper’s face off (though I wanted to). Getting Dad involved meant he’d tear into Harper’s dad—next stop, jail.
Next day, Friday.
Milly “happened” to walk us to school, then quietly asked me to point out Harper.
*There. Now you know, you git.*
What followed was brilliant.
During Alfie’s English lesson, Milly—all dolled up, nails done—peeked in sweetly and asked *Jake Harper* to step out. *Needed a word.* The teacher agreed, suspecting nothing. Harper, thinking she was some organiser, followed. Maybe he was handing out poppies for Remembrance Day.
Milly grabbed him by the collar, lifted him right off his feet, and snarled: *”What’s your problem with my son?”*
*”Wh-what son?”*
*”Alfie Smith!”*
*”N-nothing!”*
*”Good. Then it stays that way. Touch him again, even *look* at him wrong, and I will ruin you.”*
*”Miss, let go—I won’t!”* he squeaked.
*”Get lost,”* she said, dropping him. *”And if you breathe a word about me, I’ll have your dad arrested for raising a delinquent. Tell your teacher I’m your neighbour asking for a spare key. And you *will* apologise to Alfie. I’ll be watching.”*
Harper scurried back in, blabbering about neighbours.
After that? Never so much as glanced at Alfie. Avoided him entirely. Apologised that same day—quick, jerky, but he did it.
*”Don’t tell Dad,”* Milly said.
We did. He was *thrilled*.
She set me straight too, later.
At sixteen, I fell for the wrong sort—a jobless, always-drunk pianist. Hormones over brains. (Cringe.) He spouted rubbish about me being his *muse*, and I melted like butter. First proper boyfriend.
Milly went to see him. Asked two questions: *”Are you ever sober, and how exactly do you plan to support my daughter?”* If he had a solid life plan, *maybe* she’d consider letting us date. Otherwise? A damp studio flat wasn’t proof of *serious intentions*.
(He was 25 years older than me, five younger than *her*. She didn’t mince words.)
I won’t repeat his answers. Never been so ashamed. Especially when Milly said, *”I thought you were smarter.”*
That was that. Messy, ugly—but no one ended up in jail. Milly stepped in *just* in time.
Years have passed. Alfie and I have families now, built on the things Milly taught us: love, respect, calling out each other’s mistakes.
No woman could’ve done more for us. Dad’s happy, cared for, loved.
We didn’t know for years, but Milly had her own tragedy. Left her husband for *our* dad. Had a son once—lost him because of her ex. Couldn’t forgive him.
We like to think we eased her pain a little. Either way, no one’s ever downplayed what she did for us.
Now? The whole family orbits around her. We’d lay down carpet for her if we could. Love her. Protect her.
Because real mums—no matter what’s tripped them up before—never *really* stumble.
