**A New Tomorrow**
I woke up again to the sound of shouting from the kitchen—Mum and Dad, and their friends from last night, all drunk and arguing. At nine years old, I’d never known anything different. I wondered if other children had parents who loved them, but I couldn’t imagine what that felt like.
Pulling on my worn-out dress—unwashed for weeks—I crept past the kitchen, careful not to be seen. Not that they’d notice. Empty bottles littered the floor, and everyone at the table was slurring their words.
*I have to get out. I can’t listen to this anymore.*
I slipped into the back garden and hid behind the old shed—my safe place. Here, it was quiet. No screaming, no smashed plates. I hugged my knees and pressed myself into a tight ball.
My stomach growled, and I cried, smearing tears across my cheeks. All my life, Mum and Dad had been like this—fighting, shouting, throwing things. Sometimes, Dad would turn on me too.
Summer was easier. I could escape outside. In winter, I’d come home from school, do my homework, and hide behind my bed if the yelling started. I’d wait until it stopped, afraid I’d be next.
Nothing ever changed. Food was scarce, and I’d grown used to hunger. I was too thin. Used to be, sometimes Mum was sober and talked to me, but not anymore.
I had no grandparents. Dad grew up in care, and Nan died when I was born. Neighbors pitied me. Girls at school shared their lunches—never teased me.
Today, like always, I sat behind the shed, sniffling and wishing.
*Maybe tomorrow will be different. Maybe they’ll stop. Please let tomorrow be better.*
I wiped my face and looked up, spotting ripe pears dangling from the neighbor’s tree. They weren’t big, but some had a rosy blush. My mouth watered.
*What if I took one? Would they see me? Call me a thief?*
I hesitated, peering through the trees at the two-story house. It looked old but cosy. I’d seen the woman who lived there—grey-haired, stern—leaving through the gate a few times.
*Does she live alone in that huge house?*
To me, it seemed enormous. The place had an attic, and I knew her name—Mrs. Lydia Hart. She was fifty-eight and had worked in the police force, which explained her no-nonsense air.
Then I saw them—fallen pears under the tree.
Hunger won. I found a loose board in the fence, squeezed through, and crept onto her property. Smiling, I snatched a pear from the ground and bit into it. It was the sweetest thing I’d ever tasted. I barely noticed her approach.
“Hello, dear.”
I froze, terrified. Of course I’d been caught. Now I’d be punished—like always. Slowly, I turned, expecting anger.
But Mrs. Hart’s eyes were kind.
“H-Hello,” I whispered.
“What’s your name?” she asked gently.
“Emily.”
“Emily,” she repeated. “You must be hungry. Come inside—I was about to have tea and jam. Keep me company, won’t you? You can call me Aunt Lydia.”
I couldn’t believe it. I stood there, stunned.
“Come along, Emily,” she coaxed.
Her home was warm and tidy—nothing like mine. She poured tea, set out biscuits, sandwiches, and strawberry jam. I ate like I’d never seen food before.
She watched me with sadness in her eyes.
Aunt Lydia had lived a good life—steady job, a husband who’d passed four years ago, friends. But no children. She’d always wanted them. Now, looking at me, her heart ached.
When I finished, she asked carefully, “Where are your parents?”
I shrugged, fighting tears. She didn’t press.
“You can visit whenever you like,” she said. “I’m alone now—I’ve plenty of time. Would you like to see my photo albums?”
I nodded. I didn’t want to leave.
She fed me pancakes with jam for lunch.
For five days, I went to her house every morning. We ate together—breakfast, lunch. I wore the new dress she bought me. She told me stories.
For the first time, I felt safe. Happy. At night, I’d lie in bed and think:
*What if Aunt Lydia were my mum?*
But then I stopped coming.
She waited, worried. Peered out the window. Saw only my drunk dad stumbling outside.
After three days, she marched to our house.
Mum opened the door, reeking of alcohol. Dad glared behind her.
“Where’s Emily?” Aunt Lydia demanded.
“Social services took her,” Mum muttered.
“Who the hell are you?” Dad sneered.
Without a word, she left.
Emily—in care. With parents who’d never take her back.
Aunt Lydia couldn’t rest.
She called an old colleague, Ina.
“Ina, can you help me? It’s about Emily.”
Ina found her—Emily was at the local children’s home.
Aunt Lydia went straight there.
The director, Mrs. Irene Clarke, greeted her warmly.
“I want to foster Emily,” she said. “I know I’m older, single—but I’ve the means, and the heart.”
Papers were signed. Arrangements made.
Finally, the day came.
Aunt Lydia walked into the playroom. Emily, staring out the window, turned—then sprinted into her arms.
“Mum! You came!”
They both cried.
“Yes, darling. We’re together now.”
Mrs. Clarke wiped her eyes.
On the bus home, Emily skipped with joy.
Finally—a home. A real one.
Aunt Lydia was her mum now.
And tomorrow?
It would be different. Better.
