Maisy and Her Little Mice
I run my blog; I’m a psychologist, and I write about myself.
A few weeks ago, I met a little girl sitting on a bench in the park, feeding pigeons with a loaf of bread.
She was very chatty. The third time I saw her, I realised who she reminded me of—me.
Her parents had split up. Her mum remarried and moved abroad, while her dad lived with another woman (as Maisy, the girl’s name, put it).
Dad and his new partner, Alina, had a baby boy named Oliver…
Looking at this little girl, I saw myself.
How could I help her? How could I make sure that at thirty-five, she wouldn’t be writing posts like this…
“Maisy, I work at ***. Would you like to learn how to paint?”
“Yes,” she nods eagerly.
I walk her home and suggest to the tired young woman—who I pretend not to realise is her stepmum—that Maisy should join our studio.
“It’s completely free, just needs parental permission,” I lie.
“I’m not her mother. Fine, my husband will be home later, and we’ll think about it.”
The next day, Maisy shows up at the studio.
I carefully guide her in the right direction. The girl is truly talented—not just at painting but at singing too.
I arrange things with the others, and soon Maisy is enrolled everywhere possible.
Don’t tell me it can’t be done.
If you want something enough, anything is possible…
I try to give her what I never had—connection, the understanding that you matter in this universe, not just as a girl who suddenly became unwanted.
We’ve grown close, this little girl and me. Her father and stepmum think I’m just a social worker assigned to her.
Are they naïve or… indifferent?
Probably the latter. Maisy is baggage from the man’s past life—what else can he do but tolerate her?
Her mum’s removed herself entirely. She sends money, pretty dresses, visits once a year—but never takes Maisy with her.
Why?
Because her new husband doesn’t want someone else’s child. He’ll have his own…
And Dad? Well, he “loves” Maisy… playing the hero, carrying this “cross” of a daughter…
To me, Maisy is a delight. To the others at the centre, to the teachers—but who knows what she’s like at home? Maybe unbearable, maybe sharp and thorny, because she’s just… excess.
Unwanted. In the way.
Like me.
“Allie, why don’t you marry James?”
“What? Where did that come from?” I stare at her.
“Well,” she shrugs, “everyone can see he’s mad about you, but you’re all… Snow Queen-ish…”
I work at *** because it calls to me. Fine—I’m healing myself, trying to.
But I can’t help myself. I started this blog, risked sharing everything, because I need help… I rush to save others, never myself.
In Maisy, I saw the little girl who needed saving.
I tried—honestly, I did—to fix things with both sides of my family.
Dad, his wife, and my half-sister (not really a sister at all)… Dad finally mustered the courage to tell me to stop calling, visiting, writing.
“Lizzie doesn’t want it,” he said, avoiding my eyes.
I was thirteen—knobbly knees, gangly wrists, a mouth too big for my face. I thought I was the ugliest child alive. Of course no one could love me.
“Dad… but I’m your actual daughter. Lizzie’s your wife’s daughter,” I tried.
“She’s going through a rough phase. We even took her to a therapist. She needs love right now, understand?”
Yes, Dad. Of course.
Mum, stepdad, and my brother lived their own lives. They’d laugh at a joke—then fall silent when I walked in. They pretended to be glad to see me, but I knew. I was a stranger, a burden.
I was always alone.
But I craved being seen, being loved.
Dad said Lizzie was failing at school. So I became top of the class—maybe he’d notice I was better, easier… He didn’t.
I’ll be a psychologist, I decided. Then he’d be proud.
No reaction. He just… vanished.
I spent my life pleasing everyone, being convenient—like Mum wanted. “Allie’s so easy,” she’d brag. Cook, clean, babysit Ollie.
I can’t have a proper relationship.
Because…
Because I smothered every man with love, suspicion, jealousy… I could help others but never myself.
I knew I’d been unloved—but you have to live anyway. And I couldn’t.
I even considered a baby—just for me. But what if I couldn’t love her? (I always imagined a girl.) Another unwanted excess.
I snap out of it.
“Allie, are you going to the restaurant with James?”
“What restaurant, Maisy?”
“Oh, I’ve said too much… He’s going to ask you. Act surprised.”
“Alright.”
James does invite me. And I’m not scared—Maisy made me a charm. A little mouse holding cheese, from her craft class.
It’s sweet.
With her, I’m learning to live properly.
I don’t know how to be light, flirt, sparkle. But with James… it’s easy. He expects nothing.
We sit in a dim little restaurant, black-and-white photos on the walls. A streetlamp sways outside.
“Like it here?” he asks.
“Cosy.” I sip wine—a rare treat. “Feels like I’m sixteen, skipping school…”
He smiles.
“Allie,” he pauses, “you don’t have to be strong. Not for me.”
I stay quiet. Not because I’ve nothing to say, but because—for once—I just want to listen. Not explain, argue, prove myself. Just be.
Next day, I arrive early at the studio. Brushes cleaned, paper ready.
Maisy bounces in.
“Allie! Last night, Dad and Alina played word games with me. I won!”
“Clever girl.”
“Then we made pancakes! And…” She hesitates. “Alina said I’m like a daughter to her.”
My throat tightens.
“Know why that happened?”
“Because you taught me. If you look for good in people, they feel it.”
In that moment, I realise—I’ve changed too. Through her. Through caring. Through knowing I matter, just by being there.
That evening, I blog. My post isn’t polished or perfect—just real.
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. So heavy.
Thank you, Maisy. You’ll never know how you changed me.
I hit “publish”—and for once, I’m not afraid.
Not because I’m sure.
But because I’m real.
Maisy filled all my empty spaces…
I even—on her advice—visited my mum…
Here’s how it happened:
Maisy was drawing an Easter card, then turned to me. “When did you last see your mum?”
I thought.
“Long time ago.”
“Why?”
“We… lost touch.”
“Just go.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Why? You’re a grown-up. You’ve got a licence. A car.”
And it hit me—it really was that simple. Just drive to her.
But…
“Maisy, sometimes it’s not cars or licences. It’s fear.”
“Then take the mouse. It scares fear away.”
I’m behind the wheel now…
Maisy’s charm dangles from the mirror.
The drive takes three hours. Her words echo: “You’re a grown-up.” True—but inside, I’m still the girl craving praise, hearing:
“It’s nice. But you’ll never be an artist.”
The house looks almost the same. Just the tree’s gone, the gate’s new. I freeze at the door—but it opens suddenly. Mum steps out with rubbish. We lock eyes.
“Allie?”
“Hi, Mum.”
She frowns—that old habit.
“You alone?”
“Yes.”
“Come in.”
The kitchen’s unchanged: white curtains, chipped mugs. But Mum’s aged. And she’s flustered—not expecting me. Not erased me, just… forgotten.
I’m the easy child who fled the nest, needing nothing—no help, no love, no presence.
Mum’s baffled. What does she owe me?
“You look well,” she offers.
“Thanks.”
Silence.
“Still single?”
“Sort of. There’s James.”And as I drive home, the little mouse still swinging from the mirror, I realise—sometimes the bravest thing we can do is let ourselves be loved.
