**A Lonely Soul**
Molly grew like weeds by the roadside—untended, unloved, unnoticed. No kindness, no care, not even a simple “I need you.” Her clothes were always hand-me-downs, so threadbare her bony knees poked through. Her shoes were always damp—either soaked through or falling apart at the soles. To save trouble, her mother hacked her hair short with a bowl cut, but the strands still stuck out wildly, as if shouting about the chaos of her life.
She never went to nursery. Maybe she would have liked to—somewhere with toys, warmth, other children. But her parents were too busy with something “more important”: finding their next bottle. Her father and mother drank, fought, screamed. When they vanished in search of more drink, Molly hid—in basements, on stairwells. She learned early: the less you’re seen, the safer you are. If she didn’t hide fast enough, she’d have to conceal the bruises later.
The neighbours pitied her. They muttered about Liz—how she’d once been decent, before she took up with a petty criminal and fell to pieces. But mostly, they pitied Molly. Yet what could they do? Some tossed her scraps of food, others gave old jumpers, but if anything was worth selling, her mother took it straight to the pawnshop before drinking away the cash. So Molly wandered—ragged, barefoot, hungry.
She started school late, and to her surprise, she liked it. Learning came easily. She traced letters carefully, raised her hand, devoured every book she could reach. She lingered in the library till closing, treating each page like treasure. Teachers wondered: how could such radiance come from this neglected, silent child?
But her classmates didn’t accept her. Didn’t understand. Didn’t pity. Feared. The worn-out clothes, the wild hair, the quietness—it made her strange. She didn’t play, didn’t laugh, didn’t get jokes. Worst of all—her parents. Children mimicked drunk Liz, calling Molly “the runt.” It stuck. First in whispers, then aloud. Soon, no one remembered her real name.
Teachers saw the cruelty but stayed silent. Some feared upsetting “respectable” parents. Others felt helpless. Some had simply grown numb. So Molly hid.
Her refuge was the overgrown park behind school, near a scummy pond. Beneath an ancient oak, she spent evenings—sometimes nights, when home was too dangerous. Stray cats and dogs kept her company. She shared scraps with them, hugged them, whispered secrets. Beneath rustling leaves, she could breathe.
Her father died when she was fourteen—froze in a snowdrift, drunk. Only Liz and Molly attended the funeral. Her mother wailed, tore at her hair, howled. Molly just stood there. No tears, no words. Only lonely relief—and shame for feeling it.
After that, Liz lost herself completely—fits, screams, blackouts. Sometimes she didn’t recognise Molly. So the girl took odd jobs—scrubbing floors, hauling water, cleaning. Neighbours tossed her spare change. With it, she bought medical books, convinced she could one day cure her mother.
School grew worse. Someone found out she worked as a cleaner—bullying reignited. The worst was Gemma—rich, popular, daughter of well-to-do parents.
“Oi, runt! Off to scrub more filth?” she’d shout as Molly rushed out after class.
Molly stayed silent. Learned not to hear. But each word settled inside like a stone.
“Why do they hate me?” she whispered to the stray dog nuzzling her leg. “What did I do? Is this fair?”
Then he arrived. Oliver Reed. The new boy. Handsome, tall, dark-haired. Moved with his parents from Manchester. Clever, athletic, quiet. Every girl fell for him instantly. Molly too. But she buried it. Each time he passed, her pulse jumped, cheeks burned. She prayed no one noticed.
Gemma claimed him immediately. Designer clothes, perfume, manicured nails—she fought to impress. No one dared challenge her. Molly never dreamed she could.
One day, late after tending to her mother, Molly rushed into class—and dropped her medical book. Gemma snatched it up.
“What’s this? ‘Psychiatry’? Lost it, runt? Like your mum?”
Molly broke. Clamping a hand over her mouth, she bolted—shoulder-checking Oliver on the way out. He barely had time to react.
She ran to the park, to her oak, collapsed in the snow. Sobbed.
That’s when she saw the dog—venturing onto thin ice. It cracked. The dog plunged.
Molly threw off her coat, crawled forward, grabbed its scruff—then fell through herself. Icy water stole her breath. The dog thrashed beside her. She kicked, weakened—then strong hands hauled her out. And the dog too.
Oliver stood there, soaked.
“Come on. My mum’s a doctor. You’re freezing. We live close,” he said, draping his jacket over her.
Molly nodded dumbly.
Next morning, they walked in together.
“You’re joking!” Gemma shrieked. “She’s the runt!”
Oliver met her gaze. “Only a rotten heart’s a runt. And yours is the worst I’ve seen.”
Gemma recoiled. The room fell silent. Molly sat down—not alone this time, head held high.
Now she had someone beside her. Someone who saw her—not a “runt,” but a person. And there was Daisy, too—the rescued dog, living with Oliver now.
Sometimes, life gives a chance to those who’ve waited long enough.
