**Diary Entry**
I slammed my bedroom door shut hard enough to rattle the frame. “I’m not going!” The words felt jagged in my throat.
“Well, aren’t we princess now? Look who’s throwing a tantrum!” Martha murmured, straightening her dressing gown. “Lives off me, yet thinks she can lay down the law.”
I’m sixteen. Dad died in a car crash two years ago. Even though my parents were divorced, Mum—Ingrid—never quite got over it. First came the tears, then the drink, then… the ambulance. And after that, silence. Her heart just stopped.
They didn’t take me to care. Aunt Georgina, Dad’s sister, stepped in. A strict, quiet woman with a silver bun. She got guardianship. But after six months, it was clear she found me as welcome as a ball and chain. “Emily’s unmanageable, disobedient, doesn’t want to live here, and my husband objects. Martha’s got the space.”
So, I ended up at my stepmother’s house. Martha Davies was Dad’s second wife. The one Mum used to cry over. I’d hated her from afar. Now, I saw her across the breakfast table.
“Gonna eat?” Martha grumbled, tapping a spoon against the saucepan.
“No,” I answered flatly.
“Suit yourself. Don’t go rooting for crisps then. Didn’t buy any.”
Her cottage was old but spacious, cosy. Dad had done it up before he died: coffee-coloured kitchen units, beige wallpaper in the lounge, even a new boiler. Still, despite the cosiness, I always felt a chill.
“Let’s be straight with each other,” Martha said one evening, finally losing patience. “You know I don’t love you. And you don’t love me. That’s mutual. But I promised your dad: you stay. You study, I’ll cook, keep the house clean – live here, but don’t you dare start acting the victim. Don’t start playing the orphan card. Life hasn’t exactly been a walk in the park for me either.”
I clenched my fists but stayed silent.
“My mum died,” Martha continued, her voice tight, “when I was seven. Dad hit the bottle. I was working three jobs since I was fifteen. And for the record, it was your dad chasing after *me*. So don’t go blaming me.”
That settled it. Our words got shorter, our stares sharper. We never rowed outright, but the air crackled with tension.
One day, returning from school, a note on the table stopped me cold.
>‘Gone to my sister’s in Bristol. Back in a week. Money’s here. Buy potatoes, cook for yourself. Remember the cat’s feed schedule. M.’
No ‘take care’, ‘love you’, ‘feel better’. No mention of me at all. Just the cat, potatoes, and a schedule. It hurt unexpectedly. I suddenly saw the emptiness. The telly silent, kettle cold, dust motes hanging undisturbed. For the first time, real fear crept in. “What if she doesn’t come back?” I whispered into the stillness.
I wandered into Martha’s room, opened her wardrobe, rifled through a drawer… and found photos. A little Martha with plaits. Another in a nurse’s uniform, younger. Then… one with Dad. And another… with me. Tiny, maybe three years old, held in her arms. And Martha… she was smiling. A real, warm smile. I sank onto her bed and, inexplicably, cried. Pain, resentment, and that cold fear all tangled together.
The days without Martha Davies dragged, yet felt strangely… free. I played music loud, ate from the saucepan, lazed on the sofa with the cat. But even in that lazy independence, something felt missing. On day four, boredom set in. Day five brought unease. On day six, Martha returned.
I was doing homework at the kitchen table when the front door banged.
“That cat’s gone round the twist!” Martha yelled from the hallway. “Yowling like he’s in an opera. Did you even feed him?”
“Yes. To the schedule,” I muttered, standing. But seeing her, I froze. She looked exhausted. Heavy bags, pale face, holding… an envelope? “Look what I brought you,” she said, oddly gentle, holding it out. “Something about your mother.”
My stomach lurched. “Mum?”
“Your mum had a sister. She married a Welshman and moved abroad. She was looking for you… but.” Martha paused. “I met her in Bristol. She left you this letter and a photo. Says you can write to her if you want to.”
My hands shook opening it. The photo showed a woman with a faint resemblance to Mum, holding a little girl, a man beside her. On the back, in neat, careful script:
>‘Dear Emily. We knew nothing of your loss. If you want to come, we’re here. Remember, sweetheart, you are not alone.’
“Why did you bring this?” I asked, confused, searching Martha’s face.
“Because you deserve a family,” she said simply. “And the choice is yours. I’m not your mother, Emily. Though… I try.”
The confession startled me. And suddenly, something shifted between us. “You… try?” I repeated, almost scoffing.
Martha snorted. “Well, yes. Didn’t chuck you out, did I? Even though I was tempted. Especially with you hogging the bathroom like flippin’ royalty!”
We both laughed then. Awkwardly. But it was the first time.
A week later, I wrote back to my aunt. Told her I was staying with Martha Davies. Then sat a long time, thinking about what I really wanted.
One evening, I ventured, “Mrs. Davies…? You’re not actually a terrifying stepmother.”
Martha raised an eyebrow. “Oh? So I’m some sort of Gandalf now, am I?”
“No… more like a witch with a heart. Kind of… cartoonish? Nasty at first, but good underneath.”
“Right. Fine. Dried frogs and eye of newt for tea tomorrow then.”
We laughed together again.
Two years passed.
I left school with top marks. Martha came to graduation in a smart green suit, eyes brimming with pride. Our life contained rows and slammed doors, but that felt like another lifetime. We saw each other clearly now. Respect went both ways.
At the adoption hearing, when Martha petitioned the court, she said quietly, “I’m not her birth mother. But I ask you to change my status. I want to be her legal mother. So she knows. She has a home. A place to come back to. Always.”
I cried right there in the courtroom.
Later, setting plates down, Martha grumbled, “What’s this then? Forgot to salt the stew again, did you?”
“Mum, I tried!”
We both froze. Stunned by the word that had slipped out. The first time I’d ever called her ‘Mum’.
Martha looked away. Then, she gave a small, wry smile. “Tried, she says. Fine, I’ll let it pass this time. You
The next morning, over tea that tasted just right, Martha muttered something brisk about needing milk, but lingered near the stove, her shoulders relaxed when Emily answered simply, ‘Alright, Mum’.
