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Hello, I’m Your Granddaughter
The air in the childrens home was thick with tension.
“Your mums here for you. Pack your things.”
They said every kid in care dreamed of hearing those words. But Emily flinched as if struck.
“Come on, get moving. Why are you just sitting there?”
Helen Whitmore watched her, baffled by the lack of joy. Life in care was no picnickids ran away to the streets just to escape it. Yet here was Emily, being handed a way out, and she looked like shed been sentenced.
“I dont want to go,” Emily muttered, turning toward the window. Her friend Lily shot her a sideways glance but stayed silent. She didnt get it either. Lily wouldve given anything to go homeif she still had one.
“Emily, whats wrong?” Helen pressed. “Your mums waiting.”
“I dont want to see her. I dont want to go back.”
The other girls had stopped whispering now, all ears. Helen exhaled. This wasnt a conversation for an audience.
“Come with me.”
She led Emily into an office, softening her tone. “Your mums made mistakes, but shes trying. They wouldnt let her take you otherwise.”
“You think this is the first time?” Emily scoffed, shaking her head. “This is my second stint in care. Last time, she played the parthid the bottles, cleaned up, even got a job. Looked perfect for the social workers. Then they gave me back, and she went right off the rails. She only wants me for the benefits.”
“Emily, my hands are tied. Surely homes better than”
“Better?!” Emilys voice cracked. “You ever gone to school in broken trainers when its freezing? Ever hid in your room praying your mums drunk mates dont come knocking? Why wont they just take her rights away?”
Tears welled. The home wasnt paradise, but at least she got fed. At least she was safe.
“I cant help you,” Helen sighed.
Emily was sharptoo sharp for a kid whod been through hell. Maybe her mum had been clever once too, before the drink took over. Seven years in this job, and Helen had never seen a child fight going home.
“Cant I live on my own?” Emilys voice was raw. “Id work. Rent a room.”
“Not till youre eighteen.”
“Im nearly sixteen! Im not a kid!”
Helen knew she wasnt. But the law didnt care.
“Is there anyone else? Someone who could take custody?”
Emily hesitated. “My nans still alive. Never met her. She cut ties with my dad. Cant blame her.”
Helen leaned in. “Try living with your mum. Ill look into your nan. Deal?”
Emily nodded. What choice did she have?
Her mum put on a showsobbing, begging forgiveness, hugging her tight. Emily stayed stiff. She knew the act would crumble the second they got home.
It did. Day one, her mum held it together. Day two, she came back with a bottle.
Then the nightmare returned. Mum drunk, fired, the flat reeking of despair. When a wasted bloke staggered into Emilys room one night, she fought him off, shaking. Enough.
Helen had given her a number. She called.
“I found your nan,” Helen said. “Ill talk to her. If she agrees, she can take custody.”
Emily begged to come. She didnt know Margaret Whitmore, but she prayed she wouldnt turn her away. Just two years. Then shed be free.
The door opened to a woman in her sixtiestall, proud.
“What do you want?”
“Margaret Whitmore?” Helen confirmed.
“Yes.”
“Im your granddaughter,” Emily blurted. No point dancing around it.
“What?”
“Your sons daughter.”
Margarets face stayed blank. “And?”
Helen stepped in. “Emilys in an unsafe situation. You could take guardianship.”
“Why would I?”
Helen faltered. “Shes your family.”
“I dont know her. Frankly, Id rather forget my son existed.”
Emily cut in. “I dont know you either. And Id love to forget my parents. But legally, Im stuck. I just need a place to stay till Im eighteen. Ill buy my own food, my own clothes. The state moneys yours. I just need out.”
Helen shot her a warning look. But Margaret seemed impressed.
“Sharp for an alcoholics kid.” She studied Emily. “Two years, then youre gone?”
“Promise.”
“Fine. Rules: dont call me Nan, dont touch my things, no friends over. Clear?”
“Crystal.”
Helen pulled strings. Social services visited Emilys mum again. This time, they filed to strip her rights. Margaret signed the papers.
Emily played tough, but fear gnawed at her. Two months of school left, no money. What if Margaret really let her starve?
That first night, Margaret called her to the table. Proper home-cooked foodreal, warm. Emily hadnt eaten like that in years.
The next day, Margaret eyed Emilys battered trainers and sighed.
“After school, were buying you decent clothes.” No room for argument.
“Ive got no money.”
“My treat. Id rather spend than be embarrassed.”
The shopping spree was surreal. Margaret even asked her opinion.
A week later, Margaret cornered her.
“Hows school?”
“Fine.”
“Let me see your grades.”
Emily smirked. “Its all online now.”
“God help us. Show me.”
The grades were good. Emily had worked hardno one would hand her a future.
“Impressive,” Margaret said. “Youre staying for sixth form. Then uni.”
Emily stiffened. “Thats for kids with parents who can pay.”
Margaret cleared her throat. “Youre staying. Understood?”
Emilys throat tightened. Shed wanted this.
Slowly, the walls between them crumbled. Margaret asked about her lifesometimes, hesitantly, about her son.
Emily aced her A-levels, got into uni. Margaret even hired tutors.
That summer, Emily found a job. Shed agreed to move out after schooluni halls were waiting.
Then, late August, Margaret collapsed. A heart attack.
Emily found her on the floor, limp. For one awful moment, she thought she was dead.
At the hospital, Emily burst in.
“Nan” She caught herself. “Margaret. How are you?”
Margaret smiled weakly, stroking her hair.
“Call me Nan. It suits you. Ill be fine. Long recovery, but Ill manage.”
“Im staying. Till youre better.”
“I wont be a burden.”
Emilys voice broke. “I was yours for two years. A stranger dumped on you. You gave me more than my mum ever did. Now let me help.”
Margarets breath hitched.
“Fine. One condition.”
“What?”
“No uni halls. Youre staying with me.”
Emily hugged her tightfinally, after all this time.
“Deal.”
“Oh, You Drive Me Mad!… I Eat Wrong, I Dress Wrong, I Do Everything Wrong!”—Pavel’s Voice Broke Into a Shout. “You Can’t Do Anything Right!… Can’t Even Earn a Decent Living… And You’re No Help Around the House, Ever!”—Marina Sobbed, “…And There Are No Children…” She Whispered. Belka, the Ten-Year-Old Ginger-and-White Cat, Watched Silently from Atop the Cupboard as Another Family “Tragedy” Unfolded. She Knew, Even Felt, That Mum and Dad Loved Each Other Dearly—So Why Say Such Hurtful Things? Mum Ran Off Crying, Dad Chain-Smoked by the Window, and Belka Thought to Herself: “What This Home Needs Is Happiness, And Happiness Means Kids… Somehow, We Need to Find Children…” Belka Herself Couldn’t Have Kittens—She’d Been Neutered Long Ago. As for Mum, The Doctors Said It Was Possible, But Something Never Quite Worked Out… The Next Morning, After Mum and Dad Left for Work, Belka Squeezed Out the Window and Went to See Her Neighbour, Whiskers, for Advice. “Why On Earth Would You Want Kids?” Sniffed Whiskers. “Ours Always Come Over—Hide From Them If You Can! They Smear My Muzzle With Lipstick Or Squeeze Me ‘Til I Can’t Breathe!” Belka Sighed, “We Need Proper Children… But Where On Earth Do We Get Them?” “Well… That Stray Molly on the Street Just Had Five… Take Your Pick…” Whiskers Shrugged. On Her Own Daring, Belka Tiptoed Balcony to Balcony Down to the Street, Squeezed Through The Bars of a Basement Window, and Called Out, “Molly, Could You Come Here for Just a Moment?” From Deep Within the Cellar Came the Desperate Squeaking of Kittens. Belka Cautiously Approached. Underneath the Heater, Five Blind, Mismatched Kittens Searched The Air, Wailing Hungrily. Molly Hadn’t Been There for At Least Three Days. The Babies Were Starving… Feeling She Might Cry, Belka Carefully Carried Each Kitten to the Entrance of Her Building. Lying Beside the Screeching, Hungry Bunch, She Waited Anxiously for Mum and Dad to Come Home. When Pavel and Marina Returned from Work, They Were Astonished—There Was Belka, Never Before Out Alone, Being Nursed by Five Noisy Kittens. “How on Earth Did This Happen?” Pavel Stammered. “It’s a Miracle…” Whispered Marina. They Scooped Up Belka and the Kittens and Rushed Inside. As Pavel Watched Their Purring Cat in a Box Full of Babies, He Asked, “So… What Are We Going To Do With Them?” “I’ll Hand-Feed Them… When They’re Grown, We’ll Find Them Homes… I’ll Call My Friends,” Whispered Marina. Three Months Later, Still Stunned By The Miracle, Marina Sat Stroking Her Feline Clan, Repeating to Herself, “This Can’t Be Real… This Can’t Happen…” And Soon After, She and Pavel Wept for Joy, Laughing and Embracing, “I’m So Glad We Finished Building This House!” “Yes! Perfect for a Child to Play Outside!” “And the Kittens Can All Run Around!” “There’s Room for Everyone!” “I Love You!” “Oh, I Love You Even More!” Wise Old Belka Wiped Away a Tear—Life Was Finally Coming Together…
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Igor Never Came Back from Holiday: “Why hasn’t your husband written or called?” “No word, Vera—not after nine days, not after forty,” Lyuda would joke, adjusting her work apron over her broad waist. “So he’s gone off the rails, or worse, then,” her neighbour nodded sympathetically. “Well, wait and see. Have the police said anything?” “Everyone’s silent, Vera—quiet as fish in that sea of his.” “Life, eh… fate.” That conversation weighed heavy on Lyudmila as she swept the autumn leaves from her doorstep in the dreary fall of 1988. Three years into her well-earned retirement, she’d had to take up work as a council cleaner to make ends meet. Life had always been simple—she and her husband, both dutiful workers, had raised a son, no scandal, no sorrow. Then Igor went on a seaside holiday and never returned. She’d phoned every hospital, every police station, even the morgue. Her son, stationed with the military, helped with inquiries—it was discovered Igor checked out of his hotel but never boarded the train home. Lyudmila wanted to go search for her husband, but her son insisted he’d handle it. Weeks passed, and she kept herself busy to stifle her fears. Then, as suddenly as he’d vanished, Igor reappeared—no suitcase, just the same navy suit and a weary silence. As she fussed to feed him and her son, the truth unravelled: Igor had been living with another woman by the sea, seeking “freedom.” The shock, the ache of betrayal—Lyudmila couldn’t bear it. Igor, shamed and lost, tried to return weeks later, but Lyudmila stood firm. It wasn’t just heartbreak—it was the pain of not knowing, of years shared and suddenly made strange. She swept her pathway, watching leaves collect and blow away, knowing sometimes those who hurt us most have already gone with the wind. (Original Title Adapted for English Culture: Igor Never Came Back from Holiday: The Disappearance, the Heartbreak, and the Road Swept Clean)
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