Finished cleaning that loo yet, Maisie?” someone bellowed from the kitchen.
The child emerged—tiny frame, skin-and-bones, hair a wilderness of tangles—head dipped low, fingers puckered and ghostly from scrubbing. Merely nine years old. Nine. Already wise in bleach rituals, floor-sweeping sorcery, dodging her mum’s fists for imagined wrongdoings.
First caught sight of her visiting my boyfriend’s place one murky afternoon. She skirted round me quick as a fish. Eyes glued to floorboards. Slipped past my shoulder like I were vapour.
“Who’s that girl?” I asked him later.
“My daughter. Stays fortnightly… but her mum blocks proper involvement. Right tricky situation. Best steer clear.”
I didn’t steer clear.
One dusk, as she clattered dishes at the sink, I knelt on lino tiles beside her.
“Fancy me combing your hair?”
She froze. Stared through me like I’d chattered in moon-language.
“Will it sting?”
“Promise not. Dead gentle.”
She perched on the stool—slow, tentative, as though sitting were borrowed privilege. I worked knots loose strand by strand, patience humming soft as moth wings, tenderness spilling unbidden. Done, she eyed herself in the hallway mirror, fingertips grazing her reflection like discovering crown jewels.
After that, things shifted. She’d trail me room to room, peppering questions. Chuckled at my rubbish jokes.
Me? Couldn’t bear children. Doctors said it plain, clinical words sharp as scalpels. Yet she’d glance up… like I held her whole world.
Later, things soured proper with her mother. Being a social worker, I knew the legal footpaths. Fought fierce. Wept buckets. Pain gnawed bone-deep. Still, victory came.
Adopted her proper. Ditched the father—couldn’t be bothered, see—and kept her near.
Fourteen now. Hugs me each dawn, murmuring “Mum.”
Me? Convinced I’d never mother… now holding the world’s grandest daughter.
“Remember first time you combed my hair?” she asked lately.
“Aye,” I smiled. “That day… you combed my soul smooth too.”