**Diary Entry**
Mum took us to the childrens home right after New Years The girls cried. Wed always been home-raised. While Mum sorted out her personal lifeand she was always sorting it outmy sister Lottie and I lived with Gran. But after Gran passed on Boxing Day, Mum handed us over. No, she wasnt wildshe didnt drink or smoke. But was it fair, really? Her ex-husband living as he pleased, while she had to struggle alone with two children?
Mum undid Lotties little coat, muttering, *”Stop crying. Its just how things arewhat am I supposed to do? Youll be fine here, youll thank me later!”* Lottie was only three, too young to understand, but the sharpness in Mums eyes and the fear on seven-year-old my face told her enough. Mum hissed, *”Dont shame me. Im not abandoning youIll come back once Im settled. Ill fetch you at Easter!”* We quieted then, clinging to her promise.
The childrens home wasnt easy, though the staff were kind. They pitied us for being well-mannered, clever, and so painfully attached to each other. My dark, serious eyes unsettled them, while Lottie was all rosy cheeks and golden curls. Shed tug my sleeve. *”Whens Easter coming? Will Mum take us then?”* Id explain, again and again, though I didnt really know myself. The matron gave me a little calendar, circled the date. *”See? Each numbers a day. Cross them off, like I did when waiting for summer holidays.”* So I did, watching the chain of numbers shrink.
Easter morning, Lottie burst in clutching a dyed egg. *”Shes coming today! Im so happyarent you happy, Ellie?”* I was, at first. But by afternoon, dread settled in. Lottie whined; I snapped. When evening came and Mum hadnt, I spun lies about flooded roads and stranded buses. Lottie nodded, swallowing tears. But Mum never came.
One morning, Lottie was gone. *”Your mother took her,”* they said. Later, I learned shed only signed out Lottieleft me behind. But I got lucky. Two years on, Aunt Val found me. She was kind. Without realising, I started calling her *Mum*. Her love patched the holes in me, though I never spoke of Lottie or our mother.
Years passed. I trained as a nurse, married, had a son. We werent rich, but we were happy. Thena letter. From Lottie.
*”Dear Ellie, you probably dont remember me? I only recall your braids and those checkered slippers. Id love to see you! Weve moved backIm in Millfield now. Could I visit?”* Strange, inviting herselfbut I agreed.
At the bus station, Lottie limped toward me in a pale blue jacket, waving wildly. She knew me instantly, threw her arms around me, sobbing. *”Its you! My Ellie!”* I grumbledstill such a crybabybut my eyes stung.
Over supper, she chattered. *”Dont blame Mum. Uncle Steve said hed take her with kids, but she was scared to bring us both. Then they had a son, then a daughterVickys such a doll! Uncle Steves a brilliant carpenter, always busy. We even holiday down south sometimes. Ohin Year 7, a bull gored me. Lucky no one else was hurt, but now I limp. Ellie, this pies lovelyrecipe?”*
*”Do you work?”* I asked. *”Study? Got a beau? Youre so pretty!”*
She flushed. *”After the accident, so much money went on doctors I help at home, or with Uncle Steves accounts. Mums a council accountant. Friends? Never had time. And, wellthe limp.”*
I insisted she stay, promising to see her off next morning. She fell asleep the moment her head touched the pillow. Glancing at her clothesneatly folded, but threadbare, mended a dozen timesmy stomach twisted. Hospital orderlies earned pennies, but even they wouldnt wear this.
At 3 AM, I woke my husband. *”Take me to Millfield. Now.”* He swore, but drove.
Mum didnt recognise me when she opened the door. I knew her at oncestill elegant, still cold. *”Morning, Mum. Fancy meeting here.”* She frowned, as if I were some bothersome neighbour. *”Wheres Lottie? Tell her to come backthe kids need breakfast, and the place is a mess. Well, come in, since youre here.”*
Calmly, I said, *”Lotties staying with me. Pack her thingsand money, if youve got any. Ill get her a job, sort her leg out. Shes too lovely to limp. Understand?”*
Mum jutted her chin. *”Get out. Well fetch her ourselves.”*
I shook my head. *”Her names Lottie, not that girl. Call your cow Lottie if you likeyoull be milking it yourself from now on. Want the village to know how the respectable council accountant dumped her kids? Think your friends wont talk?”*
She slammed the door. Half an hour later, a stooped man emerged with a rucksack. *”Im Steve. Lotties thingstell her I wish her well. Well send money. Shes played Cinderella long enough. Dont blame your mum too muchlifes hard.”*
Walking back, I thoughtyes, lifes hard. But is *good* really so difficult? For men not to drink or stray, for women not to abandon children for the next man, for sisters not to forget each other?
Just to be decent people.
