The kitchen voice rasped: «Finished the loo yet, Millie?»
She emerged, slight, frail, hair a hurricane of knots, head bowed, fingertips puckered raw. Only nine. Nine. Yet she knew the bleach-sting scent, the sweep of endless floors, how to dodge her mum’s blows for «doing it wrong.»
I saw her first at my then-boyfriend’s. She ghosted past me, a shadow avoiding my eyes.
«Who’s that girl?» I asked him later.
«My daughter. I have her a few weeks… but her mum makes it sticky. Best leave it.»
I didn’t leave it.
One afternoon, I knelt beside her at the sink suds.
«Fancy a proper brush-through?»
She hesitated, eyes wide like I spoke gibberish.
«Will it hurt?»
«Promise not. Gentle as anything.»
She perched cautiously, as if undeserving. Slowly, patiently, a tenderness welling unbidden, I worked the snarls free. Done, she gazed into the mirror, fingers tracing the smoothness like discovered treasure.
From then, something shifted. She became my wee shadow, asking questions, chuckling at my silly jokes.
And me… barren. Doctors said it plain, sterile words on repeat. Yet she looked at me like she’d found her mum.
Time passed. Her mother’s situation soured. As a social worker, I knew the legal paths. I fought. I wept raw tears. Bones ached. But I did it.
Adopted her. Left the father – he couldn’t be bothered. She stayed with me.
Fourteen now. Each dawn, her arms wrap me tight. «Mum,» she breathes.
And me? Who thought motherhood a locked door… Now holds the world’s most beautiful girl.
«Remember,» she said just yesterday, «that first time you brushed my hair?»
«Oh yes,» I smiled back. «You combed my soul that day too.»