Youre not my mum! Leave us alone! Go away!
heard every girl who ever thought of sharing a bed, a loaf of bread and a cheap sofa with Mark. Little Milly hissed viciously, flinging words, plush rabbit toys and, on occasion, a sharp piece of plastic whenever the hopeful stepmother crossed the threshold of their cramped council flat. Maybe you should take your hysterical kid to a therapist, or else another something will grow up spitting foam at everyone, the last woman to try and become Marks wife snarled as Milly smashed a porcelain dove that a neighbour had given them. Im sorry, please forgive me. I never thought shed throw it Mark apologized, sweeping the trembling head and tail of the dove into a dustpan. I warned you she never recovered from her mothers death
Listen, I just lost my dog too, but I dont shriek like a lunatic and I dont start hurling things!
A dog? You compare losing a mother to a dog?!
I loved her. Leave us, you bunch of freaks.
Sniffing the air as if detecting something foul, Milly twisted the key hard, then the other way. When the lock gave way she slammed the door so loudly the lights on the fourth floor flickered on in response.
Darling, why did you do that? Its been almost four years, cant you see I cant cope alone? Mark knelt before his daughter.
Dont worry, Ill help you. That aunt isnt needed, shes bad, all of them are bad, Milly whispered, hugging his neck.
Each new day pulled Mark deeper into himself. The cold October wind seemed to follow him yearround, until one day his heart warmed under Emmas smile. She not only warmed his heart but also dripped half her coffee on him in the underground. Afterward she tripped over his foot three times and even jabbed him with an umbrella. All of this happened after countless apologies.
Just in case you break your nose or sit on something painted, Emma said, pulling out a second pack of wet wipes as she dabbed Marks trousers. Does this happen often with you?
Occasionally, she answered without hesitation.
After their first tubeline coffee, Mark invited Emma for a second, then a third. Emma, ever kindhearted, seemed magnetised to mishaps: a bus door would pinch her, a neighbours cat would scratch half her face, and shed win every fine for jaywalking like an Olympic champion. She never noticed the chaos, treating it as normal, never getting angry or hurt. Mark fell for her harder than any seventhgrader could imagine.
When we get home, ignore her snide remarks. Shes good, really. I just dont know how to handle her. And all these women Im to blame, but
Calm down, breathe deeper, Emma soothed, rubbing his hand as they reached the stairwell. We dont have to go to your flat. What if we meet here, on the street?
On the street? Mark blinked.
Yes, you said she gets nervous at home. And my shoes smell of cats, Emma blushed. My neighbour asked me to watch her Maine Coon, but he doesnt like me, she added with a smile.
No worries. Ill bring her over, Mark said, tapping his intercom key. The door buzzed, and he hurried inside.
Emma was aimlessly scrolling the internet when a voice from behind called,
Is this your wallet?
Oh! Emma jumped, turning to see a sevenyearold girl clutching her wallet, money, cards and a prescription. Thanks, I almost lost it, Emma smiled.
Be more careful, the girl tutted. What are you doing here alone?
Im not alone; Im with my granddad and George, the girl pointed to an old man rummaging under the bonnet of a black foreign car, while a boy of the same age held a toolbox.
A small parcel fluttered onto Emmas shoulder from a nearby post.
Oh, a flying rat dropped on you, the girl giggled.
Just everyday life, Emma replied, pulling a pack of wipes from her bag. And its not a rat, its a pigeon.
Granddad says its a rat.
Pigeons arent rats. Can rats deliver letters to angels?
To angels?
Exactly. Pigeons used to be postmen, delivering letters to the sky. Emma spoke so convincingly that a few pigeons overhead seemed to listen.
The girl stared at the ceiling.
If they can deliver to angels, can they deliver to ordinary people?
Why not? Just give the right address.
You dont
Before she could finish, the intercom buzzed and Mark stepped out.
There you are! We left and you didnt say anything. I thought youd been kidnapped. Mark lifted the girl onto his shoulders. Did granddad call? You didnt pick up. Did you see the note?
I saw it, Mark said, introducing Emma. And this is Milly, he added, nodding toward his daughter.
Millys face hardened, her eyes flashing at Emma. The next halfhour hung heavy with awkward silence, conversations stalling like a stalled engine.
Sorry, Mark said as he escorted Milly home.
Its fine, Emma whispered faintly.
A week later Emma passed Millys block and saw her crouching behind a bench.
Hi. What are you doing?
Catching pigeons, Milly replied, eyes fixed on a grey bird pecking at mouldy bread. Oh, its you she muttered, turning toward Emma.
How do you plan to catch it? Emma asked, ignoring Millys stern gaze.
With my hands.
Youll catch very little that way. You need a net.
Where will I get one? Milly asked, puzzled.
I can bring one.
You?
Sure, why not? Wait here, feed it, Ill be back from the Childrens Centre.
Milly watched as Emma sprinted to the bus stop and returned forty minutes later with a large net and a sack of sunflower seeds.
Better to use more bait, increase the odds, Emma said, sprinkling half the sack on the ground near the block. Milly nodded silently.
Within five minutes a grey cloud of pigeons descended, landing with a soft coo on the pavement, huddling together.
Your turn, Emma handed Milly the net.
Milly sprang from behind the bench, flinging the net over the flock, which scattered in all directions.
Got one! Got one!
Great, now the letter! Emma pulled a pigeon from the net.
I havent even written it yet
What now? What do we do with it? Emma looked at Milly, who stared back, the pigeon whirring lazily in a 340degree view.
What are you all doing? The pavement is a mess, the caretaker shouted, sounding like a kettle about to boil.
Lets go home, Emma nudged Milly toward the entrance. Is dad home? she asked as they climbed the stairs.
Yes. Should I tell him youre here?
No need, Emma smiled, noticing the sadness in Millys eyes. Were here for something else. Write the letter, Ill wait on the landing.
Milly smiled and went inside. She returned five minutes later with a small bundle of thread.
Shh Emma placed a finger to her lips, pointing at the pigeon perched on the windowsill. Millys eyes sparkled with excitement.
Emma offered seeds; the pigeon pecked cautiously, then greedily. When the bird finally relaxed, Emma tried to grab it, but the pigeon darted away, wings slashing at her eyes, claws scraping her cheeks. She ran down the landing, trying to shake it off, while neighbours peered out, laughing and shouting.
For ten minutes Emma wiped herself and half the floor with wet wipes. The pigeon eventually fluttered back to the window, never trusting humans again. Milky disappeared into her flat, emerging with a bucket and mop.
Thatll be faster, she said, slapping the floor. The air smelled of damp stone.
Milly, where are you? Mark appeared in the doorway, looking bewildered at his daughter and Emma scrubbing the stairwell. What are you doing?
No more questions, Emma winked.
Yeah, dad, no need to know everything, Milly muttered.
Fine, I get it, Mark closed the door.
You know, I wondered why were catching them. There are proper pigeon lofts where professional postpigeons live, not freelance freelancers, Emma said after the cleaning.
Seriously? Why didnt you say something earlier?
I just forgot. Its been ages since I sent a letter to the sky.
Can we visit them? Please! Milly bounced.
We can, but only tomorrow. Ill pick you up after work, okay?
Yay! Milly squealed.
That evening Emma called Mark and explained everything.
Do you think its a good idea? When shes older she might resent us for the deception.
If Id been told the truth from the start, Id have gone mad.
Youre right. Are you coming without me?
Yes, I think well manage. Shes clever, Id love to talk to her.
Thanks.
The next day Emma collected Milly, and they took a taxi to the pigeon loft.
Wow, theyre so white and beautiful, Milly exclaimed, eyeing the birds. Can I pick any? Will it definitely deliver my letter to the right person? Does it have a GPS? I need it to reach my mum, please.
The important thing is to write the correct address, Emma reminded.
I wrote our home address, its duplicated, right? And I added whos writing so the angels wont mix it up, Milly said seriously.
Emma handed the caretaker a few pounds, and they attached the tiny note to a pigeons leg before releasing it skyward.
No problem, the man said, wiping a tear from his sleeve as he closed the cage.
Two days later Mark called.
Milly says a reply letter came from the sky, and it mentions you. Want to read it?
Of course, Ill be there soon.
The news shook Emma so much she left work early, accidentally deleting the project shed been working on all day. She rushed to Marks flat, knocked, and he opened the door.
Milly was playing in the yard with the neighbours boy. She left a letter on the table, probably too shy to hand it over herself.
Emma entered, unfolded a crumpled sheet written in childlike scrawl, full of misspellings and corrections:
Thank you, dear, for the letter. I miss you a lot and love you. I think about you with dad every day. I saw Emma, shes nice. She isnt your mum, but you can be friends. I would like that. Your mum.
Emma swallowed a lump, her throat dry, as the ink began to bleed from the tears.
Looks like she understood, Mark said, coming from behind and embracing her.
Emma nodded, still unable to hold back her sobs.
I always thought she needed a mother, but I didnt realize she just needed a friend, because she already has a mum, Emma whispered.
I never wanted more than that, she exhaled, glancing out the window at a pigeon perched on the sill, watching them. It seemed the bird was listening, ready to carry their story to the heavens.
In the end, they learned that love is not about filling a missing piece, but about sharing the space you already have. The greatest gift we can give is a genuine friendship, for it mends hearts more surely than any perfect plan ever could.
