28October2025
Dear Diary,
Tonight Im still haunted by the echo of shouted words that still reverberate through the hallway of our council block in Manchester. Youre not my mother! Leave us alone!the cry that every girl who ever thought of sharing a roof, a loaf of bread and that cramped sofa with Andrew has heard. Little Amelia, my daughter, snapped like a scalded cat, hurling plush rabbits, sharp plastic bits and bitter insults at anyone who dared cross the threshold of our modest flat. You should take her to a counsellor before she grows into a snarling beast, the last lady who tried to act as a stepmother snarled, as Amelia smashed a porcelain dove that a neighbour had gifted us.
Andrew swore apologetically, scooping up the trembling head and tail of the broken dove with a dustpan. I warned you shed never recover from her mothers death, he muttered, his voice shaking. I tried to keep my composure, but the loss of my own dog earlier this year resurfaced in my mind, a grief that I couldnt throw around like a tantrum. Youre comparing a mothers loss to a dog? I snapped, feeling the sting of their eyes on me. I loved her. Leave us, you lot of misfits.
With a sudden twist of the key, the door slammed shut so hard the lights on four floors flickered on, as if the building itself were reacting to the noise. Darling, why are you doing this? Its been almost four years and Im still drowning alone, Andrew knelt before Amelia, his voice breaking. Dont worry, Ill help you. That aunt of yours isnt neededshes bad, all of them are bad, I whispered, pulling his jacket tighter around his neck.
Each day Andrew retreats further into himself. The October wind feels like a perpetual chill, as if winter has moved in early. Then, unexpectedly, a woman named Ellie Whitaker warmed a corner of his heart. She didnt just warm his heart; she spilled half her latte on him on the Northern line, stepped on his foot three times, and even jabbed him with an umbrella. All of this happened after countless apologies and a thousand Im sorrys.
Just in case you bruise your nose or get a painted one, Ellie said, pulling out a second pack of wet wipes to clean his trousers. Does this happen to you often? I asked. Occasionally, she replied without a pause.
After that first metro coffee, Andrew invited Ellie for a second, then a third. She turned out to be a magnet for mishapsdoor hinges that trapped her on a bus, a neighbours cat that scratched half her face, and a record of fines for jaywalking that could rival an Olympic tally. Yet Ellie seemed oblivious to the chaos, taking it all with a smile, never holding a grudge. Andrew fell for her completely, as a seventhgrader falls for a crush. A stepmother for Amelia seemed impossible to imagine, even a dangerous one, because wherever Ellie went, trouble seemed to orbit within a fivemile radius.
One evening, as we stood outside the lift, I tried to calm Andrew. When we get home, ignore her jokes. Shes good, I just dont know how to reach her. All these women Im to blame, but I trailed off. Ellie pressed her hand to his arm. Dont rush. We dont have to go to yours. Lets meet here, on the street. She laughed, My shoes smell of catsmy neighbour asked me to look after his Maine Coon, and he isnt fond of me. I teased, Dont worry, Ill bring her along. I swiped the intercom card, the door buzzed, and I stepped back inside.
Ellie was browsing aimlessly on her phone when a small voice called from behind. Is this your wallet? The girl, about seven or eight, held out Ellies purse, brimming with cash, cards and a prescription. Thanks, I almost lost it, Ellie sighed, smiling. The child sniffed, You need to be more careful. She introduced her grandfather and a boy named Oliver, both tinkering under the bonnet of a black foreign car parked nearby.
A parcel then flew off a lamppost onto Ellies shoulder. Oh dear, a flying rat pooped on you, the girl giggled. Ellie laughed it off, Just a pigeon, not a rat, and pulled out another pack of wipes. The child insisted pigeons were angels postmen, delivering letters to the heavens. I tried not to laugh too loudly, lest the neighbours hear.
Just then the lift doors whooshed open and Andrew appeared, breathless. There you are! I thought youd been kidnapped. He scooped the girl into his arms. Your granddad called, you didnt answer. Did you see the note? he asked. He introduced Ellie as the new girl and pointed to Amelia, who glowered at Ellie with a cold stare.
The next half hour was a painfully awkward silence, tension hanging like a damp cloth. Sorry, Andrew said as we left, Take care. Ellies voice was barely a whisper, All right.
A week later I passed their block and saw Amelia perched on a bench, clutching a loaf of stale bread. Hello. What are you doing? I asked. Catching pigeons, she replied, eyes fixed on a grey bird pecking at the crust. And you? I probed. With my hands, she said bluntly. Youll catch very few that way. I offered a large net and a bag of seeds, promising to fetch more.
I sprinted to the bus stop, returned forty minutes later with a massive net and a sack of sunflower seeds. Better to use a proper lure, I suggested, scattering half the seeds on the pavement. Amelia nodded, silent.
Within minutes a grey, cooing cloud settled over the courtyard, pigeons descending en masse. I handed Amelia the net. She lunged, trapping the flock, and shouted, Got it! Got it! I plucked a pigeon from the net, Heres the letter! she said, though she hadnt yet written one.
A furious cleaning lady roared from the stairwell, What a mess youve made of the landing! I coaxed Amelia back inside, asking, Is dad home? She answered, Yes. Should we tell him we came? I smiled, No need. Were here for other reasons. Write the letter, Ill wait for you on the landing. Amelia disappeared, returning five minutes later with a bundle of thread.
I hushed the pigeon on the windowsill with a finger and a soft shhh. Amelias eyes sparkled with excitement. I offered the bird a handful of seeds; it pecked hesitantly, then flapped wildly, striking at my face. The pigeon crashed into the stairwell, feathers everywhere, while neighbours peered down, laughing and shouting. I spent the next ten minutes wiping down the landing with wet wipes, the pigeon finally fluttering out the window, never to trust humans again. Amelia emerged with a bucket and mop, sloshing water across the tiles.
Andrew popped his head into the hallway, bewildered by the scene. Whats going on? he asked. Dont ask questions, Ellie winked. Amelia muttered, No need to know everything, dad. Andrew sighed, Alright, I get it.
What if we just needed a proper pigeon loft? Ellie mused after the cleaning was done. Why didnt you say earlier? Amelia exclaimed, bouncing with excitement. We could go tomorrow, Ill pick you up after work. Yay! she squealed.
That evening I called Andrew, spilling every detail. He replied, Do you think its a good idea? When she grows up and learns the truth, she might hold a grudge. I admitted, If Id been told the truth from childhood, Id have gone mad. He agreed, Right, youre right. Can you manage without me tomorrow? I assured him, Shes sharp; Ill talk to her.
The next day Ellie collected Amelia, and we drove in a black cab to a pigeon sanctuary on the outskirts of Leeds. Look how white and beautiful they are, Amelia cooed, pointing at the birds. Can I choose any? Will it deliver my letter straight to mum? Does it have GPS? she demanded. The keeper smiled, Just write the correct address and the index. Amelia scribbled, Our home address, plus a note that its from my daughter, so the angels dont mix it up. Ellie handed the keeper a £12 tip, and they tied a tiny note to a pigeons leg before releasing it skyward.
Two days later Andrew called. Amelia says a reply arrived from the sky, about you. I felt a rush of nerves, so I left work early, accidentally deleting the project file Id been polishing all day. I rushed up to the flat, knocked, and Andrew opened the door. Amelias been out in the yard with a neighbours boy. She left a note on the table for you, she was shy.
I unfolded the crumpled paper, childish scrawl spilling:
Thank you, mum, for the letter. I miss you so much and love you. I think about you and dad every day. I saw Ellie, shes nice. She isnt your mother, but you can be friends. Id like that. Your mum.
A lump rose in my throat; the ink smeared as tears fell. Andrew placed his arms around me, whispering, She understood, didnt she? I could barely speak, the tears still burning. I always thought she needed a mother, but she just needs a friend, because she already has a mum. I exhaled, looking out the window at a pigeon perched on the sill, as if listening to our story, ready to carry it to the heavens.
It feels strange, writing all this down, but perhaps putting it on paper will help me make sense of the mess that has become our lives.
E. WhitakerIn the quiet that followed, I finally understood that love could be both a rescue and a release, and I let the pigeon fly away, trusting that some messages were meant to be carried onward, not kept.
