The dim light of the kitchen cast shadows as Emily bit her lip, clutching her sketchbook.
“Mum, why can’t we go to art club tonight?” The seven-year-old’s voice wavered.
“Your talent isn’t going anywhere!” Julia waved her off with a sigh. “We’ll go next week. Registrations just opened.”
Emily’s shoulders slumped, a tear slipping free before she could wipe it away.
She didn’t understand why her mother always came home late, why weekends blurred into work. She’d grown used to waiting, perched on the windowsill, sketching her mother’s portrait—smiling, warm, the way she used to be. Some nights, she fell asleep holding the picture tight, pretending it was real.
“Don’t you want me to be happy?” Julia’s voice sharpened. “With a proper family? Wouldn’t you like a father?”
“And then we’d spend evenings together? Weekends?” Emily brightened.
“Yes!” Her mother’s grin didn’t reach her eyes.
“Brilliant! Also… can you get sick again? Just a little?”
“Excuse me?” Julia’s glare cut deep.
“Remember last year? When you had flu? We painted, watched cartoons, made pancakes…” Emily’s voice softened, lost in the memory. “Best days ever.”
“Don’t talk rubbish! Grab your bag—school, now!”
Then came *him*—Uncle Michael. At first, Emily eyed the stranger with suspicion, but when he handed her a Barbie doll—one she’d never dared wish for—her resistance crumbled.
“Blimey! She’s got spare clothes and everything?”
“Course! Full wardrobe, furniture set!” Michael beamed, relieved he’d guessed right.
From then on, life sparkled. Recognizing her talent, Michael enrolled her in an art academy.
“You’ll take her,” Julia snapped. “I’m swamped at work.”
“Fine by me.”
After classes, they’d stroll through autumn-kissed parks, stopping at cafés for iced lattes and éclairs. He told stories of his childhood—dreams of adventure, fishing trips with his dad.
“Mum, are you happy at last? We’ve got a proper family now,” Emily ventured one evening.
“Of course!” Julia’s smile frayed at the edges.
“Then why d’you still work weekends?”
“Enough!” Julia’s shout rattled the walls.
“Don’t snap at her,” Michael cut in. “She’s asking what I’ve been wondering too.”
“Don’t like it? Leave!” Julia’s fists clenched.
“Maybe I will. Pity about Emily—brightest kid I know. Shame her own mother can’t see it.”
Emily clung to him, whispering, “Please don’t go.”
He sighed. “Grab your things. Art class won’t wait.”
Then, one day, his things vanished. Emily’s hope flickered—*Maybe a business trip?*—but suitcases didn’t lie. In her room, a note:
*”Em, I had to go. Keep drawing. You’ll go far. If life gets dark, call. You know Gran’s number. Chin up—it’ll all work out. —Uncle Mike.”*
She swiped at tears, packing her sketchbook.
Julia worked past midnight again. Emily didn’t crumble. She’d make him proud.
“Love, you want me happy, don’t you?” Julia asked weeks later.
“Suppose.”
“I’ve met someone… I’m in love.”
“Again? What about Uncle Mike? You *loved* him too,” Emily muttered. “I don’t want another stranger.”
“You won’t cross paths. David doesn’t know I’ve a daughter. You’ll stay elsewhere—just temporarily!”
“Where?”
“Not Mrs. Thompson’s. She can’t take you long-term. There’s… a boarding school. You’ll make friends—show them your art.”
Emily’s vision blurred. *Boarding school?* She wasn’t naughty—she got top marks, tidied up, even cooked eggs when Julia worked late. *Why?*
Days blurred. She sketched at the windowsill—family scenes, over and over.
“Same drawings, love?” Mrs. Wilkins, the matron, peered over her shoulder. “Who’re they?”
“My family. This one’s the park, that’s the river…”
“Who’s the man? Your dad?”
“No. Uncle Mike. He’s brilliant. I’d call him, but—”
“He doesn’t visit?”
“He doesn’t *know*.”
Mrs. Wilkins patted her head. “Your mum’ll fetch you soon.”
Emily trudged to the stationery. *I’ll find him when I’m grown.*
One rainy afternoon, she sketched a grinning sun.
“Still here?” Mrs. Wilkins nudged. “Everyone’s rehearsing for the spring concert.”
“Don’t wanna.”
The matron winked, beckoning her close. “Still need that call?”
“Yes! *Please!*”
“Quick then.”
The office phone felt forbidden. Emily dialed Gran’s number, heart hammering.
“Hello?”
“Margaret! It’s Emily—remember me?”
“Em! Of course! How are you?”
“Is Uncle Mike there? It’s urgent.”
“He’s abroad. What’s wrong?”
“I’m at St. Mary’s. Wanted him to know.”
“Good heavens! I’ll tell him. We’ll come!”
“Don’t know the address—”
“He’ll find you!”
Mrs. Wilkins signaled: *time’s up.*
Days stretched. Hope dimmed. Then—
“Emily Smith! Visitor!” Mrs. Wilkins burst in.
“Mum?”
“Your dad and gran, I reckon.”
Downstairs, Michael and Margaret stood waiting.
“Chin up, Em!” He caught her as she barreled into him. “Forgot our motto, eh?”
“Thought you’d never come.”
“Sorry, sweetheart. Had to sort guardianship with your mum.”
Margaret squeezed her hand. “Fancy living with us?”
“And then? Back here? Or… Mum’ll take me?”
“Not St. Mary’s. And Julia… she’s moved on. Come home with us—for good.” Michael’s voice cracked. “I may not be blood, but I’ll be the best dad I can.”
**Twelve years later**
Emily’s gallery debut glittered with guests. Critics murmured praise over her canvases.
“Hello, darling.” Julia’s voice sliced through the crowd.
Emily stiffened. “What do you want?”
“I’m your *mother*!”
“You’re a stranger. My family?” She turned to Michael and Margaret nearby. “*They* raised me.”
“They’re not blood!”
“You discarded me like rubbish. Only now I’m successful do you care.” Emily’s smile stayed ice-cold. “Are you happy now?”
Julia faltered.
“I don’t hate you. But *they* gave me everything.” She watched her mother flee before facing Michael.
“Who was that?”
“Just a client. Wanted a portrait.”
“Will you do it?”
“No.” Emily tucked her arm in his. “I only paint for family.”
He pulled her close, heart full. She’d done it—artist, dreamer, *his* daughter. And that’s all that mattered.
