Me, Mine, All About Me…

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Author John SmithReading 3 minViews 3Published by October 6, 2025

**Diary Entry**

The phone ringsschool calling.
“Mum, Im done. On my way home.”
Homes a thirty-minute bus ride. An hour and a half passes. I call.
“Hello?”
In the backgroundshouting, swearing, chaos.
“Where are you?”
“Be there soon, just wait.”
The line goes dead.
I call back. No signal.

How long does it take for a mothers mind to spiralthroat tight, hands shaking?
For me? Ten seconds. Maybe less.
Then the dread sets in. A fight? Mugged? Something worse. Something irreversible.

I grab my coat. Where do I even go? Trace the bus route. Check the nearby estates. Call his form tutor? Nopolice first. No, better ring Tom, our family friend from the Met. Can they trace a switched-off phone?

I pace between rooms, watching both entrances. Dial again. Still nothing. Another twenty minutes of sickening silence.

Jeans. Jumper. Passport. Keys. Tear the flat apart looking for my phonewhere is it? Fling blankets aside. Somethings in the way. Oh. My phone. In my hand the whole time.

Shrug on my coat. Dont cry. Dont you dare. Christ, I shouted at him this morning for an unmade bed. What does a bloody bed matter? WHAT DOES IT MATTER, YOU FOOL? Never again. Never. My boy.

The intercom buzzes.
“Yes?”
“Special delivery for Her Majestys finest!”
“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?”
“Mum, just open the doorpeople are waiting,” says the cheeky git.

I toss my coat aside. March to the door. “Ill kill him,” I think grimly.

The lift opens. There he islanky as a lamppost, backpack sagging, jacket pocket bulging.
“Where. Were. You?” I hiss.
“Mum, stayed late for history club.”
“You couldnt text?”
“All a bit last-minute. By the time I realised, the bell had gone.”
“A quick call? So I didnt panic?”
“You always say no phones in class!”
“I heard swearing when you rang!”
“Oh, that was just some drunks at the bus stop arguing. Tried to tell you, but my battery died.”

I stand there, gasping.
“Here.” He pulls a Cornetto from his pocket. Grins.

That smilemine. His grandfathers.

Three years ago, when money was tight, hed take a fiver to hang with mates. Always came back with a Dairy Milk. No idea how he saved the quid. But hed hand it over on the doorstep.
“Mum. For you.”

For me. Mine. About me.
Thisthis is forever. Every blessed, heart-swelling second of being his mum.

If only I could stop the panicking.

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Me, Mine, All About Me…

Second Family As she grew older, Lisa realized her father and his new wife had gotten together suspiciously quickly. She also noticed that Vera—just about six months older than herself—and Maksim, three years her junior, bore an uncanny resemblance to both Lisa and her father. One of Lisa’s most vivid childhood memories is of a beautiful doll with bright red hair at the supermarket checkout. Lisa remembers tugging at her father’s sleeve, begging him to buy the doll, and her father stooping to quietly, reproachfully say: “Lissie, you can’t be so selfish. Your little brother needs medicine, we all need something to eat before payday, and you’re demanding a doll.” As if she didn’t already have enough toys at home. Lisa felt as if not just her father, but the whole queue—everyone close enough to overhear—was staring at her in judgment. How could a good girl (and Lisa desperately wanted to be good) want a toy when her brother needed medicine? And when there wasn’t enough food at home? Yes, there were toys—most of them broken by Vera and Maksim, but who cared? Certainly not the adults, who had much more important things to do than worry about Lisa’s toys, or her longing for that red-haired doll. When her mother was alive, Lisa would sometimes get a doll. Not always—by age five Lisa understood the days of the week and knew that if her mum took her from nursery and they stopped at the shop on the way home, there was no point pleading, she’d just be scolded for begging. But on weekends, Mum would bring Lisa to the shop and say: “All right, Lisa, if it’s under a tenner, you can pick whatever you want.” Lisa knew a tenner: that was one and a zero and another zero. If there were only two digits before the decimal on the price tag, it was fair game, and Mum would keep her promise. Mum loved her, never shamed Lisa for wanting things for herself, even if she scolded for whining or for one of those tantrums Lisa had seen other children throw—flopping about on supermarket floors until their parents gave in “just to shut them up.” But that never worked on Mum—who didn’t just scold but would cancel cartoons for the day. Still, weekends might bring a little toy—without any lectures about selfishness, even if the family was struggling. And they were: Mum was chronically ill, and after years of treatment, nothing worked. Lisa was six when she lost her mother and the first year after was devoid of toys, bedtime stories, or any real sign of love. Her father dropped Lisa at nursery, then school, collected her, fed her something bland—boiled pasta and sausages (she hated his cooking, but there wasn’t anything else)—and sat in front of the television until late, immersed in football, boxing, or some talk show. Lisa would ask to watch cartoons but Dad would order her to study or read. And she’d obey—fortunately, she’d discovered she loved books. Maybe as her father buried himself in matches and talk shows to avoid reality, Lisa escaped into the make-believe worlds of her favourite books. Her step-siblings appeared half a year later. As she grew up, Lisa realized how strangely quickly her father and his new wife, Dasha, had settled together. And Vera, half a year older, and Maksim, three years younger, both bore an uncanny resemblance to herself and her father. But as a child, Lisa didn’t connect all the dots. She simply couldn’t understand why Dad seemed to love Vera and Maksim while only ever reproaching Lisa for selfishness. Then her father moved them into Dasha’s house in the country. There wasn’t much space, so no room for Lisa—she was put to bed in the hallway, a little nook curtained off between Vera’s and Maksim’s bedrooms. Vera, of course, loved to yank back the curtain and drag Lisa out of bed by her hair. “I keep waking her, but she won’t get up! We’ll be late for school!” she’d protest. No one cared that this was the only way Lisa ever got woken up, or that school only mattered on weekdays—this became her routine even on weekends. As did the redistribution of her belongings and toys: anything Lisa had was handed over to Vera. “What do you need these toys for? You’re always with your nose in a book,” her father would say, when Lisa once dared ask for her beloved teddy bear, sent from Scotland by her grandmother. Grandma, her mum’s mum, lived far up north and worked an impressive and, as Lisa later realized, highly-paid job. She loved her granddaughter, but almost never saw her. Calls were rare. On one such call, Lisa complained about having her teddy stolen by Vera. Dad was furious, then sat Lisa down for a serious talk. “We live in Dasha’s house. She takes care of us. Do you know what she’s done for me?” If not for Dasha, after your mum died, I would’ve been lost. Would you want Dad to disappear and you be left all alone?” Lisa, eight, shook her head. As unfair as she found her father’s treatment, the prospect of being entirely without him was scarier. “So why are you trying to sabotage my family and ruin my life with your petty complaints, you ungrateful girl?!” Over a silly teddy—just a bundle of cotton and cloth—you’d cause this much grief? Yes, we gave Vera your teddy. She wanted it, so we gave it to her. You need to get used to the idea you’re not the only child in this family. Others deserve nice things too. You have a well-off grandma who always sends you gifts—Vera’ll never have that. Why should she suffer because you keep getting treats, but she doesn’t? You have to share. Even as a little girl, Lisa sensed something was deeply illogical, inconsistent about Dad’s arguments. But she had no way to voice it—no one would listen to a child’s logic or her perspective, no matter how quietly reasoned. After all, the family had bigger problems, right? The main problem was Maksim. He had serious neurological issues—something, Lisa later learned, from birth trauma. Every month, so much money was spent on his medicines and therapies. Maksim was taken everywhere—from swimming and massage to horseback riding—anything that might help. It worked, a bit: he developed slowly, behind his peers, but there was hope he’d eventually catch up with other kids his age. But all that money going to Maksim meant Dad praised him for the smallest achievement, while Lisa’s writing, academic prizes, and top marks went unnoticed. “That’s no big deal,” her father scoffed when Lisa proudly showed off a certificate. “At least it’ll make good fire-starters for the oven. If you could earn money for Maksim’s medicine, then you’d be useful. Enough waving your papers at me…” After that, Lisa retreated into herself and stopped trying to talk to her father. Unexpectedly, it was her stepmother Dasha who offered a little attention and care; far from the wicked stepmum from old tales. Later, Lisa would admit Dasha didn’t owe her anything: she wasn’t obliged to look after a stepchild or love Lisa as her own. But, when Lisa turned eleven and started helping with chores around the house, Dasha did call her “my little helper”—which Lisa lapped up, if only for the praise. She even took strange comfort in the evening rows between Dasha and her own daughter, Vera, who accused Dasha of loving Lisa more. “You’re always praising her, calling her your sunshine, but I get nothing but grief! Dad at least loves me, unlike you…” “Well, Dad only puts up with your antics because he loves me! Whether you’re sneaking cigarettes behind the school or bullying the younger kids, I’m tired of being summoned by teachers!” Lisa never gives me any bother. Unlike you…” Vera eventually ran away. It was so serious that search parties were called out. Everyone was in tears, but for the first time, Lisa felt safe in her home. Part of her almost wished Vera would never be found. But Vera turned up, having been living with a classmate for days. There was something more, something that made the authorities take a keen interest. So keen the children were removed from the house and, one by one, sent off to psychologists and doctors. They were asked questions, over and over, and, little by little, someone pieced together the family’s dark secrets. “Don’t go blabbing to those busybodies,” Lisa’s father coached her during visitation. But Lisa, filled with disgust, knew her father only remembered her when things got serious, when he needed her to say everything was fine at home, and that Vera was the only one with issues—a mere fluke, not her parents’ fault. But by eleven, Lisa was wise enough to realize: both her father and even Dasha were responsible for what happened to Vera. As much as she wanted to defend Dasha—who’d been kinder than anyone else—she understood: no child copes well being the one always blamed, always compared to a “sick and unhappy Maksim,” always overlooked in favour of others’ struggles. Yes, her father tried to ‘give love’—mostly at Lisa’s expense—but it was a poor substitute for real care. And it turned out that even social workers could recognize an unhealthy home. Though, as Lisa would later learn, her father’s concern had little to do with his daughter’s welfare.