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.

Author John SmithReading 8 minViews 6Published by February 9, 2026

The Second Family

Looking back over the years, it strikes me now how swiftly my father remarried after Mother died. And how odd it seemed, even back then, that Margaret was only half a year older than I, and little George, three years my junior, seemed to bear a striking resemblance both to me and my father.

One of my most vivid childhood memories remains: the bright-haired doll in a vibrant red dress, sitting on a shelf at the local shop. I remember tugging at Fathers sleeve, asking, just once, if he might buy that particular doll. He leaned down, his voice low but sharp with disappointment.

Annie, dont be so selfish. Your brother needs his medicine. Weve got just enough for groceries till Im paid, and still you want a new doll.

As though the toys at home werent enoughthough most were battered and broken, thanks to Margaret and George. But Father never seemed concerned with that, nor did any of the grown-ups, who always seemed to have bigger problems on their minds than my longing for that bright-haired doll.

When Mother was alive, things had been different. She couldnt always say yes, but she never shamed me for wanting. By the time I was five I already knew the days of the week, and that on ordinary weekdays she wouldnt give in to pleadingbut on Saturday mornings, she would take me to the corner shop, smile, and say:

All right, Annie. If its less than five pounds, you may choose whatever you like.

Five poundsa note with the Queens face, digits and two zeros. If the price was two digits, not three, Mother would keep her promise and Id take home a little treasure. Shed scold if I begged, yesespecially if I made a scenebut she never called me selfish for wanting something nice, even when things were hard.

And they were very hard, especially when Mother fell ill. Her treatments did little, and in the end, she was gone. I was only six. That first year after, there were no new toys, no bedtime stories, hardly a kind word.

Father only did the basics: got me off to primary school, brought me home, fed me boiled pasta and cheap sausages. Hed sit in front of the telly all evening, half-watching football or the boxing, or some talk show. When I asked if I could watch cartoons, he told me to tend to my homework, or read a book. So I did. I learned to love reading, the way Father drowned his worries in television, I fled into the worlds of my books.

Margaret and George arrived in our lives barely half a year on. Only many years later did I piece together how hasty Fathers new marriage was, and how ambiguous everyones relation seemed. Still, as a child, I could never grasp why Father always seemed to praise Margaret and George, but only ever found fault with mecalling me thoughtless, ungrateful, selfish.

When Father and I moved into Sarahs house in the countryside, space was tight. There was no room for me, so a makeshift bed was fashioned in the corridor between the bedrooms of George and Margaret. A threadbare curtain shielded me from the worldor tried to, when Margaret wasnt jerking it aside and dragging me from bed by the hair.

Im only trying to wake herotherwise well be late for school! shed protest, never mind it was Saturday and there was no school. No one cared; it became routine, like so many other small injustices. My things, anything I treasured, would be taken away and given to Margaretmy few remaining toys, including the teddy bear Granny sent down from Yorkshire.

Granny, my mothers mother, worked far up north somewhere important and, as I later learnt, quite well-off. She loved me fiercely, though I saw her so rarely. Once, during a rare call, I sobbed to her about the bear being taken. Father was furious. He sat me down, eyes cold.

Were living in Sarahs house now. Shes taken us inyouve no idea what shes done for me. If it werent for her, after your mother passed Id have been lost. Would you really want your father to disappear, leave you alone? I shook my head. However cross Id been, being left without Father wasnt something I could bear.

Then why do you keep making life difficult? You cant keep upsetting the family over such a trivial thinga mere old teddy. Margaret wanted it, thats why she has it now. You must get used to the idea that youre not the only child anymore. Share. Margaret never gets the nice gifts your granny sends you. Wouldnt it be fair for her to have one for once?

Even then, small though I was, I knew his reasoning was hollow. But I couldnt have found the words or the courage to argue. No one would have listened; there were, after all, more important problems.

Mainly, there was George, frail from birth, suffering from some nervous disorderId later learn it was connected to how hed been born. Every shilling Father earned went on his medicine and therapies. George was taken everywherethe pool, the stables, the clinic, anything that might aid his recovery. The hope was hed catch up someday with the other children.

Yet the only praise in our house was for Georges small successes, while my highest marks, prizes from writing competitions, and tidiest essays barely earned a glance.

Well, that ought to make good kindling, your certificates, Father snorted when I tried, once, to share a small triumph. If you could earn a bob or two for Georges medicine, you might actually be some use.

After that, I gave up trying to speak with Father at all.

Yetand this, even now, surprises meit was Sarah, my stepmother, who showed me some warmth. Not love, exactly, but something kinder than what I received from anyone else. She was under no duty to think of me as a daughter, but when I started helping around the house, she praised mecalled me her little helper.

Strangely, I welcomed the evening rows between Sarah and Margaret, her own daughter, when Margaret accused her of favouritism:

Youre always cheering her on, calling her sunshine, but you never care about me! Only ever have a go at me! At least Dad still loves me, unlike you!

To which Sarah would retort, exasperated: Your father puts up with your mischief, thats all. Caught smoking behind the classrooms, bullying the littler onesIm sick of being summoned to school for your antics. At least Annie has the decency not to cause trouble.

Margaret ran away once. The whole village was out searching, police dogs and all. There were tears, worry, countless callsand for those quiet days, for the first time in years, I felt safe, almost happy at home. I even wondered if things might stay peaceful if Margaret never returned.

But, alas, she did. Margaret had been hiding a few streets away, staying at a schoolmates. Whatever had happened while she was gone, it was enough to draw the attention of the authorities. The welfare officers wanted to know everything.

We were questioned in turn, each of us seen by nurses and psychologists. They asked and probed, and bit by bit, someone got to the truth.

Annie, just mind what you tell those busybodies, Father warned me during a meeting. By then, all I felt for him was disgust. He only noticed me when things went awry, and now it seemed vitally important that I play my partpretend we were an uneventful family, that all was normal, that Margaret was wayward by her own fault.

But I was eleven and no fool. Even if I couldnt phrase it the way adults did, I knew Father, and yes, even Sarah, bore some blame for what happened to Margaret. However much I wanted to spare Sarahshe had been the closest to kind, and owed me nothingit was plain that an atmosphere of constant censure, with no love for daughters, could do real harm.

I learnt, too, that the social services were interested in these twisted family dynamics. But, as I found out later, it wasnt the children Father truly worried aboutit was something else entirely.