Jodie sat at the kitchen table, tracing the rim of her mug as her mother, Professor Davies, adjusted her smart navy blazer. The house, though outwardly well-kept, wore subtle signs of strain—piled bills on the counter, a faded patch on the living room rug. "You’ll have to come with me today, darling. The university’s quiet on Fridays, and I have two lectures. You can sit at the front and read if you’d like." Jodie nodded, aware of the unspoken truth: after her father left, every penny counted.
Professor Davies[/@ch_2] arranges her notes. Jodie perches in the front row, clutching a well-worn book.]
Professor Davies stood tall before her students, her voice confident and warm as she wove tales of ancient empires. Jodie watched her mother transform—no longer just "mom," but a figure of authority, her words commanding the room. Sometimes when the class faltered, Professor Davies would turn to Jodie, "What do you think, Jodie? What might have happened if Cleopatra trusted her advisors?" Jodie would answer honestly, her twelve-year-old perspective drawing both laughter and surprise from the crowd.
Lunchtime brought a hush as Professor Davies slipped into her office with two steaming portions of staff lunch. They ate together, knees touching beneath the desk, savoring rare moments of calm. When a colleague knocked, Professor Davies would whisper, "Quick, into the cloakroom!", and Jodie would duck behind coats and scarves, stifling giggles until the coast was clear.
Alice[/@ch_3], thirteen, perches on a wooden stool, watching her mother, Mrs. Harris, work.]
Mrs. Harris's hands moved quickly, scrubbing countertops with practiced precision while her colleagues chatted in soft, tired voices. At first, Alice was told to sit and wait, but soon enough she was handed a dustpan and rag. "If we save enough, maybe we’ll go to Skegness this summer," her mother said, hope flickering in her eyes. On payday, they’d treat themselves to lunch—sometimes a homemade sandwich, sometimes a rare trip to McDonald’s.
Meghan[/@ch_5], nine, sits beside her mother, Ms. O’Malley, a live-in carer.]
Ms. O’Malley moved quietly from room to room, checking on her clients—adults with learning disabilities who greeted Meghan with toothy grins and endless questions. They’d cook simple meals together or walk in the garden, trailing laughter and the scent of wild thyme. When the manager stopped by, Ms. O’Malley would gently usher Meghan upstairs, "Hide for a bit, sweetheart. I’ll call you down when it’s safe." Meghan nestled under a patchwork quilt, listening to the muffled voices below.
The girls’ stories echoed across different worlds, bound by the same thread: a mother’s resourcefulness in the face of tightening budgets and shrinking support. The government’s new laws loomed, threatening to separate families for the sake of policy, but for now, the girls clung to these strange and precious memories. Each knew the taste of cafeteria lunch, the weight of a mop, or the hush of a care home after midnight. Their voices rose—soft but clear—speaking for all those who had no choice but to bring their children to work, and for the quiet, everyday courage that never made the headlines.
