Kate worried most that her six-year-old daughter, Emily, wouldn’t accept her new husband, Richard.
Her soul had always been poetic, drawn to the sublime, yet she’d married a brutish man, Paul… because she’d fallen pregnant!
Paul had won her over with his broad, muscular shoulders and the dimple in his chin, and her friends had sworn she couldn’t get pregnant the first time—foolish girl, she’d believed them.
Turns out, she could. They had to marry—her mother would’ve disowned her otherwise for the shame.
At first, it wasn’t so bad, but then… Paul proved to be a boor, fond of the pub, dragging him to the theatre or even the cinema was impossible.
Kate grew dull with him, stopped caring for herself.
So when she caught him in the pantry with the neighbor, Sarah, during Emily’s birthday party, she filed for divorce without a second thought.
Paul wept, begged, swore Sarah had come onto him—but Kate didn’t care. She had her excuse, and that was enough.
After the divorce, she blossomed overnight—slimmed down, took a job as an usher at the symphony, where she met Richard.
He was a head shorter, his brown eyes forever melancholy.
Their affair began in August, while Emily was away at her grandmother’s—Paul’s mother.
Kate hadn’t wanted to send her, knowing the illiterate old woman and Paul, who might drop by on weekends, would be bad influences. But she needed the evenings free for Richard.
Emily returned grubby, clutching a frayed doll.
“Good Lord, where did you get that?”
Emily scowled, hugging it tightly—her secret. Dad had given it to her.
“Found it at Gran’s,” she lied. Mum wouldn’t approve. “Her name’s Mary. I’m healing her.”
Kate sighed, running a hand through Emily’s hair. “You’ve grown so tall. We’ll get you a new dress. Would you like that?”
Emily didn’t want to stand in a changing room while shop assistants paraded near-identical frocks. But disappointing Mum was worse.
“Yes.”
The next day, they bought two—one white and red with a collar, the other a hideous green Mum called “elegant.” Emily didn’t understand the word.
That evening, they went to the park, where Mum introduced her to a strange man—short, with a narrow head, long nose, and shaggy cheeks.
Emily nearly laughed at how ridiculous he looked but stopped herself—Mum said laughing in public was rude.
“Uncle Richard,” Mum insisted, gave her a giant doll in a glossy box.
Blonde, blue-eyed, with pink lips—Emily forced a “thank you” under Mum’s sharp gaze.
They strolled, Emily riding the carousel three times.
Richard was a catch—Kate knew her coworkers, Lucy and Olivia, had fought over him. She feared Emily would ruin it.
The girl took after Paul—no interest in music, always disheveled, asking Richard absurd questions that made Kate flush.
“Do you like your new doll?” she pressed, frustrated Emily didn’t appreciate such a man’s attention.
“It’s alright.”
But that night, Kate saw Emily curled up with the grubby village doll.
It stung—she’d helped Richard pick the new one, certain Emily would adore it. Instead, she clung to that filthy thing.
Emily hated the new doll—too clean, too glossy, terrifying.
And so big—what if it came alive and replaced her? Mum would prefer it, she was sure.
Soon, they moved to a dim flat, crowded with “antique” furniture.
Mum tried to toss the old doll. Emily clung to it.
“Stubborn,” Mum muttered. “Just like your father.”
One night, a knock came—a familiar voice, words muffled: “funeral,” “Thursday,” “still her father.”
Someone wept. Emily squeezed the doll, shut her eyes.
Next morning, Mum’s eyes were red.
“Who was here?”
“No one.”
On Thursday, Mum left in black.
Emily hated being alone with Uncle Richard—no jumping, no ball, no opening windows.
“Play with your doll,” he ordered.
When she picked up the old one, he scowled.
“Disgusting! Why keep this? You have a new one—don’t you like it?”
Emily crossed her fingers behind her back.
“I love it.”
That night, Mum wept again. Richard was angry.
Dad had made Mum cry too. Was this how marriage worked? Emily would never marry.
“You’re bringing that filthy thing to bed again?” Mum snapped. “Put it away!”
“No! She’s scared alone!”
“Emily, you’re starting school—stop acting like a baby! Box it!”
As soon as Mum left, Emily retrieved the doll.
By morning, it was gone.
She searched everywhere—under the bed, in the blankets, beneath the pillow—nothing.
Dad had said, handing her the doll:
“Keep her safe, love. She’s your luck.”
His hands were rough, his wristwatch gleaming.
“Give me one like that!”
He’d laughed. “When you’re older.”
Now she’d never get it—if she couldn’t keep the doll, why trust her with a watch?
She cried under the covers, praying it would return.
By July, Mum said she’d visit Gran again. Emily panicked—what if Dad asked about the doll?
She’d lie—say she’d left it at home. She didn’t miss it anymore.
Dad didn’t come the first week. Or the second.
She’d brought her primer to show him she could read.
“Gran, when’s Dad coming?”
Gran’s face twisted. She rummaged in her cupboard—sour-smelling—pulled out a box.
“From your dad.”
Another doll? Had he known she lost the first?
Inside—the watch.
“Mine?”
Gran nodded.
It slipped off her tiny wrist.
“Too big.”
“You’ll grow into it,” Gran promised. “Leave it here. Your mum…”
Gran didn’t finish, but Emily understood.
“If I’m gone, it’ll be in the cupboard. Take it then.”
“Gone where?”
Gran hugged her tightly, apron smelling of soup.
“You’re all I’ve got left,” she whispered.
Emily remembered her doll, Dad—would he come this summer?
She didn’t ask. Gran was crying—though she had no husband to cry over.
