Mary's Wise Words

Mary watched Alice from the kitchen window, a soft smile playing on her lips. Alice was in the garden, her red wellington boots splishing through a puddle left by the morning’s rain. She wasn’t building a magnificent fort or inventing a new game, the way she sometimes did when she was trying to get noticed. Today, she was simply digging, her small trowel pushing into the damp earth with a determined, rhythmic motion. She’d unearthed a fat, wriggling worm and was carefully placing it into an old jam jar, her brow furrowed in concentration. A ladybug, bright red with tiny black dots, landed on her sleeve, and Alice paused, her breath catching, to admire it before gently coaxing it onto a nearby leaf.

Sandra came up behind Mary, placing a warm hand on her shoulder. She followed Mary’s gaze to Alice, then to Olivia, who was sitting on the grass nearby, meticulously arranging fallen leaves into a colourful mosaic. Olivia looked up and waved, a bright, easy smile on her face. Sandra’s own smile widened.

“She’s finding her own sunshine now,” Mary murmured, her voice quiet, filled with a gentle understanding that Alice had always found so comforting. It wasn’t the kind of sunshine that blazed and demanded attention, but a softer, steadier glow that came from within. Mary had seen the yearning in Alice’s eyes, the quiet ache that had settled there like dust on an unplayed piano. She’d seen Alice’s grand gestures, the elaborate drawings, the surprisingly helpful tidying of toy rooms, all designed to catch Sandra’s eye, to prove her worthiness of that special, bright glow. And she’d seen how those attempts, born of insecurity, often seemed to miss the mark, leaving Alice feeling even more adrift.