My name is Zofia, and at seventy-three, I live alone in a small council flat in South London. My pension is modest, my memories warm but sometimes painful, and my family is scattered across Europe. Yet every Tuesday and Thursday, I find purpose in the local library, where a simple act of kindness grew into something much bigger than myself.
I wake at three, the city still dreaming, and drag myself into the cold to sweep its streets. My hands are raw, my mind is tired, but I cling to the hope that my studies will one day lift my family out of this life. Every day is a battle between exhaustion and ambition, and I wonder if I’ll ever be more than just a shadow in the city’s dawn.
My name is Alison, and I’ve spent years trying to do right by my daughter, Emily, in our little corner of Yorkshire. This is the story of how my desire to protect her nearly smothered the spark that made her unique. It’s about the pain of realising you can’t always give your child the answers, but you can give them the chance to find their own.
