Learning about Love

Evie was eight. And she was not happy.

In fact, Evie couldn’t remember a time when she ever had been happy.

Evie had a problem.

The people who were supposed to love her, care for her and protect her didn’t. Instead they’d hurt her, beaten her, locked her away, and done things she couldn’t even begin to understand.

So Evie didn’t know about love. She didn’t know how to give love, or receive it. She’d never experienced it. She didn’t understand about cuddles, caring or kindness.

And now she was being sent to live with someone else. Someone who wanted to be her ‘New Mummy’. Someone who wanted to be nice to her, and cuddle her, and give her things. Who wanted to love her.

And Evie didn’t know how to receive things. Or how to love.

For a week Evie’s new Mummy tried. But every time she got close to the little girl, Evie kicked her. Or punched her. Or just screamed. Because that was all Evie knew: not to let people get close, cos they’d hurt you.

So Evie’s new Mummy was sad too. She didn’t know how to teach Evie about love.

And then she had an idea.

She took Evie to the shop. And bought the biggest, glossiest, sweetest Teddy Bear she could find. A teddy bear with a wonderful, sweet smile. And she handed it into Evie’s arms.

Evie didn’t know what to say. No-one had ever given her anything, least of all something as wonderful as this Teddy Bear.

She held on to him tightly all the way home. Evie was waiting for the moment when someone would snatch the bear away. But it didn’t come. The bear went home. Sat on Evie’s pillow. And watched.

That night Evie put her hand out and stroked his soft fur as she fell asleep. And the bear didn’t hurt her.

And the next day, she hugged him tight.

And the bear didn’t hurt her.

In fact, over the next few days, Evie took her bear with her everywhere.

But something was wrong.

Evie kept expecting the bear to bite. Or kick. Or hurt her. Or at the very least, be taken away, so she’d cry at losing him. She was scared to love him.In case he hurt her.

So she started hurting him first.

She pinched him.

And punched him.

And kicked him round the bedroom.

And the bear still kept smiling. And kept sitting on her pillow at night. And didn’t go away.

So she pulled him.

And beat him.

And tore his ear off.

And still the bear smiled at her.

So she tore his arms off.

A wrenched a hole in his tummy.

And pulled all his stuffing out.

And kicked him and kicked him and kicked him until she was quite worn out.

Then Evie looked at what she’d done.

And she felt bad.

The bear hadn’t done her any harm at all. And she’d killed it. Poor bear.

She didn’t like herself very much for that. But then, she didn’t like herself very much anyway: no-one had ever liked her much. Except the bear. The bear who kept smiling, no matter how nasty she was.

He’d stuck by her.

And now she missed him.

She picked up all the bits. And hid them in the dustbin. And hoped her Mum wouldn’t notice.

And that night, Evie cried herself to sleep.

Evie’s Mum noticed. She noticed that the bear was missing. And that there was stuffing around the room. And that there were bits of Bear in the dustbin.

When Evie was asleep, she collected the dustbin, and fished out all the bits of bear. And sat down with her needle and thread.

Late into the evening, she sewed, repairing the broken teddy. Adding more stuffing. Fixing the torn off ear. Restoring the wrenched paw. And stitching up the hole in his tummy.

The next day was Saturday. Evie didn’t go to school. She sat wretchedly in front of the TV. And her Mum did the housework around her. Neither of them said much: Evie was waiting for her Mum to shout and rant and hit her about the bear. And Mum was waiting for Evie to say what she’d done. Or why.

But no-one mentioned the broken bear.

On Sunday morning, Evie opened her eyes. There on the pillow beside her was the bear. At least, it looked like the same bear, but she wasn’t sure. She reached out and touched his paw - the same, silky soft feel. The same warm smile. Was it him? She thought she’d killed him...

Then she noticed the seam: neat, tidy stitches down the middle of his tummy where she’d torn him open. Yes, it was her bear. The same bear.

Suddenly, she scooped him up in her arms, and hugged him. And hugged him. And hugged him.

And then she ran in to see her Mum.

Mum saw Evie, clutching the repaired bear.

She took a deep breath, not sure what to say.

And a small, rather scared little girl flew into her arms and hugged her Thank You For Fixing My Teddy. For Not Being Cross. For Not Shouting And Hurting Me. For Wanting To Love Me Even Though I Don’t Know How.

Evie cried.

And Mum cried.

And the bear - complete with scars - cried inside, and went on smiling.