Here’s more about my latest novel–Millie’s Daughter.
Every once in a while, a character walks into a story and surprises you.
You think you know what role they’ll play. You think they’re just the daughter, just the sidekick, just the kid.
And then they start speaking.
And you realize: they’re the soul of the story.
That’s who Molly Anderson is in Millie’s Daughter.
She’s more than the girl Millie is trying to protect. She’s more than a victim of circumstance. She’s more than her age.
She’s the reason Millie runs. She’s the reason the reader stays. She’s the one whose quiet observations and buried questions ripple through the entire novel.
Writing a Child Who Sees Too Much
Molly is twelve when Millie’s Daughter begins—but life has forced her to grow up early.
She doesn’t have the language for everything she’s witnessed. She doesn’t always know how to express what she’s feeling. But she knows.
She knows something is deeply wrong in their home. She knows her mother is afraid but trying to hide it. She knows to stay quiet when Colton is drinking and to disappear when voices rise.
And yet, she is not broken.
Molly reads. She writes. She thinks in metaphors and keeps a small notebook where she sketches her thoughts—little stories, reflections, lists of questions she’s too scared to ask out loud.
In a way, Molly is the novelist inside the novel.
Why Molly Matters So Much
For me, Molly represents what survives.
When everything else is stripped away—safety, comfort, normalcy—what remains is this irrepressible spirit. This fire.
She challenges Millie without even realizing it. She grounds the story when the danger escalates. And in the end, she’s the one who carries it forward.
Molly isn’t perfect. She’s impulsive. She’s scared. She sometimes retreats into silence or fantasy. But that’s what makes her real. And it’s also what makes her brave.
A Glimpse of Molly
Here’s a moment from early in the novel, just after she and Millie have left Chicago behind and are waiting at a rundown bus station:
“You think he’ll find us?” Millie looked at her, startled. “No. No, honey. We’re safe.” Molly nodded and turned her gaze back to the vending machines. She didn’t believe her. But she didn’t want her to lie better. She just wanted to get on the bus.
This line always gets me. Because in it, Molly does what so many children do: she sees the truth, understands the stakes, and chooses—out of love—not to press any further.
Looking Ahead
Molly’s voice deepens as the novel unfolds. And though Millie’s Daughter is told in third person, it’s Molly’s emotional growth that quietly steals the show.
In the next post, I’ll be sharing more about the novel’s upcoming release—what you can expect, where it will be available, and what kind of experience I hope it gives you as a reader.
But for now, I’d love to know:
Have you ever read a novel where the child wasn’t just present—but essential? One whose voice stuck with you long after the story ended?
Let me know in the comments—or just hit reply if you’re receiving this via email.
Until next time, —Richard
The Pencil Driven Life 