The words echoed softly in the dim hallway: *”Mum, stay with us.”*
Margaret Hartwell had arrived at her daughter’s home for a visit.
—Gran’s here!— five-year-old Alfie cheered the moment she stepped inside.
Her daughter, Emily, and son-in-law, Thomas, soon appeared, exchanging pleasant smiles over tea in the parlour—polite, rehearsed, like actors in a stiff play. By evening, Margaret retreated to the guest room, but hours later, thirst drew her toward the kitchen.
Then she heard it—Thomas’ voice, low and sharp, scolding Alfie. The words struck her like ice.
Margaret had always kept to herself, never interfering. But now, listening as her grandson was denied pudding, rebuked for being called *Oliver* instead of Alfie, something snapped.
Margaret was a proud woman. She’d raised Emily alone after her husband left, sacrificing everything—selling her cottage, her car, emptying her savings to buy Emily a modest flat in Birmingham. It wasn’t grand, but it was safe.
Then came Thomas. Polite, tidy. But his grip was too tight, his smiles too measured. The wedding was a bleak affair—a borrowed dress, a backyard reception, homebrewed ale. Their honeymoon? A dusty loft above his parents’ garage.
She’d kept silent. *Young love must find its own way.*
Alfie was born—named after her late father. But Thomas insisted on *Oliver*. Margaret bit her tongue. When she offered to help with the baby, he scoffed.
—We’ll manage. Don’t overstay your welcome.—
Years passed. She saw Alfie sparingly, though her heart ached. Now, needing a check-up in the city, she braved their home again. The air was frost. Thomas glared. Alfie wore threadbare jumpers, ate only porridge and veg.
—Why no meat?— Margaret asked.
—Thomas says it’s poison for children,— Emily murmured.
Horror coiled in her stomach. No sweets, no nursery, no new clothes—*”Money’s wasted on children.”*
On the third day, Thomas demanded rent.
—You’ll not enter our rooms, nor touch our food. And you’ll pay for the privilege.—
Margaret turned to Emily.
—Love, are you hearing this? Sleeping on a camp bed, barred from your own kitchen, and now he wants *payment*? Look at Alfie—he’s in rags!
Emily mumbled that Thomas was joking. But the breaking point came when Margaret gave Alfie a slice of cake.
—*What did you eat?*— Thomas roared, snatching it away. —You’re Oliver!—
Margaret’s restraint shattered.
—Listen well, Thomas. Who paid for this flat? *Not you.* You’ve starved this child, dressed him in scraps, and now dare to charge *me*? Enough! Alfie, we’re leaving.—
—Is pizza nice?— Alfie whispered.
—Delicious. Come on.—
She bought him new trainers, a smart little jacket. In the café, he ate as if it were his first real meal.
—Gran, will you stay? I’m always hungry, but Dad says no.—
—I’m staying,— she vowed.
When they returned, Thomas was gone—vanished with his laptop, the telly, even the toaster.
Emily didn’t scold her. Instead, she clung to Margaret, whispering:
—Thank you. I wanted to leave… but I was scared.
That summer, they holidayed in Cornwall. And Emily swore, laughing through tears:
—Next husband? Only if you approve.—
Margaret smiled. The ghosts had finally left.
