**A Stranger on the Doorstep**
Jessica hummed with joy—finally, she had her very own flat. No more sharing digs with nosy housemates, no more grumbling landlords switching off the lights at eleven sharp or banging on the door to complain about the shower. Just her, her tastefully decorated two-bedroom in a quiet corner of Manchester, and the sweet, sweet freedom of adulthood.
Her parents had helped with the purchase, selling off her late aunt’s old place to cover the deposit. Jessica had done the place up just right, and to celebrate, she invited her best mate, Emily, over for tea and cake. Laughter and gossip filled the air until Jessica decided to walk Emily out. They stepped into the hallway—and there, perched on the stairs between floors, sat a woman. She was nibbling a sandwich, a worn-out handbag resting beside her.
“Erm… excuse me?” Jessica blinked.
The woman flinched, swallowing quickly. “I—I’m Margaret Davies. I used to live here. This flat… it was mine, wasn’t it?”
Jessica recognized her now—she was the woman who’d sold the flat a few months back.
“What are you doing here?”
Margaret’s eyes welled up. “I—I’ve nowhere else to go.”
The two friends exchanged glances. Between shaky breaths, Margaret told her story.
After her divorce, she’d raised her son, Daniel, alone—sacrificed everything for him. He’d grown up kind, responsible, hardworking. Got a proper job, married a lively woman named Sophie. At first, it was all sunshine. They moved into his three-bed terrace, leaving Margaret in her own space. Then came the grandchildren—Ben, then Lily. A few years later, Sophie and Daniel suggested she sell her flat and move in with them. “It’ll be easier,” they said. “You’re always with the kids anyway.”
She agreed. Half the money was meant for her savings, the other half for them. But the cash never reached her account.
Living with them was unbearable. Kids from dawn till dusk, Sophie at work, Daniel in his office—cooking, cleaning, nappies, all on her. And yet, she wasn’t allowed to discipline them. Just feed, entertain, and stay silent.
When she complained about exhaustion, Daniel just said, “Mum, you’re doing fine. The kids are happy, Sophie’s happy, I can focus on work. This is what family’s about.”
Margaret was worn to the bone. That summer, when they went to the seaside, she claimed she’d visit a friend—but instead, she wandered the streets, even slept on a park bench. And today, without thinking, she’d found herself back here.
“I even thought… maybe I could just sleep on the rooftop,” she admitted, wiping her eyes.
Jessica and Emily were horrified.
“That’s not on!” Emily burst out. “You’re not alone in this. Come on, you’re staying with Jess tonight.”
“Oh, I couldn’t—”
“No arguments!” Jessica insisted.
Over more tea, Emily—sharp as ever, being a solicitor—gently pressed Margaret: What *exactly* had happened to the flat sale money?
“Daniel said he’d put half in a savings account…” Margaret whispered.
“With that, you could get a little studio flat,” Emily said firmly. “We’ll sort this.”
A month later, Margaret moved into a small but entirely *hers* flat—same building, different floor. What Emily said to Daniel, no one knew. But he paid up.
And Sophie? She stopped speaking to Margaret altogether. The grandkids, though, visited on their own.
Margaret started smiling again. She and Jessica became proper pals, going to the theatre and galleries together.
“You know what I’ve learned?” Emily mused one evening. “Never let anyone talk you out of having your own place when you’re older. Otherwise, you might end up without even a roof.”
Jessica nodded. “And *never* stay quiet when they’re boxing you in.”
