**I Won’t Let You Go**
When Larissa sold her flat in the city and moved to a small cottage in the countryside, the locals couldn’t fathom why. But in time, she became one of them. They began calling her affectionately—Lacey. A ginger tom named Chester settled into Lacey’s home, eyeing the village with suspicion at first, as if he couldn’t believe his city balcony was gone. Yet he soon made himself at home—on the doorstep, in the garden, even among the vegetable beds.
Her neighbour across the lane, Margaret, welcomed her like family. She helped with the garden, brought seedlings, shared jars of chutney. The two became inseparable: long evenings over tea and stories, swapping recipes, knitting to the sound of old ballads. Life flowed gently, warmly.
Then everything changed when Lacey’s son called.
“Mum, Anna’s pregnant. Sophie and I are moving to France for work—just a couple of years. Anna’s on her own. We really need you… Come back to the city.”
Lacey froze. Her granddaughter—pregnant? They wanted her back in the very flat she’d left, just when she’d started living for herself? She tried to refuse.
“Son, I’m not much help now. My blood pressure’s bad, I’m over sixty…”
“Mum, you’d be in your own place. Anna just needs support. We’re not forcing you… Just think about it.”
Lacey thought. She went to the city. And returned utterly broken. Her granddaughter was married now, expecting a child. The flat was a mess. Exhausted, Lacey called an ambulance—her pressure had spiked. In that moment, she knew: she couldn’t keep up. This wasn’t her life.
Margaret saw it at once. The next day, when Lacey returned for her things, admitting she’d sold the cottage and was leaving for good, a fire ignited in Margaret’s eyes.
“I won’t let you go, hear me?” she whispered, gripping her friend tight. “You’re staying.”
“Don’t be daft—” Lacey stammered, shaken.
Margaret dashed to the taxi, shoved notes at the driver, said something sharp. The car turned and vanished, dust swirling in its wake.
“Meg, what are you doing? They’re expecting me!” Lacey gasped.
“Listen. I’m not family, but in fifteen years, I’ve been closer than yours. Where were they when you settled here? When you planted potatoes, dug beds? Now it’s convenient—come back, cook, babysit?”
“But they’re mine…” Lacey murmured.
“And whose are you? Meant to spend your last years as some young family’s maid? You deserve happiness. Even in retirement. And doctors—so what? Ours here aren’t worse. Visit the city, don’t live there.”
Lacey was silent a long time. Then, softly: “My home’s not mine anymore. The papers are signed.”
“So? My garden’s yours to share. Stay with me. We’ll figure it out.”
And Lacey stayed. Her son and daughter-in-law left. Her granddaughter had a baby boy—everything turned out fine. Lacey visited; they came to the village, stayed with her at Margaret’s. Then something unexpected: the family who bought her cottage moved abroad and asked Lacey to housesit.
A new chapter began. Autumns at Margaret’s. Springs in her old home. When Anna’s son grew older, Lacey visited the city more often.
One summer, Anna arrived with an envelope.
“Gran, take this. It’s yours again. We bought it back.”
“What? But—the Johnsons—”
“Gone. We made it legal. It’s in my name—but it’s yours. Because you’re everything to me.”
Tears streaked Lacey’s cheeks. Margaret stood beside her, voice trembling:
“I knew she was planning this. No hard feelings. It’s right.”
Anna hugged her grandmother.
“We kept it secret… Wanted to surprise you. And guess what? You’ll have a great-granddaughter soon. So you’ll need the garden, the berries, the bench under the apple tree.”
“Then let’s move my things back,” Lacey laughed through tears. “Today’s a proper celebration…”
And as little Oliver splashed with his watering can among the flowers, one thing was clear: happiness was having everyone close. Gran had her home again. And her life.
