“Mum, maybe we should just let Gran go out and get lost? It’d be better for everyone,” snapped Emily with defiance.
“Emily, don’t forget to lock the door,” sighed her mother, rising from the table.
“Honestly, Mum, how many times? Are you going to remind me for the rest of my life?” Emily snapped back, hurt.
“Not the rest of your life—just while Gran lives with us. If she wanders outside, she’ll get lost and—”
“And die under a hedge, and we’ll spend the rest of our days drowning in guilt. Mum, maybe we should let it happen?” Emily interrupted, voice sharp.
“Let *what* happen?” her mother frowned.
“Let her go and get lost. You said yourself you’re tired of looking after her.”
“How can you say that? She’s my mother-in-law, not even my blood, but she’s *your* grandmother!”
“Grandmother?” Emily narrowed her eyes—a habit when her temper flared. “Where was she when *her precious son* walked out on us? When she refused to babysit me? *Her own granddaughter?* She never spared a thought for you, slaving to earn every extra pound! She *blamed* you for Dad leaving!”
“Stop it, right now!” her mother shrieked. “I shouldn’t have told you any of this.” She drew a shaky breath. “I raised you wrong if you can’t feel an ounce of pity for *family.* It terrifies me. When I’m old, will you treat me the same? What’s *wrong* with you? You were always so kind—you couldn’t walk past a stray kitten! Gran isn’t a stray, though, is she?” Her mother shook her head wearily. “She’s already paying the price. Your father abandoned us—but he abandoned *her* too.”
“Mum, go to work. You’ll be late. I *promise* I’ll lock the door,” Emily muttered, guilt flickering in her eyes.
“Fine. Before we say things we’ll regret…” But her mother didn’t move.
“Mum, I’m sorry, but looking at you *hurts.* Skin and bone. You’re only forty and you shuffle like an old woman, exhausted. What’s that look for? Who’ll tell you the truth if not your own daughter?” Emily hadn’t noticed her voice rising again.
“Thanks. *Make sure* she doesn’t touch the cooker or the taps.”
“See? *Exactly* what I mean—we’re prisoners because of her. No life of our own. Mum, let’s put her in a care home. She’d be monitored properly. She doesn’t even *understand* anything…”
“Are we *back* to this?” her mother cut in.
“It’d be better for *everyone,* especially her!” Emily pressed, oblivious to her mother’s simmering anger.
“I refuse to listen to this. She’s staying *here.* How long does she have left? Let her—”
“She’ll outlive *both* of us. Go to work. I won’t leave, I’ll lock the door—*promise*,” Emily repeated bitterly.
“I’m sorry. I’ve dumped this on you… All your friends are out having fun, and you’re stuck babysitting Gran.”
They spoke without noticing Gran’s door ajar. She’d heard everything—though whether she understood or would remember was another matter.
Her mother left for work; Emily stepped into her old bedroom, now Gran’s.
“Gran, need anything?” she asked.
Gran’s vacant stare held no answer.
“Come on, I’ll give you a sweet.” Emily helped her up, leading her to the kitchen.
“Who are *you*?” Gran peered blankly at her.
“Drink your tea.” Emily sighed, placing a wrapped toffee on the table.
Gran adored sweets. She and her mum hid them, rationing one per cuppa. Emily watched as Gran fumbled with the wrapper, greying scalp showing through thinning hair. She looked away.
Once, Gran had worn her hair in bold waves, painted lips with glossy red, drawn arched brows. Emily remembered her powdery perfume, the way men’s eyes followed her before her mind began to crumble.
Now, Emily couldn’t untangle her feelings—pity? Resentment? Regret? A sharp knock interrupted her thoughts.
“Mum must’ve forgotten something.” She went to answer.
But it was her friend, sixth-former James. Her mother disapproved of their friendship, so he only came when she was out.
“Hey. You’re early. Mum just left,” Emily whispered.
“Noticed.” He smirked.
“*Lillian!*” Gran’s voice carried from the kitchen.
“Who’s Lillian?” James frowned.
“That’s what she calls Mum, thinks she’s her daughter. Wait in the loo—she’s having a ‘good day.'” Emily nudged him toward the bathroom.
“No one’s here.” Emily walked in to find an empty mug and sweet wrapper on the table.
“I want tea.”
“But you just—” Emily bit back the futile reply.
Gran forgot instantly—especially recent things. But her distant past? Crystal clear. Some days, she barely recognised them. Others, brief flickers of clarity surfaced.
*Was Gran playing the game for extra sweets, or had she truly forgotten?* Emily sighed, refilled her cup, and slid another toffee across the table.
Gran struggled with the wrapper, fingers clumsy. Once the tea was gone, Emily led her back to bed.
“Sleep now,” she murmured, shutting the door.
James peeked from the bathroom.
“Coast clear?”
“Kitchen.” Emily glanced at the locked door before joining him.
They hunched over his phone, sharing earbuds. Emily swayed to the music, eyes shut, oblivious as Gran slipped into the hallway…
When she saw James out, the front door stood open.
*The door. I didn’t lock it. She’s gone. Mum’ll think I did it on purpose.* Panic clawed at her throat.
“Why would she think that?” James asked.
“You don’t *get it!* Today I *said* it’d be better if she got lost. Mum’ll think I left it open—out of spite.”
“Alright, grab your coat—we’ll find her.”
The quilted coat hung untouched. Boots too.
“She went out in *slippers and a dressing gown?!*” Emily gaped.
“Maybe she’s in a neighbour’s flat? Or the stairwell? I’ll check outside—you knock on doors,” James said, already thudding downstairs.
No one answered. Emily fled outside. James combed the estate—behind bins, under the slide—nothing.
“Let’s check the next streets. Go right, I’ll loop left. Whoever finds her first rings. Meet back here,” James ordered.
Emily even sprinted to the bus stop. No sign. Half an hour? Forty minutes? *How far could she hobble in slippers?*
“We should call the police,” she panted.
“Wait. Think—where did she *always* talk about? Any favourite places?”
Emily racked her brain—nothing.
“Right, widen the search. You head toward the school, I’ll go opposite.”
The street lamps flickered weakly. Shadows pooled; Emily hurried past, skin prickling. Then—*the school.* Gran’s old tale: once, she’d forgotten her exercise book, climbed out a window, nearly broke her ankle.
*Not even her school—but she always told that story walking past.* Emily shoved the gate—unlocked. The building loomed, a jagged “H.” Rounding the corner, she spotted lads jeering at a figure in a pale blue dressing gown.
One dangled a sweet wrapper. Gran reached—he snatched it back. They howled.
“She’s *not* all there. Which asylum lost *you*, love? Want a sweetie?”
“Leave her *alone!*” Emily roared.
The boys turned, smirking.
“Look, another one!”
“Who’re *you*? Her granddaughter?”
“Escaped together, yeah?” A lad stepped toward her, wrapper outstretched. “Fancy one too?”
Emily backed up. The boys fanned out, blocking Gran, leering, sensing her fear. Her spine hit iron railings. The gate—too far. Like a pack, they lunged.
She flailed, fighting hands that grabbed her wrists, shoved her against the fence. Fingers groped, voices arguing who’d go *first—*
“Get *off her!*” James’s shout split the air.
Two stepped back. One held firm. Fists flew. Emily kicked his shin—he yelped, released her. She snatched a broken plank, swung—too short, smacking his back instead.
He swore, lunged. Emily bolted for the gate.
“Miss—over here! We’ve called the police!” A couple stood beyond the railings. “Bloody *The sound of sirens wailing in the distance sent the lads scattering into the night, leaving Emily, James, and Gran standing there breathless, the cold air heavy with the unspoken truth that some bonds—no matter how strained—could never truly be broken.
