**Second Chance**
Margaret Whitaker was your typical grandma, with all her quirks and flaws. But Jack loved her unconditionally. He had no memory of his father, though Gran often said it was better that way. Whenever Jack asked for details, she’d just sigh and say, *”You’ll understand when you’re older.”* So he stopped pressing and tried to figure things out on his own.
When he was five, Gran took him in for good. After that, his mum only popped in occasionally—usually between failed attempts to land herself a new husband.
One day, when she showed up to take Jack back, Gran sent him to his room. He played quietly, straining to hear the argument in the kitchen. At first, it was just muffled voices, then shouting.
*”How many times? That boy needs a mother, not some dolled-up floozy!”* Gran snapped.
*”Am I supposed to bury myself alive now? I’m trying to find a husband—a father for him!”* his mum shot back.
*”The sort of men you chase aren’t father material. Most won’t love another man’s child—some won’t even love their own!”*
*”You wouldn’t understand. You—”* Then came words Jack didn’t know, but the venom in them made his stomach twist. Gran had heard enough and threw her out again.
She stormed into his room, tense and jittery, ruffled his short hair, then slammed the door behind her.
His mum vanished for weeks at a time, only reappearing giddy or furious, depending on how her latest relationship attempt had gone. After she left, the scent of her cheap perfume clung to Jack’s hair and clothes. He’d breathe it in, remembering.
As he got older, he dreaded her visits. Afterwards, Gran would gulp down heart pills with a bitter smell, slam dishes around, and mutter about raising a heartless cuckoo who’d abandoned her only child. *”I’ve got no strength left,”* she’d grumble. *”Next time, I’ll just let her take you.”* Jack would hunker down in his room, waiting out the storm.
Eventually, Gran would shuffle in, balancing a plate of warm crumpets or jam tarts on the edge of his desk. *”Why so quiet? Scared?”* Her voice softened. *”Don’t worry, I won’t let her take you. And don’t be cross with me.”*
Jack understood. He wasn’t cross. When he was upset, he went to Gran for comfort. But she never complained to him—how could an eight-year-old boy help? So he’d listen patiently to her grumbling, wishing things would just go back to normal. And by morning, they always did—until his mum turned up again.
Time passed, and Jack grew. Gran never seemed to age. He thought she’d stay that way forever.
When he was in sixth form, she’d nag him about his grades. *”If you don’t get into uni, they’ll draft you, and I’m too old to handle that. So if you want me around longer, you’d better study.”*
Jack tried his hardest—he couldn’t let her down. She was all he had. His mum might as well have been a stranger. His motivation was simple: Gran’s life depended on it. He aced his A-levels and got into university. Not some fancy program everyone fought over—he played it safe, opting for history. He loved reading, and the past fascinated him.
In his second year, he fell for a lively girl named Emily. She loved crowded pubs and parties, which Jack hated. But for her, he went. Gran took one look at his dazed, lovesick expression and sighed. She’d wait up for him, lying awake until he got home. Guilt gnawed at him, so he never stayed out too late. Emily hated that.
One night, she gave him an ultimatum: *”Leave early, and we’re done.”* Jack didn’t want to lose her, but he couldn’t stand the thought of Gran worrying—her blood pressure, her heart. In the end, he left. He ran home as if chased, cursing Gran in his head. *”Why can’t she just sleep? I’m not a kid. I can take care of myself.”* She refused to use mobiles. *”Too late for me to learn. You’ll manage.”*
When he pushed open the door, a sliver of light spilled from under her room. *”Why is she still up?”* he thought irritably, stepping inside—and froze.
Gran was on the floor, eyes shut, one arm twisted awkwardly beneath her. A spilled glass of water lay beside her.
*”Gran?!”* He dropped to his knees.
Her eyelids fluttered. She tried to speak, but her mouth twisted, uncooperative.
*”Don’t you dare die. Stay with me.”* He fumbled for his phone.
The ambulance arrived fast. The paramedic said another half-hour, and it would’ve been too late.
Jack hated himself. He’d been so wrapped up in Emily that he hadn’t noticed Gran complaining of dizziness, taking more pills, gripping furniture to steady herself. If he’d stayed home, maybe none of this would’ve happened.
She was hospitalised, and for the first time, Jack was truly alone. He visited daily, bringing chicken broth and cordial Emily had made—though she didn’t last long. Soon, she was back to clubbing. They broke up.
Three weeks later, Gran came home. She moved carefully now, shuffling in tiny steps, terrified of falling. One arm hung useless, her speech slurred. But Jack learned to understand her.
His life became a whirlwind—lectures, grocery runs, cooking, feeding Gran, laundry, cleaning. Everything slipped through her fingers. And somehow, he still had to study.
Then a young nurse with a blonde plait started visiting from the clinic. He didn’t think women still wore their hair like that. Lucy came daily, giving Gran injections with practised ease, showing them exercises for her arm. *”Progress takes time,”* she warned. She scolded Jack when he slacked off.
*”I’m stretched thin—shopping, cooking, uni… I can’t even make porridge right,”* he admitted sheepishly.
Lucy marched to the kitchen and showed him how. *”You’ll get the hang of it. It’s not hard.”* Her cheeks pinked at his thanks.
Slowly, Gran improved. Her arm moved better, her speech clearer.
*”What will we do without you? Gran adores you. She brightens up the second you walk in,”* Jack said once as Lucy was leaving.
*”And you?”* she asked, suddenly serious.
*”Me too,”* he said—and meant it.
*”I could stop by after work sometimes. If you’d like.”*
*”That’d be brilliant,”* he said, grinning.
Lucy became indispensable. She helped with Gran, cooked soups, stirred porridge. Gran grew steadier, walking with a cane, speaking more clearly.
His mum never showed. Probably too busy chasing husband number who-knows-what. The last time she’d visited, Jack had cringed at her thick makeup, caking over wrinkles. Her perfume stung his nose now. Lucy didn’t wear any.
He went to invite his mum to the wedding—small, but still a wedding. She wasn’t home. A neighbour said she’d gone off somewhere.
After uni, Jack was offered a lecturing position. Gran never fully recovered, but she managed small chores now. Money wasn’t tight, so they started thinking about a baby. When he mentioned it to Lucy, she blushed furiously.
*”Bit late for that. I’m already pregnant.”*
His mum reappeared when Lucy’s bump was showing. No clue why she bothered. She screeched about him being ungrateful, not inviting her to the wedding. Never asked about Gran’s stroke. Ranted, slammed the door. The stress sent Gran straight back to hospital. This time, she didn’t come home.
At the wake, his mum wept drunkenly about them being orphans now. The next morning, Jack couldn’t find his keys.
*”Take mine,”* Lucy said. *”I’ll be home later anyway.”*
Work sent him home early—they’d covered his classes, assuming he’d need time after the funeral.
When he stepped inside, dirty footprints trailed across the floor. His keys sat on the side table. He eased open Gran’s room. His mum was rifling through drawers.
*”So you stole my keys?”* he said loudly.
She jumped.
*”Looking for this?”* He upended Gran’s teacup onto the table—gold earrings with fat rubies, a ring.
For a heartbeat, she stared greedily, then swept them into her fist. *”These are mine. She promised!”*
Jack hated her then.
*”Take them and go.”*
*”Kicking out your own mother? Ungrateful wretch. I’ve rights to this flat too, you know! After all I’She left, and Jack locked the door behind her, knowing—finally—that home was no longer what had been lost, but what he’d built with Lucy and their little girl.
