The door burst open with a clatter of suitcases.
“Are you out of your mind?” Margaret shouted into the phone, waving her free hand wildly. “I live in a one-bed flat, do you hear me? One-bed! And you’re bringing—how many? Four?”
“Mum, don’t shout like that!” Her daughter’s voice crackled through the receiver. “It’s just three of us. Daniel stayed behind in Manchester—he’s got exams. We’re only coming for a week, just until we sort out a place to rent.”
“A week?” Margaret nearly dropped the phone. “Emma, love, have you seen my flat? There’s barely room for Mr. Whiskers! And you’ve got a child—where’s she supposed to sleep? On my settee?”
“Mum, we’ll make do. We’ll lay something on the floor. Lily’s tiny, she doesn’t need much space.”
Margaret glanced around her cramped flat—the fold-out bed she slept on, the worn armchair left by her late mother-in-law, the narrow kitchen with its temperamental fridge. The only bright spot was the geraniums on the windowsill.
“Emma, why not a hotel?” she pleaded. “I’m on pension, love. I’ve barely got two pennies to rub together.”
“Mum, don’t be daft! We barely scraped together the train fare! Look, we’re already on the way. Just clear a bit of space, yeah?”
The line went dead. Margaret sank into her chair, staring at the phone. Emma and her family were leaving Manchester for London, chasing a better life. Her son-in-law, James, swore he’d land a good job in the city. And until then? They’d all be crammed into her tiny flat, on the outskirts of a city where even breathing felt expensive.
Mr. Whiskers, her ginger tomcat, wound around her ankles, purring.
“Ready for guests, Mr. Whiskers?” she murmured, scratching his ears. “We’ll be packed in like sardines.”
She stood, critically surveying the flat. The wardrobe swallowed half the room, shelves groaning under decades of accumulated knickknacks—photo frames, dog-eared books, little trinkets Emma had given her over the years.
“Time to tidy up,” she sighed.
Her neighbour, Mrs. Thompson, emerged just as Margaret shuffled into the hallway with a box of clutter.
“Margaret, love, what’s all this?” she asked, eyeing the mess.
“Emma’s coming. With the family. To stay,” Margaret muttered, avoiding details.
“Oh, how lovely! For a visit?”
“Not a visit. To *live*. Until they find somewhere.”
Mrs. Thompson’s eyebrows shot up. “But your place is—”
“Mrs. Thompson, I’m in a bit of a rush.”
Margaret hurried back inside before the interrogation could begin.
That evening, nursing a cup of tea at the kitchen table, she stewed. Emma—her only daughter—had married James after her first divorce, then had little Lily. Margaret had only met her granddaughter twice, when she’d scraped together the train fare to Manchester. Now they were coming to London, chasing work, chasing rent they couldn’t afford.
Mr. Whiskers hopped onto her lap, curling into a ball.
“How on earth are we going to manage, Mr. Whiskers?” she whispered. “How do I feed five mouths on a pension?”
—
The knock came at half-six the next morning. Margaret scrambled to the door in her dressing gown.
Emma stood there, dragging a suitcase, James beside her with two duffel bags, and between them—Lily, rubbing sleep from her eyes with tiny fists.
“Mum!” Emma threw her arms around her. “God, I’ve missed you!”
“Darling,” Margaret squeezed her tight. “Come in, come in!”
James nodded, shifting the bags. “Thanks for having us, Margaret.”
“Course, love. Family, aren’t we?”
Lily peered out from behind James’s leg, studying her grandmother with wide eyes.
“Lily, sweetheart, remember Granny from the photos?” Emma coaxed.
Lily gave a shy smile but didn’t budge.
“You must be starving,” Margaret fussed. “Let me get breakfast going.”
They shuffled inside, and Margaret saw the moment Emma and James exchanged glances. The flat was small. *Too* small.
“Mum, where do we put all this?” Emma asked carefully.
“I cleared some space,” Margaret said quickly. “Suitcases can go under the bed.”
James eyed the fold-out. “And where exactly do we sleep?”
“The settee pulls out. Plenty of room for you two. And Lily—” She hesitated. “Lily can curl up in the armchair. She’s tiny.”
Mr. Whiskers sauntered in, assessing the newcomers.
“Kitty!” Lily squealed, reaching for him.
“Careful, he might scratch,” Emma warned.
“Don’t be silly,” Margaret tutted. “He’s a gentle old thing. Mr. Whiskers, meet Lily.”
The cat sniffed her hand, then allowed a pat.
“Mum, does he use a litter box?” Emma asked. “Lily’s got allergies.”
“Of course he does,” Margaret said stiffly. “Why? Is that a problem?”
“Just wondering.”
Breakfast was strained. Margaret laid out the last of her groceries—sliced ham, bread, a jar of jam. The kettle whistled.
“Mum, any milk?” Emma asked. “Lily won’t eat cereal without it.”
“Ran out yesterday. I’ll nip to the shop.”
“I’ll go,” James offered. “Where’s the nearest?”
“Just round the corner. Opens at eight.”
Emma pulled out her phone. “Mum, do you have Wi-Fi?”
“*Wi-Fi*? What for?”
“For job hunting!”
“Since when do I need the internet?”
Emma exhaled sharply, exchanging a look with James.
They’d figure it out, he muttered. Library, maybe.
Lily tugged Margaret’s sleeve. “Granny, can we watch telly?”
Margaret flicked on the old set, fiddling with the dial until the screen flickered to life. “There you go, love. Cartoons should be on.”
James left for the shop, and the room settled into awkward silence. Emma busied herself unpacking.
“Mum, can I move your books?” she asked. “Need room for Lily’s things.”
Margaret swallowed. “Go on, then.”
Her books—her evening companions—were boxed away beneath the bed.
—
Days bled into each other. James job-hunted. Emma scoured rental ads. Lily took over the telly.
Margaret became a ghost in her own home. No peaceful cuppa—the kitchen was always occupied. No evening telly—Lily claimed it. Even the loo had a queue.
Then one night, she overheard them whispering.
“James, maybe we’re being cruel,” Emma murmured.
“Cruel how? She offered.”
“But look how tired she is.”
“We’ll move soon,” he promised. “Just need to save.”
Margaret’s chest ached. They weren’t staying out of necessity—but convenience.
The breaking point came when Lily fell ill. Margaret spent the night tending her, mopping her brow, coaxing sips of water. At dawn, Emma yawned:
“Mum, I’ve got work. Can you watch her?”
Margaret’s hands stilled. “Your child’s burning up, and you’re off to work?”
“I can’t call in! You’re here anyway—”
Something in Margaret snapped.
That evening, after Lily slept, she gathered them at the table.
“I love you,” she said quietly. “But I can’t do this anymore. You’re grown. Find your own place.”
Silence.
Emma’s eyes welled. “We will.”
A week later, they rented a room in a shared house—grim, but theirs.
As they left, Lily hugged Margaret tight. “I’ll miss you, Granny.”
Mr. Whiskers curled in Margaret’s lap that evening as she sat by the window, watching autumn leaves spiral past.
For the first time in months, she breathed.
Alone.
But finally home.
