Margaret Whitman stood by the kitchen window, watching a battered Ford Focus pull into the driveway. A tall young man in a crumpled T-shirt and jeans climbed out, unhurried, and retrieved two large backpacks and a gym bag from the boot.
“Well, he’s here,” she muttered to herself, drying her hands on a tea towel before going to greet her nephew.
Tom had grown. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been a lanky fourteen-year-old with ears that stuck out. Now he stood on her doorstep, a proper young man, though slightly uncertain.
“Aunt Margaret?” he asked hesitantly when she opened the door.
“Of course it’s me! Come in, Tom! Goodness, look how tall you’ve gotten!” She hugged him, catching the scent of travel and cheap aftershave. “Go on through to your room and settle in. Tired from the journey?”
“Nah, I’m alright. Thanks for having me. I won’t be long—just need to find work and a flat.” Tom shifted from foot to foot, glancing around the hallway.
Margaret nodded, though doubt had already crept in. Promises were easy; keeping them was another matter. Her sister—Tom’s mother—had always been full of grand pledges, only to vanish for months.
“This way,” she said, gesturing to what had been her study until yesterday. The desk, the bookshelves, her favourite armchair by the window—all had been squeezed into her bedroom to make space.
Tom hesitated in the doorway.
“Listen, maybe I should just crash on the sofa? Don’t want to put you out.”
“Don’t be silly. A young man needs his privacy,” she replied, though something tightened inside her. Twenty years she’d spent arranging this room, every item with its place and story.
Tom dropped his bags, scanning the space.
“Where’ll you work now? This was your office, wasn’t it?”
“Moved it to the bedroom. It’s fine,” she said brightly, though her voice wavered.
Tom didn’t seem to notice, already unzipping a backpack.
“Mind if I unpack? Everything’s a wrinkled mess.”
“Go ahead. I’ll sort supper. What do you fancy?”
“Not fussy. Whatever’s easy.” He grinned, and in that smile, Margaret saw her late brother. “Just don’t go to trouble. I’ll be knackered later, and tomorrow I’m job hunting.”
She nodded and headed to the kitchen. Behind her came the sounds of rearrangement—Tom clearly had his own ideas about furniture placement.
As she fried sausages, Margaret recalled her neighbour Eleanor’s warning.
“Are you sure about this?” Eleanor had asked, eyeing Margaret’s flat. “Young people these days… First it’s the nephew, then mates crashing over, next some girlfriend. Before you know it, they’ll want to host a wedding in your lounge.”
“Don’t be daft,” Margaret had waved her off. “He’s family. My brother’s boy.”
“Family, family,” Eleanor had grumbled. “Where was this family when you were poorly? When you were laid up after your hip op?”
At the time, it had struck Margaret as unfair. But now, listening to Tom rearrange her former study, she wondered.
“Aunt Margaret!” Tom called. “Can I move the telly into my room? It’d fit better there.”
She froze, spatula in hand. The telly had sat in the lounge for fifteen years. She liked watching the news from her armchair.
“How will I watch it?” she asked carefully.
“You could use the one in your room. Or come join me,” he replied breezily.
Margaret bit her lip. Knocking to enter her own room? Staring at a screen from bed like an invalid?
“Let’s leave it for now,” she said gently.
A sigh came from the room, but he let it drop.
Over dinner, Tom outlined his plans. Construction work, decent pay—he’d have his own place in a month or two.
“Your studies?” Margaret asked. “Mum said you were at college.”
Tom grimaced.
“Dropped out. Dead boring, all theory. I’d rather work with my hands.”
“Shame. Education’s always useful.”
“You’re an accountant, got all the certificates—what’s your salary?” He shrugged. “I’ll earn your month’s wages in a week on site.”
Margaret said nothing. Explaining she worked for more than money, that she loved her job, would be lost on him.
After eating, Tom retreated to his room. Margaret washed up, then tried to read in the lounge—but music thumped through the wall. She nearly knocked to ask him to turn it down, then reconsidered. First night. Let him settle.
At 6:30 AM, the shower woke her. Normally she rose at 7:30, breakfasted leisurely. Now Tom monopolised the bathroom when she needed it.
“Tom, I need in there!”
“Five minutes!”
Five became twenty. She rushed out barely breakfasted.
“You look peaky,” her coworker Susan noted.
“Nephew’s staying. Adjusting,” Margaret said shortly.
“For long?”
“Till he finds work and a flat.”
Susan shook her head.
“Know those ‘temporary’ lodgers. My cousin’s brother stayed eighteen months. Always ‘looking.'”
All day, Margaret worried. Had Tom job-hunted? He’d still been asleep when she left.
Returning home, she found dirty plates in the sink, breadcrumbs and an empty baked bean tin.
“Tom?”
“Coming!”
He appeared tousled, in boxers and a vest.
“Any luck job hunting?” she asked, eyeing the mess.
“Going tomorrow. Had a headache today.” He yawned. “Can’t a bloke have a day in?”
“Of course. Just asking.”
They ate together. Tom praised her cooking, told stories from home. Maybe he wasn’t so bad—just young, careless.
But when he blasted music and shouted on the phone late, her patience frayed.
Next day, a repeat—late rise, long shower. Home from work, she found Tom and a mate drinking lager at her table.
“Aunt Margaret, this is Mike. Old friend. Got a job for me.”
Mike, mid-twenties in a tracksuit and gold chain, barely nodded.
“What sort of job?” Margaret asked.
“Delivery work,” Mike said vaguely.
“What are you delivering?”
“This and that.” He exchanged a look with Tom.
Margaret’s stomach knotted.
“Tom, what about the construction job?”
“Proper graft, that. This is flexible.”
After Mike left, she tried reasoning.
“Are you sure this is legit? I don’t trust that friend of yours.”
“Mike’s sound. You just don’t know him.” Tom scowled. “I’m not a kid.”
“I worry. For you, and myself. I don’t want trouble here.”
“It’s just business! Watch less telly.” He slammed his bedroom door.
Margaret sat at the table, reality sinking in. She was a guest in her own home.
The weekend brought disaster. Tom’s girlfriend arrived—Katie, a skinny blonde in a tiny skirt.
“Aunt Margaret, Katie’s staying over. Just till we get a place.”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“Come on! We’re in love!”
“You promised this was temporary!”
“Two months tops.”
That night, music and laughter turned to suspicious silence. Margaret lay stiffly, imagining her study—her books, her space—defiled.
Morning revealed her expensive shampoo used, makeup rifled.
“Katie, don’t touch my things!”
“Chill out,” Katie drawled. “It’s just shampoo.”
Tom shrugged. “She’s family.”
“Not an excuse!”
Katie paraded in underwear, eating Margaret’s yoghurt straight from the pot.
“Could you dress?” Margaret snapped.
“It’s hot.”
“My house, my rules.”
Later, contrite, Tom knocked.
“Katie didn’t mean anything.”
Margaret wiped her eyes.
“I want you both out. Today.”
“But we’ve nowhere!”
“Your mother. Katie’s parents.”
“They’ve disowned us!”
“Time to stand on your own feet, Tom.”
He left sullenly, Katie cursing her as “a stingy old cow.”
Alone at last, Margaret cleaned the room—cigarette butts, displaced books—then sat by the window.
Peace. Glorious silence.
Her sister called, raging.
“How could you? They’re homeless!”
“Twenty-two is old enough to provide.”
“You’re heartless!”
“Perhaps. But it’s my life.”
A week later, Eleanor nodded approval.
“Served them right. Youth today—no respect.”
“He’s not bad,” Margaret sighed. “Just spoiled.”
“Bad or not—your home’s your own again.”
And it was. The quiet, the order—she’d forgotten how precious they were.
As she sipped her tea in the quiet glow of the evening, Margaret realized that sometimes kindness meant knowing when to say no.
