Margaret Wilson put down her knitting and listened. Someone was fumbling with the latch on the front door. The sound was familiar, but she wasn’t expecting anyone at this hour. Half past nine in the evening, the neighbors were already asleep, and her granddaughter Emily only visited on weekends.
The latch clicked, the door creaked. Heavy footsteps and faint sniffling echoed in the hallway.
“Who’s there?” Margaret called out, gripping her walking stick.
“Mum, it’s me,” came the familiar voice.
Her heart skipped. She hadn’t heard that voice in over a year. Her son, David, had stormed out after another drunken row and never came back. Just the occasional text to say he was alive and well.
“David?” she asked hesitantly.
“Yeah, Mum, it’s me. Don’t be scared.”
Margaret rose from her armchair, leaning on the stick as she shuffled to the hallway. She flicked on the light. There stood her son—unkempt beard, crumpled jacket, dirty jeans. He looked rough, but most importantly, sober.
“David!” She threw her arms around him, ignoring the stale smell. “Oh, my boy, I’ve missed you so much!”
“I’ve missed you too, Mum. I’m sorry,” he murmured, holding her tight. “I know I’ve messed up.”
She pulled back, studying him. He’d lost weight, his cheeks hollow, but his eyes were clear. No sign of drink.
“Come in, sit down,” she fretted. “I’ll warm up some food.”
“Not yet, Mum.” He stopped her with a hand on hers. “I’m not alone.”
“What?”
He turned towards the door and said softly, “Come in. It’s alright.”
From behind him stepped a tiny figure. A girl, maybe five or six, in a dirty pink dress and scuffed sandals. Strawberry-blonde curls framed her face, and wide grey eyes darted around nervously.
Margaret gasped. “Who’s this?”
“Mum, meet Charlotte. My daughter.”
“Daughter?” Margaret sank onto the hallway stool. “What daughter? Since when?”
“It’s a long story. Let’s get her fed and cleaned up first. She’s exhausted—it was a long trip.”
Charlotte clung to her father, silent, her big eyes darting around the unfamiliar house.
“Right, of course,” Margaret said, snapping into action. “Love, are you hungry? Fancy something to eat?”
The girl nodded but didn’t move from David’s side.
“Kitchen’s this way,” Margaret said, limping ahead. “I’ll whip something up.”
David settled Charlotte at the table. The girl peered around curiously. The kitchen was small but cozy—flower pots on the windowsill, lace curtains, an old teapot on the shelf.
“Mum, have you got anything for kids? Milk? Porridge?” David asked.
“Got milk, I’ll warm it. Porridge won’t take a minute,” she said, bustling about. “Do you like porridge, love?”
Charlotte nodded again.
While Margaret cooked, David whispered to his daughter, explaining where they were.
“This is your grandma’s house,” he said softly. “I grew up here. See the flowers? Tomorrow, if it’s sunny, I’ll show you the garden. There’s a swing.”
“When’s Mummy coming?” Charlotte’s small voice piped up for the first time.
David hesitated.
“Charlotte… Mummy’s not coming. Remember what we talked about?”
She looked down. “She died?”
“Yeah, sweetheart. She did.”
Margaret, standing at the stove, flinched. What mother? What had happened? How many more shocks was her son going to bring?
She placed a bowl of porridge and a glass of warm milk in front of Charlotte.
“Eat up, love. Then we’ll get you bathed and off to bed.”
Charlotte took a tentative bite. Liked it, apparently, because she dug in hungrily.
“Good?” Margaret asked.
“Mhm,” the girl mumbled through a full mouth.
“Atta girl.”
David ate too, though without much appetite. His eyes kept flicking to Charlotte, adjusting her napkin, nudging the glass closer.
“David,” Margaret said quietly, “we need to talk.”
“I know, Mum. Just let’s get Charlotte settled first.”
The girl was already fighting to keep her eyes open. The journey had worn her out.
“Come on, poppet.” Margaret took her hand. “Let’s get you washed up.”
In the bathroom, she helped Charlotte undress. The dress was filthy, the sandals falling apart. Beneath, the girl’s thin body was dotted with bruises.
“Charlotte, what’s this?” Margaret asked gently, pointing to the dark marks on her arms and legs.
“Fell,” came the short reply.
“Happen often?”
Charlotte shrugged and said nothing.
Margaret ran a warm bath, lowering the girl in. Charlotte sat quiet, playing with the bubbles, occasionally glancing at her grandmother.
“What’s your name?” she asked suddenly.
“Margaret Wilson. But you can just say Grandma.”
“Grandma,” Charlotte repeated, testing the word.
“That’s right. How old are you?”
“Five. Nearly six.”
“Big girl. School soon.”
Charlotte nodded. “Mummy said I’m clever. I can read.”
“Brilliant! You’ll read to me tomorrow, yeah?”
For the first time that evening, Charlotte smiled.
After the bath, Margaret wrapped her in a big towel and carried her to the bedroom. No proper bed, so she tucked her into her own.
“You’ll sleep here,” she said, pulling up the covers. “I’ll take the sofa.”
“Don’t go,” Charlotte whispered, panicked. “I’m small. I won’t take up space.”
“Alright then. We’ll share.”
Charlotte sighed, relieved, and closed her eyes. Within minutes, she was asleep.
Margaret slipped out and returned to the kitchen. David sat at the table, smoking.
“Not in the house,” she said.
“Sorry.” He stubbed it out. “Nerves.”
“Understandable. Now—start talking.”
He rubbed his face.
“It’s complicated, Mum.”
“I’ve got time.”
He stood, paced, then sat again.
“Remember when I left? Year and a half ago? After that fight with the neighbors?”
“Course I do. Drunk, making a scene.”
“Yeah. I was ashamed. Thought it was better to disappear than keep embarrassing you.”
She stayed quiet. She remembered. David, wasted, picking fights over nothing. Police called.
“I went to stay with Steve—remember him? Army mate. Lived out in the countryside then.”
“And then what?”
“Steve did odd jobs. Construction, forestry. I worked with him. Made decent money, but I drank it all. He drank too, but not like me.”
David paused, gathering himself.
“Family next door. Single mum with a little girl. Sarah, her name was. Charlotte’s mum.”
“Go on.”
“Sarah worked at a shop, pennies for pay. Kid was alone a lot. I’d help sometimes—chopping wood, fixing things.”
“So you fell for her?”
David shook his head.
“Not like that. We just… kept each other company. Both lonely.”
“Then what?”
“Sarah got sick. Cancer. Went quick. She died last winter.”
Margaret crossed herself.
“God rest her. And the girl?”
“Social services were gonna take Charlotte. No family. I couldn’t let that happen.”
“Why? She’s not yours.”
David looked up.
“She is, Mum. Charlotte’s mine.”
Margaret gasped.
“Yours? You just said you only helped!”
“I left bits out. Sarah and I… we were together. Charlotte’s my daughter.”
“Lord above.” Margaret clutched her chest. “Why didn’t you say? Why hide it?”
“Because I’m a drunk, Mum. What kind of father am I? Sarah raised her alone—I just helped now and then. Never gave money, spent it all on booze.”
“And now? You’ve taken her in?”
“Yeah. Got guardianship. Paperwork’s sorted. But nowhere to live. Steve kicked us out when he found out. Said he didn’t need the hassle.”
Margaret stood, walked to the window. Dark outside, just streetlamps glowing.
“So I’ve got a granddaughter.”
“Yeah, Mum. You do.”
“And you… you’re off it now?”
David shook his head.
“Four months sober. When Sarah was dying, she asked me to look after Charlotte. Knew I had to change.”
“Sticking to it?”
“So far. Hard, but yeah.”
Margaret turned.
“David, does she have paperwork? Birth certificate?”
“Got it all. Legal father now. Sarah wasn’t sure at first, but we got tested—definitely mine.”
“Right. Where will you live?”
“Mum, I dunno. Can we stay hereMargaret turned to her son with a soft smile and said, “You’re home now, and that’s where you both belong.”
