“They arrived with suitcases.”
“You’ve lost your mind! Where am I supposed to put all these suitcases?!” Margaret shouted into the phone, waving her free hand. “I live in a one-bed flat, do you hear me? One bed! And there are four of you!”
“Mum, don’t shout like that!” Her daughter’s voice crackled through the receiver. “It’s only three—Kevin stayed behind in Manchester for his exams. Me, Mark, and little Emily are just coming for a week, till we find a place.”
“A week?!” Margaret nearly dropped the phone. “Sarah, darling, have you seen my flat? Even Mr. Whiskers can barely move around! And you’ve got a child—where’s she supposed to sleep? On my sofa?”
“Mum, we’ll sleep on the floor, don’t worry. At least we’ll have a roof over our heads. Emily’s tiny; she doesn’t need much space.”
Margaret glanced around her cramped flat—the worn-out sofa bed, the creaky armchair left by her late mother-in-law, the tiny kitchen with a fridge that only worked when it felt like it. The windowsill was lined with pots of geraniums, the one bit of cheer in the whole place.
“Sarah, love… maybe a hotel? I’m on a pension, I can barely—”
“Mum, don’t be silly! We barely scraped together the train fare! Listen, we’re already on the way. We’ll be there tomorrow. Just… clear a bit of space, yeah?”
The line went dead.
Margaret sank into the armchair, staring at the phone. Sarah and her family were leaving Manchester, trying to make a fresh start in London. Mark swore he’d land a decent job. But first, they’d be staying here. In her shoebox of a flat on the outskirts, where she barely fit on her own.
Mr. Whiskers, her ginger tabby with a white chest, wound around her ankles, purring.
“Looks like we’re getting visitors, Mr. Whiskers,” she murmured, stroking him. “Better brace yourself. It’ll be like sardines in a tin.”
She stood, scanning the flat with a critical eye. The wardrobe took up half the room, shelves stuffed with years of accumulated clutter—framed photos, tattered books, little trinkets Sarah had given her.
“I suppose we’ll have to make room,” she sighed.
Her neighbor, Mrs. Higgins, was just stepping out with her rubbish bin. “Margaret, what’s all this shuffling about so early?” she asked, eyeing the boxes.
“Oh, just clearing space. Sarah and the family are coming to stay.”
“How lovely! Visiting, are they?”
“More like… indefinitely. Until they find their own place.”
Mrs. Higgins pursed her lips. “Well. Young people these days. Expect the world handed to them on a plate.”
Margaret hurried back inside before the lecture could continue.
That night, she sat at the kitchen table, nursing a mug of tea. Sarah—her only child—had remarried after the divorce, had Emily. The little girl was four now, and Margaret had only met her twice, on rare trips to Manchester. Train fares ate into her pension.
Mark had worked at a factory, but layoffs started. Sarah stayed home with Emily, tutoring when she could. When money ran thin, they decided London was their best shot.
Mr. Whiskers hopped onto her lap, curling into a ball. She stroked him absently.
“How are we supposed to fit, eh?” she whispered. “And how on earth will we afford to feed everyone?”
—
The next morning, the doorbell rang at half six. Margaret shuffled to the door in her dressing gown.
There stood Sarah with a massive suitcase, Mark laden with bags, and between them—little Emily, blonde curls tangled, rubbing her eyes sleepily.
“Mum!” Sarah flung her arms around her. “Missed you so much!”
“Sarah, love,” Margaret hugged her tight, feeling how thin she’d gotten. “Come in, don’t stand there.”
“Hello, Margaret,” Mark nodded, shaking her hand. “Thanks for having us.”
“Don’t be silly. Family’s family.”
Emily peeked out from behind her father’s leg, studying this unfamiliar grandmother.
“Em, don’t be shy,” Sarah coaxed. “Remember Nana Margaret from the photos?”
“Hello, sweetheart,” Margaret crouched to her level. “My, you’re pretty. Just like your mum at your age.”
Emily gave a tiny smile but stayed glued to Mark.
“You must be starved,” Margaret said. “Come, I’ll whip up breakfast.”
They filed in, and she saw the glance Sarah and Mark exchanged. The flat was small. Very small.
“Mum… where do we put our things?” Sarah asked gently.
“I cleared some space,” Margaret fussed. “Half the wardrobe’s empty—suitcases can go under the bed.”
“Under the bed…” Mark murmured, eyeing the sofa. “And where do we sleep?”
“The sofa pulls out—plenty of room for two. And Emily…” She hesitated. “She’ll fit in the armchair.”
Mr. Whiskers, hearing voices, sauntered in and froze mid-step, assessing the newcomers.
“Kitty!” Emily gasped, reaching for him.
“Emily, no—he might scratch!” Sarah warned.
“Don’t be daft, he’s gentle,” Margaret said. “Mr. Whiskers, say hello to Emily.”
The cat sniffed the offered hand, then permitted a tentative stroke.
“Mum, does he use a litter box?” Sarah asked. “Emily’s got allergies.”
“Of course he does,” Margaret stiffened. “He’s not a stray.”
Breakfast was strained. Margaret laid out the last of the groceries—sliced ham, bread, jam, strong tea.
“Mum, any milk?” Sarah asked. “Emily won’t eat cereal without it.”
“None left. I’ll pop to the shop.”
“I’ll go,” Mark offered. “Where’s the closest?”
“Round the corner, but they don’t open till eight.”
“Mum, do you have Wi-Fi?” Sarah pulled out her phone.
“What?”
“Wireless internet. So we can connect.”
“Don’t be silly, why would I need that?”
Sarah and Mark exchanged glances.
“How am I supposed to send job applications?”
“Library’s got free Wi-Fi. Or an internet café.”
“Nana, can we watch telly?” Emily pointed at the ancient TV set.
“Of course, love,” Margaret flicked it on, fiddling with the aerial until the static cleared. “There, cartoons should be on.”
Mark left for the shops while the women settled in.
“Mum, is there hot water?” Sarah asked. “Emily needs a bath—the train was grimy.”
“Sometimes. They cut it off in summer. Should be working now.”
“We thought we’d find a flat in three or four days,” Sarah lowered her voice. “Mark’s got a lead—interview tomorrow.”
“That’s good,” Margaret forced a smile.
“Yeah, but rent’s steep. Deposit, first month, agency fees. Might be two weeks before we can move.”
Two weeks. Margaret swallowed hard.
Days blurred together. Mark hunted for jobs, Sarah cleaned offices evenings, Emily filled the flat with cartoons and giggles. Margaret tiptoed around her own life—no morning tea in peace, no evening telly, even the loo had a queue.
One morning, Sarah said, “Mum, maybe you could visit Aunt Rose in Dorset? Little break?”
“Dorset in October? It’s freezing, no heating!”
“Just a thought.”
Margaret understood—they wanted her gone.
Then came the tipping point. Emily fell ill—high fever, coughing. Margaret stayed up all night, damp cloths and honey tea.
Sarah barely glanced up in the morning. “Mum, I can’t miss work. Call the doctor if it gets worse.”
Margaret sat by Emily’s bedside, holding her small hand. Something inside her snapped.
That evening, she gathered Sarah and Mark at the table.
“I love you,” she said quietly. “But I can’t do this anymore.”
Shamefaced, they promised to move out. A week later, they found a cramped bedsit—miles away, but theirs.
As they left, Emily hugged her tight. “Nana, I’ll miss you. Mr. Whiskers will look after you.”
Alone at last, Margaret sat by the window, watching autumn leaves dance. For the first time in months, she felt peace settle over her.
She was alone.
But she was home.
