I stood before the bathroom mirror, mascara wand trembling in my hand. The last time I’d applied makeup this carefully was seven years ago, before that fateful office party where I’d met James. He’d left a year after our son was born, graciously leaving us the flat.
My hand reached for my usual lip balm but suddenly grabbed the scarlet lipstick instead. It had sat untouched since I’d become simply “Oliver’s mum.”
My phone buzzed on the sink’s edge before clattering to the floor. The mascara wand jerked, leaving a black streak by my temple. Emma was calling for the third time in an hour.
“Are you actually coming?” Her voice crackled with irritation through the receiver. “You promised to pick me up an hour ago!”
I bit my lip, watching through the half-open door as Oliver sat cross-legged before the telly, surrounded by a ring of cereal. A lump rose in my throat.
“I need to find a new babysitter. Urgently.”
“What?!” Emma gasped. “You said everything was sorted!”
“That one cancelled. Last minute.”
The silence on the line grew thick. I knew exactly what Emma was thinking: “There she goes again, barely keeping it together.” Five years as a single mother, and I still couldn’t anticipate these things.
“Mum!” Oliver appeared in the doorway, trailing cereal crumbs. “Is Dad coming today?”
The question punched the air from my lungs. He asked every Friday, but my ex-husband had little interest in fatherhood. Not that I pushed it.
“No, love,” I said, straightening his collar. “But tonight you’ll have the best babysitter in the world!”
The laptop spat out dozens of listings for “emergency childcare.” A banner for “Granny for an Hour,” featuring a beaming elderly woman, seemed to mock me. My own mother had lived in Brighton for three years. Our strained relationship consisted of hushed phone calls where I dodged her questions, and she accused me of shutting her out.
I clicked the banner and selected “Call now.”
At precisely 7:03 p.m., a knock shattered the quiet of our flat.
The woman at the door looked plucked from a postwar home economics manual—tall, upright, in a crisp grey suit and immaculate white blouse. The only oddity was the old-fashioned owl brooch pinned to her lapel.
“You requested childcare?” Her voice carried quiet authority, with a huskiness that suggested years of being obeyed.
I stepped aside automatically, letting her in. For the first time, I felt like a guest in my own home, stammering, “Yes, but… I expected—”
“What exactly?” She turned sharply, the brooch glinting under the hallway light. I had no answer. She bore little resemblance to the cheerful granny from the advert.
Bare feet pattered behind me. Oliver stared up at her stern attire.
“Are you a real governess? Like in the storybooks?”
“Oliver!” I instinctively shielded him.
The woman snorted. Then, unexpectedly, she bent down and gifted my son a warm smile.
“Observant lad. But tonight, I’m just Mrs. Winthrop. Your babysitter. For this evening.”
She removed her jacket with the precision of a surgeon peeling off gloves, hanging it neatly. Her gaze swept the living room with professional scrutiny.
“The rules are simple. You leave. You may call—but only for emergencies. The child and I will be occupied, and nervous phone calls won’t help.”
I chewed my lip as she ran a finger along the shelf, checking for dust.
“Do you have references?”
Mrs. Winthrop turned, and something oddly familiar flickered in her eyes.
“Thirty-five years as a nursery school teacher. Raised generations of children. Oliver will be safe.”
* * *
Rain lashed the café windows, smearing the city lights into watery streaks. I was twenty minutes late—exactly how long it had taken to convince myself Oliver would be fine.
“Finally!” Emma waved me over. Her manicure, as always, was flawless—soft pink, unchipped. “We ordered your Earl Grey.”
Daniel stood as I approached, adjusting his glasses awkwardly. We’d only been dating two months—set up by Emma, who’d known him since school. His recent divorce had left him quiet.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said, draping my wet coat over the chair. “Emergency babysitter trouble.”
Emma squinted—that same look she’d given me during university exams.
“What happened to Mrs. Carter? You booked her a month ahead.”
I reached for the sugar, avoiding eye contact. “She found a better offer.”
Daniel silently pushed the milk toward me—I always took it in tea.
“Is the new sitter trustworthy?” he asked carefully.
“Who cares?” Emma cut in, brandishing her fork. “You won’t even let his grandmother near him, but some stranger—”
My phone vibrated. A voice note from Oliver:
“Mum, the governess found your necklace in Daddy’s box. She says you hid it because it hurts to look at.”
My fingers clenched the phone. James had given me that necklace on our anniversary. I had stuffed it away with his things…
“Laura?” Daniel leaned in. “What’s wrong?”
Emma snatched my phone.
“What kind of—” She swore. “Is this woman rifling through your things?!”
Another message arrived:
“And that your back hurts from being tired. The governess promised to give you special cream.”
Daniel stood abruptly, knocking over his glass. “I’ll take you home.”
“Wait.” Emma grabbed my arm. “Let’s sort this. You hired some—”
“It was a verified agency!” My voice cracked. A few diners turned. “But she knows… knows things she shouldn’t. My back does hurt. And that box was buried in the back of the cupboard.”
Silence. Even Emma was speechless.
Daniel broke it first. “We’re going. All of us.”
* * *
The lift ascended agonisingly slowly. Emma clicked her purse clasp nervously, Daniel stayed silent, and I studied my reflection—smudged mascara, windswept hair.
“Should we call the police?” Emma whispered.
“No. Let’s hear her out first.”
The door opened before I could use my key.
“Mum!” Oliver barrelled into me, smelling of vanilla shampoo. “We baked a cake!”
The kitchen gleamed. On the table sat a massive raisin-studded loaf—just like my nan used to make.
And Mrs. Winthrop…
She sat in my armchair, the necklace draped over her bony fingers.
“You’re early,” she remarked calmly.
“You—” My voice wavered. “You went through my things?”
“No.” She set the necklace down. “But pain always leaves traces.”
Emma stepped forward, glaring.
“Who exactly are you?”
Mrs. Winthrop touched her brooch.
“I taught nursery school for twenty-eight years. The children called me ‘Gran Winny.’ And also…” She turned to me. “I was at your maternity ward. Brought you medicine when you had fever after the birth.”
I froze. She continued,
“You said then, ‘Thank you, but I don’t need anyone.'” A faint reproach laced her words. “Do you need someone now?”
Emma scoffed. “You believe this rubbish?”
But I wasn’t listening. Because I remembered. That night. The woman in white who’d stroked my hair, her palms feverishly warm, as if she’d held them to a flame.
Daniel gently took my elbow.
“Laura, maybe we—”
“Mum,” Oliver tugged my sleeve, “the governess says you’re really tired. Why don’t you tell me?”
The room hushed.
Mrs. Winthrop walked to the window. Streetlight carved her profile from shadows.
“You think asking for help means you’ve failed.”
“I manage,” I said automatically.
“How?” She turned. “How do you manage work? Oliver’s questions? His clubs? Not calling your mother for months?”
Emma gasped.
“You haven’t spoken to your mum?”
I clenched my fists.
“You’ve no right—”
“Rights,” she interrupted, “are for those who face truth. You refused child support. Blocked family. Even your best friend doesn’t know how you struggle. You fear—” Her voice softened, “—that if you let people close, they’ll see you’re not perfect. Not the ideal mother. Not the ideal daughter.”
I shut my eyes. Something in my chest snapped.
“I… I think I’m drowning. It’s too much.”
Daniel hugged me so suddenly I flinched.
“You idiot,” Emma whispered. “I’m right here. Why didn’t you say?”
Silently, Daniel pressed a handkerchief into my palm.
Mrs. Winthrop nodded. “Now we may begin.”
* * *
Dusk thickened to night. Emma and Daniel stayed because Mrs. Winthrop had said, “Leave now, and she’ll shut you out for years.”
So we sat at the kitchen table while Oliver slept, and the babysitter silently sorted through old photos—the ones I’d hidden with the necklace.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked as her fingersShe placed the photo of James and me by the seaside in front of me, her voice gentle but firm, “Because happiness isn’t found in hiding, but in letting others share the weight you carry.”
