**The Hourly Granny**
I stood before the bathroom mirror, my hand trembling as I held the mascara wand. The last time I’d made this much effort with my makeup was seven years ago, before that ill-fated office party where I’d met Max. He left a year after our son was born, generously leaving us the flat.
My fingers hovered over my usual lip gloss but suddenly snatched the untouched red lipstick instead—the one I hadn’t worn since becoming just “Tommy’s mum.”
The phone buzzed on the edge of the sink, then clattered to the floor. My hand jerked, leaving a black streak near my temple. Emma was calling for the third time in an hour.
“Are you even coming?” Her voice crackled with irritation. “You promised to pick me up ages ago!”
I bit my lip, watching Tommy through the half-open door. He sat cross-legged in front of the telly, surrounded by a moat of cornflakes. A lump tightened in my throat.
“I need to find a new babysitter. Now.”
“What?!” Emma gasped. “You said it was all sorted!”
“She cancelled. Last minute.”
The silence on the line thickened. I knew exactly what Emma was thinking: *Here we go again, Sarah’s in over her head.* Five years as a single mum, and I still hadn’t learned to foresee these things.
“Mum!” Tommy 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 for it.
“Not today, sweetheart,” I adjusted his collar. “But you’re getting the best babysitter in the world tonight!”
The laptop spat out a dozen “emergency babysitter” listings. The banner—*Hourly Granny*, featuring a beaming elderly woman—felt like a cruel joke. My own mother had lived in Brighton for three years, our relationship strained. I didn’t want to worry her with my mess; she accused me of shutting her out.
I clicked the banner and hit *Call*.
At precisely 7:03 PM, the doorbell shattered our flat’s silence.
The woman on the doorstep looked like she’d stepped out of a 1950s housekeeping manual: tall, ramrod-straight, in a crisp grey suit and immaculate white blouse. The only quirk was an antique owl brooch pinned to her lapel.
“Are you the one who requested a babysitter?” Her voice was clear, edged with the rasp of someone accustomed to being obeyed.
I stumbled back, letting her in. For the first time, I felt like a stranger in my own home.
“I—yes, but I expected—”
“Expected what?” She turned sharply, the brooch glinting under the chandelier. I had no answer. She looked nothing like the cheery granny from the advert.
Bare feet pattered behind me. Tommy stared up at her stern suit.
“Are you a real governess? Like in *Mary Poppins*?”
“Tommy!” I instinctively shielded him.
The woman huffed. Then, unexpectedly, she crouched to his level with a warm smile.
“Observant lad. But tonight, I’m just Mrs. Eleanor Whitmore. Your babysitter.”
She shrugged off her jacket with the precision of a surgeon removing gloves and hung it neatly. Her gaze swept the living room like a headmistress inspecting a dormitory.
“Rules are simple. You leave. You may call, but only if essential. I’ll engage the child properly—nervous check-ins won’t help.”
I chewed my lip as she ran a finger along the shelf, checking for dust.
“Do you have references?”
Mrs. Whitmore turned, her eyes holding something unsettlingly familiar.
“Thirty-five years as a primary school headmistress. Raised generations. Your Tommy is in capable hands.”
* * *
Rain lashed the café windows, blurring the city lights outside. I was twenty minutes late—exactly how long it took to convince myself Tommy would be safe.
“Sarah, finally!” Emma waved, her manicure perfect as ever: shell pink, not a chip in sight. “We ordered you green tea.”
Mark stood as I approached, adjusting his glasses awkwardly. We’d only been dating two months—Emma’s setup after his messy divorce.
“Sorry I’m late,” I hung my soaked coat. “Had to scramble for a sitter.”
Emma squinted—the same look she’d given me when I’d botched uni exams.
“What happened to Mrs. Higgins? You said she was booked for a month!”
I reached for sugar, avoiding eye contact. “She found a better-paying family.”
Mark silently nudged the milk toward me—he’d noticed how I took my tea.
“Is the new sitter reliable?” he asked carefully.
“Who cares?” Emma cut in, waving her fork. “You won’t even let your mother-in-law near Tommy, but some random—”
My phone buzzed. A voice note from Tommy:
*”Mum, the governess found your necklace in Dad’s old stuff. She says it hurts you to look at, so you hid it.”*
My fingers clenched around the phone. Max had given me that necklace on our anniversary. I’d buried it with his things…
“Sarah?” Mark leaned in. “What’s wrong?”
Emma snatched my phone. “What the—is this woman snooping through your things?!”
Another message arrived:
*”And that your back hurts from being tired. The governess says she’ll give you special cream.”*
Mark stood so fast he knocked over his glass. “I’m taking you home.”
“Wait,” Emma grabbed my arm, “let’s think. You hired some—”
“It was a vetted agency!” My voice cracked. Several patrons turned. “But she knows…” I lowered it to a whisper. “Things she can’t know. My back *does* hurt. That box was buried in the back of the closet.”
Silence. Even Emma was speechless.
Mark broke it first. “We’re going. All of us.”
* * *
The lift crept upward. Emma clicked her purse clasp nervously; Mark stayed quiet. My reflection in the mirrored walls—smudged mascara, wild hair—stared back.
“Should we call the police?” Emma whispered.
“No. We handle this first.”
The door opened before I could dig out my keys.
“Mum!” Tommy barreled into me, smelling of vanilla shampoo. “We made cake!”
The kitchen gleamed. On the table sat a massive raisin-studded teacake—just like my nan used to bake.
And Mrs. Whitmore…
She sat in my armchair, the necklace draped over her slender fingers.
“You’re early,” she noted calmly.
“You—” My throat tightened. “You went through my things?”
“No.” She set the necklace down. “But pain leaves traces.”
Emma stepped forward, glaring. “Who *are* you?”
Mrs. Whitmore traced her brooch.
“I was a headmistress for twenty-eight years. Children called me ‘Granny Ellie the All-Knowing.’ And…” She turned to me. “I was at your hospital when Tommy was born. Brought you medicine when you had a fever postpartum.”
I froze. She continued, “You said, *‘Thank you, but I don’t need anyone.’*” A slight chide laced her words. “Do you still believe that?”
Emma scoffed. “You’re buying this?”
But I wasn’t listening. I *remembered*. That night. The woman in white who’d stroked my hair, her palms inexplicably warm, as if she’d held them to a fire.
Mark squeezed my elbow. “Sarah, maybe—”
“Mum,” Tommy tugged my sleeve, “the governess says you’re really tired. Why don’t you tell me?”
The quiet that followed was thick, suffocating.
Mrs. Whitmore moved to the window. The streetlight carved her profile into something paper-thin.
“You think asking for help is weakness.”
“I manage,” I said automatically.
“How?” She turned. “How do you manage work? Tommy’s questions? The clubs? Not calling your mother for months?”
Emma gasped. “You haven’t spoken to your mum?”
I clenched my fists. “You have no right—”
“Rights,” she interrupted, “are earned by those who face truth. You refused child support. Shut out family. Even your best friend doesn’t know how you struggle.” Her voice softened. “You’re afraid—if you let people close, they’ll see. You’re not a perfect mum. Not a perfect daughter.”
I shut my eyes. Something inside me snapped.
“I… I think I’m drowning. It’s too much.”
Mark pulled me into a sudden hug.
“Idiot,” Emma whispered, blinking fast. “I’m *right here*. Why didn’t you say?”
Mark wordlessly pressed a handkerchief into my hand.
Mrs. Whitmore nodded. “Now we can begin.”
* * *
Dusk deepened outside.As the first light of dawn crept through the curtains, I realized that for the first time in years, the weight on my shoulders didn’t feel like mine to carry alone.
