**A Grandmother for an Hour**
I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, mascara wand trembling in my hand. The last time I’d bothered with makeup this carefully was seven years ago, before that godforsaken office party where I’d met Max. He left a year after our son was born, gallantly leaving us the flat. My fingers hovered over my usual lip gloss, then grabbed the red lipstick instead—untouched since I’d become just “Tommy’s mum.”
My phone buzzed on the sink’s edge and clattered to the floor. The wand jerked, leaving a black streak by my temple. Emma was calling for the third time in an hour.
“Are you even coming?” Her voice crackled through the receiver. “You promised to pick me up ages ago!”
I bit my lip, watching Tommy through the half-open door. My son sat cross-legged in front of the telly, surrounded by a ring of cornflakes. A lump rose in my throat.
“I need a new babysitter. Urgently.”
“What?” Emma gasped. “You said everything was sorted!”
“She backed out last minute.”
The silence on the line thickened. I knew exactly what Emma was thinking: *Here we go again—Sophie can’t keep it together.* Five years alone with my son, and I still hadn’t learned to plan for disasters.
“Mum!” Tommy appeared in the doorway, trailing cereal crumbs. “Is Dad coming today?”
The question hit me like a punch. He asked every Friday, but my ex-husband hadn’t exactly fought for visitation. Not that I’d pushed for it either.
“No, love,” I said, adjusting his collar. “But tonight, you’ll have the best babysitter ever!”
My laptop spat out a dozen listings under *”emergency babysitter.”* The banner for *”Grandmother for an Hour,”* featuring a beaming elderly woman, felt like a cruel joke. My own mother had been living in Brighton for three years. Things between us were strained—I didn’t want to burden her with my problems, she accused me of shutting her out. I clicked *”Call Now.”*
At 7:03 PM sharp, the doorbell shattered the quiet.
The woman on the threshold looked like she’d stepped out of a 1950s home economics manual—tall, ramrod-straight, in a crisp grey suit and immaculate white blouse. The only oddity was an antique owl brooch pinned to her lapel.
“Are you the one who booked a babysitter?” Her voice was clear, slightly husky—the tone of someone used to being obeyed.
I stepped aside automatically, letting her in. For the first time, I felt like a guest in my own home.
“Yes, but… I expected—”
“Who, exactly?” She turned sharply, the brooch glinting under the hallway light. I floundered. This wasn’t the cheery granny from the advert.
Bare feet pattered behind me. Tommy gaped at her stern outfit.
“Are you a real-life Mary Poppins?”
“Tommy!” I instinctively shielded him.
She huffed, then bent down with a sudden, warm smile.
“Observant lad. But tonight, I’m just Margaret Whitmore. Your babysitter.”
She shrugged off her jacket with the precision of a surgeon removing gloves and hung it neatly. Her sharp gaze swept the living room.
“Rules are simple. You leave. You may call, but only if necessary. Nervous interruptions won’t help the child.”
I clenched my jaw as she ran a finger along the shelf, checking for dust.
“Do you have references?”
Margaret turned, and something in her eyes felt eerily familiar.
“Thirty-five years as a nursery teacher. Raised generations of children. Your Tommy is in safe 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 fine.
“Sophie, finally!” Emma waved, her manicure flawless as ever. “We ordered you Earl Grey.”
Daniel stood awkwardly, adjusting his glasses. We’d only been dating two months, set up by Emma—her old school friend, fresh from a messy divorce.
“Sorry,” I muttered, hanging my soaked coat. “Had to find a last-minute sitter.”
Emma narrowed her eyes—that same look from our uni days.
“What happened to Mrs. Hughes? You said she was booked for the month.”
I reached for the sugar, avoiding her stare.
“She found a better offer.”
Daniel slid the milk toward me—he remembered how I took my tea.
“Is the new sitter reliable?”
“Does it matter?” Emma cut in, waving her fork. “You won’t even let your mother-in-law near Tommy, but some random—”
My phone buzzed. A voicemail from Tommy:
*”Mum, Mary Poppins found your necklace in Dad’s old box. She says you hid it ’cause it hurts to look at.”*
My grip tightened. That necklace was a gift from Max on our anniversary. I *had* buried it with his things.
“Sophie?” Daniel leaned in. “What’s wrong?”
Emma snatched the phone.
“What the—” she hissed. “Is this woman snooping through your stuff?!”
Another message pinged:
*”And your back hurts from being tired. Mary Poppins says she’ll give you special cream.”*
Daniel stood abruptly, knocking over his glass.
“I’ll drive you home.”
“Wait,” Emma grabbed my arm, “we need to figure this out. You hired some—”
“It was a reputable site!” My voice cracked. A few heads turned. “But she *knows*…” I lowered my voice. “Knows things she shouldn’t. My back *does* ache. That box was hidden in the back of the cupboard.”
Silence. Even Emma was speechless.
Daniel broke it first:
“We’re going. All of us.”
* * *
The lift crawled upward. Emma fiddled with her purse clasp, Daniel stayed quiet, and I studied my reflection—smudged mascara, wild hair.
“Should we call the police?” Emma whispered.
“No. Let’s hear her out first.”
The door opened before I could unlock it.
“Mum!” Tommy barreled into me, smelling of vanilla shampoo. “We made cake!”
The kitchen gleamed. On the table sat a huge raisin-studded teacake—just like my nan used to bake.
And Margaret Whitmore…
She sat in my armchair, the necklace draped over her thin fingers.
“You’re early,” she remarked calmly.
“You—” My voice shook. “You went through my things?”
“No.” She set the necklace down. “But pain leaves traces.”
Emma stepped forward.
“Who *are* you?”
Margaret touched her brooch.
“I taught nursery for twenty-eight years. Children called me ‘Gran Margaret.’ And…” She turned to me. “I was at your hospital. Brought you medicine when you had fever after the birth.”
I froze. She continued:
“You said, *‘Thank you, but I don’t need anyone.’*” A hint of reproach. “Do you still believe that?”
Emma scoffed.
“You’re buying this?”
But I wasn’t listening. Because I *remembered*. That night. The woman in white who’d stroked my hair, her palms scalding, like she’d held them to a fire.
Daniel squeezed my elbow.
“Sophie, maybe—”
“Mum,” Tommy tugged my sleeve, “Mary Poppins says you’re tired. Why don’t you tell me?”
The room fell into a heavy hush.
Margaret moved to the window. Streetlight carved her profile like paper.
“You think asking for help is weakness.”
“I manage,” I said automatically.
“How?” She turned. “How do you manage work? Tommy’s questions? His clubs? Not calling your mother for months?”
Emma gasped.
“You’re not speaking to your mum?”
I balled my fists.
“You’ve no right—”
“Right,” she interrupted, “is given to those who face truth. You refused alimony. Your parents’ help. Even your best friend doesn’t know how you struggle.” Her voice softened. “You fear 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 inside me snapped.
“I… I can’t do it anymore. It’s too much.”
Daniel pulled me into a sudden hug.
“Idiot,” Emma whispered. “I’m *here*. Why didn’t you say?”
Daniel silently handed me his handkerchief.
Margaret nodded.
“Now we can begin.”
* * *
Dusk turned to pitch black outside. Emma and Daniel stayed—because Margaret said, *”Leave now, and she’ll shut you out for years.”* We sat at the kitchen table while Tommy slept, and Margaret sifted through my old photos—the ones I’d hidden with the necklace.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked, watching her fingers brush a snapshot of Max and me by the seaside.She smiled at me—that knowing, quiet smile—and said, “Because letting others in isn’t weakness; it’s how we finally stop being alone.”
