I still recall the way it went, as if it were a scene from a longago summer in our little Yorkshire village.
Emily, we promised. Granddads waiting, my mother, Helen, said, standing in the doorway of my bedroom, clutching a bag of biscuits and a pot of jam for the old man. The glass jars clinked dully as she crossed the threshold.
I pulled myself away from the laptop, rubbed the bridge of my nose, and blinked away the strain of hours spent poring over lecture notes. My eyes were raw, and a heavy fatigue settled in my temples.
Mum, I cant. My assessments are right around the corner. I need at least a day just to lie down, I whispered.
Lying down, you mean, Helen snapped, displeased. Granddads blood pressure is all over the place; hes alone out there in that cottage, and you want to lie down? Youre selfish, Emily.
Heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway. George, my father, appeared behind his wife, already wearing his travel coat.
Whats this now? he surveyed the room, littered with textbooks and printed sheets. Your daughter refuses to go to Granddads. Shes tired, thats all.
George frowned. He rarely intervened in Helens disputes with me, but something shifted in his usually impassive face.
Emily, this is going too far. Your granddad isnt getting any younger. We havent seen him for a month.
I sank back into the chair, irritation bubbling in my chest, but I kept my tone even.
Dad, I understand, but Im barely standing on my own two feet. Let me come next weekend, just for a day. Ill sit with him, have a proper chat.
Youre being selfish again! Helen raised her voice. Next weekend, next month, next year! Meanwhile Granddad is sitting there alone! Hes seventytwo, and his granddaughter cant even pry herself away from a computer!
Enough, Mum, I said, my voice firm. Im not going.
George shook his head. Fine, stay here and rest. Just dont be surprised if Granddad stops calling you his beloved granddaughter.
George, dont start, Helen snapped, grabbing his sleeve. Weve got to go. Talking to her is a waste of breath.
They left, slamming the front door behind them. I sat motionless for a long while, listening to the fading echo of their steps on the stairs, to the rumble of a car starting up in the driveway. Eventually I exhaled and reached for my laptop.
Silence wrapped the flat like a soft cocoon. I flung the windows open the warm, fresh May air poured in, carrying the distant hum of the town. I brewed a cup of tea, settled back at my desk, and finally let myself unwind.
It was just after two oclock when I jolted awake. I stretched, my spine cracking, and was about to head to the kitchen for a biscuit when a strange scent slipped into my nostrils.
At first I ignored it, assuming the neighbours were grilling or something. But the smell grew thicker, sharper not a barbecue, not cooking. Something was burning.
I rose and walked toward the balcony. With each step the odor intensified, a bitter, acrid tinge of synthetic chemicals. I flung the balcony door open and froze.
The sofa was alight, black smoke curling into the room.
No, no, no! I screamed, lunging toward the couch. A halfburned cigarette lay on the upholstery, its orange tip still smouldering. It must have been tossed from the balcony, the wind carrying it straight into my flat.
I bolted to the kitchen. My hands trembled as I yanked a pot from the cupboard. The tap dribbled out water at a snails pace, agonisingly slow. I didnt wait for the pot to fill; I grabbed the heavy vessel and raced back.
The first pot drenched the smouldering spot, but the foam inside kept smoking. I ran again for a second pot, then a third, and a fourth. Water splashed over the sofa, flooded the floor, seeped down the skirting boards. Only after the fourth pot did the smoke begin to thin.
I stood amid the wreckage, breathing hard, my sleeves soaked to the elbows. The sofa was reduced to a mush of charred fabric and soggy foam. The flat reeked of burnt synthetic material.
I sank onto the wet floor, hugging my knees to my chest. The adrenaline drained, leaving a shiver in its wake. A late, chilling fear ran through me as I realised what might have happened had I left with my parents, had the flat been empty, had my own nose not caught the smell in time.
The house would have gone up in flames. All our belongings, papers, memories would have been lost.
I fumbled for my phone and dialed my mother.
Mum my voice cracked on the first word.
Emily? Whats wrong? Helen answered.
Mum, theres been a fire. It started, I put it out, but the sofatheres no sofa left.
Silence hung on the line. Then Helen whispered, Are you alright? Are you okay?
Yes, Im fine. A cigarette fell from the balcony; I didnt see it at first, but I managed to douse everything with water. I didnt call the fire brigade; I dealt with it myself.
Were coming, Georges voice burst out from somewhere nearby, having snatched the phone from Helen. Stay put. Dont go anywhere. Were on our way.
The line clicked off.
I remained seated on the floor, staring at what had been our sofa just an hour before the worn, familiar piece Helen had bought when I was twelve, the couch on which wed watched countless films under one blanket, the seat where Id wept over my first heartbreak, where my father would doze after a long shift.
Now it was just a smoking heap.
A few minutes later the lock clicked, the door swung open, and Helen stormed in, hair dishevelled, eyes red.
Emily! she cried, rushing down the hallway, bursting into the sitting room and stopping as if nailed to the spot. Her gaze fell on the ruined sofa, the puddles of water, the black soot streaks on the wall, then she lunged at me, clutching me as though trying to stitch my heart back together. She smelled of perfume, sweat, and a deep, raw fear.
Im sorry, she whispered into my hair, for everything I shouted this morning. For being selfish, irresponsible God, how foolish I was.
I held her tightly in return. Words lodged deep inside, refusing to surface.
George entered last, walked slowly around the room taking stock of the damage. He touched the blackened wall, sat down by the sofa, poked at the melted foam with his finger.
You put it out well, he finally said. Smartly. Lots of water at once.
I didnt think. I just acted on instinct, I replied.
Did exactly what you should have, he affirmed. The important thing was you didnt panic.
He placed a heavy hand on my shoulder. Well done, Em. Really. You saved our home.
Helen wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, mascara smearing across her cheeks, but she didnt notice.
Do you understand what would have happened if youd gone? she asked, voice trembling. The flat would have been empty, windows open, the fire would have devoured everything The whole block could have gone up. The Petersons downstairs have two children, can you imagine?
George wrapped his arms around Helens shoulders. Len, thats enough. Nothing happened, so stop worrying yourself into knots.
But Helen could not stop. Tears streamed down her face, unchecked.
I yelled at you this morning, called you selfish. And you you saved us all.
Mum, why are you like this? I said, gently patting her arm. I didnt know it would turn out like this. I was just exhausted and wanted to stay home.
Thats exactly it! Helen seized my shoulders, looking straight into my eyes. You didnt know, but something inside you knew. Intuition, a gut feelingcall it what you will. It kept you here, and it saved us.
George snorted, though without his usual scepticism. Mothers love a bit of mysticism, but shes right. You stubbornly held your ground, and thank heavens for that.
We spent the rest of the day in a strange, numb silence. George carted the charred remains of the sofa to the skip, I washed the floor, Helen scrubbed the walls clean of soot. We worked in quiet, exchanging only short, functional phrases.
By evening the flat looked almost normal again, save for a bright rectangle of bare floor where the sofa had stood.
We ate dinner at the kitchen table, pulling the stools close. Helen served up a quick pot of spaghetti with sausages.
Emily, I want to tell you something important, she said, stirring her tea.
I lifted my eyes from the plate.
Listen to your gut, always. Even if it seems foolish, even if everyone around you says youre wrong. If something inside nudges you, dont argue with it.
George nodded, finishing his sausage. Thats true. Ive lived my whole life on logic and calculation, but sometimes theres a click in your head, and you just know what to do.
Today that something saved our house, Helen added.
I tucked my chin into my palm, a shy smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. It was odd to hear such words from my mother; wed usually sparred, clashed, pulled each others hair out. Yet now something had shiftedsomething fragile but genuine.
Ill go to Granddads next weekend, all of us together, I said. Well tell him well, not everythinghis heart might not take it.
Exactly, Helen replied, a faint grin on her lips. Well say the old sofa finally gave out. Well buy a new one.
And Ill bring a bucket of water up to the balcony, George added, chuckling nervously.
We laughed, the tension of the day loosening a little.
Outside, night fell. The town lights flickered on, and somewhere in the distance a siren wailedperhaps an ambulance, perhaps a fire engine. I listened, a shiver running down my spine.
That night taught me more than just the value of intuition. It taught me about myself, about acting when it mattered, about not cracking under pressure. It also showed me my parents hidden fearfear of losing me, wrapped up in their harsh words and reprimands.
Helen gathered the dishes and began washing, George disappeared into another room searching online for a new sofa, and I lingered at the table, warming my hands over a mug of tea.
It was an ordinary Sunday eveningonly not ordinary at all.
Mum, I called.
Hmm?
Thank you. For coming back, for not shouting, for this. I gestured around the room.
Helen turned from the sink, gave me a long, strange look, then smiledtired, but warm.
Thank you, Emily. For everything.
