I’m 66 years old, and since the start of January, Ive been sharing my home with a fifteen-year-old girl, who isnt my daughter. Shes the daughter of my late neighbour, who sadly passed away just days before the New Year. Before her mothers passing, the two of them lived together in a tiny rented bedsit, only a few doors down from mine. The flat was cramped: a single bed shared between them, a makeshift kitchen in the corner, and a small table that served for meals, homework, and her mothers work. There was never any luxury or comfortjust the bare essentials.
Her mother had been unwell for years but, despite her illness, continued working every day. Id see her peddling Avon catalogues, traipsing around the neighbourhood to deliver orders. When business was slow, shed set up a little stall just outside the flats, selling pastries, porridge cups, and juice. After school, the girl would helppreparing food, serving customers, tidying up. I witnessed many evenings when theyd finish late, exhausted, sitting at the table counting coins, unsure whether they had enough for the next day. Her mother was a proud, diligent woman; she never asked for help. When I could, Id buy them groceries or bring over a homemade stew, but I was always discreet, careful not to make her feel awkward.
I never saw anyone visit their flat. There were no relativesno talk of brothers, sisters, cousins, or parents. The girl grew up just with her mother, learning from a young age to pitch in, to manage with what they had, and never to expect or demand more. Looking back now, I wonder if I should have pushed harder to offer more help, but at the time I respected the boundaries shed firmly set.
Her mothers death was sudden. One day she was out delivering leaflets, and by the end of the week she was gone. There wasnt a proper farewell, nor did any family appear. The girl was left alone in that tiny flat: the rent still due, bills piling up, and school about to start again. I vividly remember her wandering the street outside, uncertain and anxiousterrified of being left homeless, not knowing if someone would step in or if shed be sent away to a foster home.
In that moment, I decided to bring her into my home. No big speeches, no meetingjust a simple offer: she could stay with me. She packed her few belongings in carrier bags and came over. We locked up their old flat and explained the situation to the landlord, who was understanding.
Now, she lives here with me. Shes not a burden, nor is she someone for whom everything must be done. We share the household responsibilities. I do the cooking and keep track of our meals, while she helps with the cleaningwashing dishes, making her bed, sweeping up, and keeping the common areas tidy. Each of us knows our role. Theres no shouting or ordering about; we talk things through.
I pay for her essentialsclothes, notepads, school supplies, snacks for her lunchbox. Her schools just two streets away from our home.
Of course, things are a bit tighter financially since she moved in. But honestly, I wouldnt have it any other way. Id rather stretch a few pounds than know shes alone, facing the same uncertainty she endured all those years with her ailing mother.
She has no one else. And I dont have any children living with me. I suppose its what anyone would do. Thats how I see it. If theres one thing Ive learned, its that sometimes doing the right thing doesnt take muchits just about being there when someone needs you, without expecting anything in return.
