**A Fair Agreement**
Natalie was slipping away slowly, painfully. Her body, exhausted by endless chemotherapy, no longer fought the illness. And Natalie herself longed for release from the agony that had tormented her these past months. The painkillers kept her in a half-asleep haze—sometimes she’d surface briefly, like coming up for air, only to sink back into the merciful fog that dulled her mind.
Little Emily came home from school, stepping into the room thick with the scent of sickness, and stared at her mum for a long, quiet moment. She barely recognised her—this wasn’t the same laughing, lively woman who used to tickle her and sing silly songs. Her mum lay still, eyes shut, and Emily watched the rise and fall of the blankets, counting each breath.
*Mum… Mum, can you hear me?*
Natalie’s eyelids fluttered, but she didn’t have the strength to open them. Granny Margaret came in then, gently leading Emily away.
*Come on, love—let’s get you fed, then we’ll do your homework. Let your mum rest.*
*But she’s always sleeping. When is she going to get better? I just want things to go back to normal.*
*Oh, sweetheart, so do I. Sleep’s the best medicine for her right now.* Granny Margaret set a steaming bowl of chicken soup in front of Emily and sat opposite, blinking back tears.
*It’s not fair—why her? Why my girl? I’ve prayed, I’ve lit candles at church… What did I do wrong? What did I miss?* The questions gnawed at her as she sighed.
Natalie died just before dawn. Margaret had woken at three, checking on her—still breathing—before tossing and turning until sleep took her. In her dreams, she saw little Natalie, laughing, waving, running ahead. *Wait! Come back!* she shouted, jolting awake.
She went straight to her daughter’s room. Natalie lay peaceful now—gone. Margaret shut the door softly. She put the kettle on, reheated Emily’s pancakes, and only then woke her.
Emily ate, pulled on her school uniform, and went to say goodbye to her mum, like always.
*Don’t disturb her—let her sleep,* Margaret called. *Here, take an apple for break.* She handed Emily a bright red one.
Walking to school, Emily chattered away, but Margaret barely listened.
*What’s wrong with you today?* Emily asked.
*Didn’t sleep well, love.*
Back home, Margaret rang for the coroner.
*Time of death? Why’d you wait so long to call?* the doctor pressed.
*Had to get my granddaughter to school. She didn’t need to see…*
They took Natalie away just in time. All morning, Margaret agonised over how to tell Emily—but when the girl burst into the house later, running straight for her mum’s room, she panicked.
*Where’s Mum?* Emily spun to face her.
Margaret, worn thin by grief, lied without thinking.
*They took her to hospital.* She couldn’t meet Emily’s eyes.
Maybe Emily guessed. Maybe she was just hurt. Either way, she refused supper, curled into the sofa corner, and turned to the window. Margaret had no energy left to comfort her. Who’d comfort *her*? Locked in the bathroom, she turned the tap on full and rang Natalie’s ex, Oliver. She’d found his number in Natalie’s phone earlier.
*What do you want?* he snapped, thinking it was Natalie.
*It’s Margaret. She’s gone. Could you take Emily for a few days? I told her… I said her mum was in hospital. I need time to sort things… I can’t…*
*Yeah. I’ll come now.* His tone softened.
Half an hour later, he was at the door. Emily brightened when she saw him—anything was better than Granny’s strange silence.
*How’s school?* Oliver sat beside her. *Not bored yet?*
*No. Mum’s in hospital, and Granny won’t take me to see her.*
*Means she needs rest. Fancy a day out? Ice cream, the park, maybe a film?*
*Really?*
Margaret packed Emily’s things. As they left, she thrust a bag at Oliver.
The funeral arrangements drained her. By evening, she swayed on her feet, too exhausted to cry. Her chest ached. *Just hold on. Don’t fall apart now.* She swallowed another pill.
Oliver rang after the funeral.
*When should I bring Emily back?*
*Had enough already?* Margaret meant it to bite, but it came out pathetic.
*She misses home. We’ll come now. Need to talk.*
Her chest tightened. *What now? What else could go wrong?* She dragged herself up, put the kettle on, and laid out leftovers—sandwiches, scones, the half-finished Scotch from the wake. Let him have a drink. He was her father, after all.
Seeing Emily, Margaret burst into tears. She hadn’t realised how much she’d missed her. The girl clung to her.
*Come on—I made scones.*
At the table, Oliver seized the whisky, pouring a full glass. He opened his mouth for a toast, but Margaret’s sharp look silenced him. He knocked it back neatly, then refilled. When Margaret asked Emily to give them privacy, the girl sulked off.
*Well?* Margaret’s voice was flat.
*Don’t glare like that. I’m trying to help.*
*Like you helped Natalie?*
*Oh, don’t pin it all on me! She wasn’t some saint!*
*Quiet!* Margaret hissed. *Get to the point. And don’t you dare say her name.*
Oliver drank again. *Here’s the thing. Emily’s young. You’re… getting on. If social services catch wind she’s lost her mum…*
*You’d report me?*
*You’re not exactly fit to raise her alone. But *I’m* her father. Blood matters.*
Margaret’s vision darkened. *What are you suggesting?*
*I’ve no place of my own. Flitting between mates’ sofas…*
*Or some poor woman’s bed. Had everything and threw it away.*
*Don’t start,* he growled. Margaret waved him off. *Look—if we lived together, no one could take her.*
*Ah. So that’s it.* She fought to keep her voice steady.
*Your choice—we share the flat, or we sell, split the money. Either way, I stay in her life.*
*You’re blackmailing me.*
*Call it what you like. But who’s going to fight for her if not me?*
Margaret stood, opened the window, breathed deep. Oliver watched, smirking.
*You don’t love her. You want the flat. Admit it.*
*Fine. No deal then.* His tone turned dangerous.
She couldn’t lose Emily too. *I… need time. I’ll call you.*
*Three days.* He stood, eyeing the empty bottle. *Emily! Time to go!*
When the door shut, Emily came in. *Why didn’t you tell me? I’m not a baby.*
*Tell you what?* Margaret turned from the sink, heart hammering.
*That I’m going to live with him.*
Margaret sighed.
That night, despite exhaustion, she lay awake. *Who can I trust? If I let him in, he’ll steal the roof over my head. If I sell, he’ll blow the money and crawl back… Oh, Natalie, why didn’t you listen?*
Next morning, after dropping Emily at school, she knocked on Mr. Thompson’s door—retired policeman, second floor. She told him everything.
*Help me. I’ve got no one else.*
*You’re asking a lot, Margaret.* He thought for a long moment. *Here’s what you do. Ring him, say you’ve decided, and invite him over. Buy two bottles—he won’t stop at one. Keep the food simple. I’ll “drop in.” We’ll see… Three days, you said? Enough time.*
Relieved, Margaret went home. For the first time in weeks, she felt a sliver of hope.
Three days later, Oliver swaggered in, eyeing the spread with a smug grin. Before Margaret could speak, the doorbell rang. Mr. Thompson walked in.
*What’s the occasion?* He rubbed his hands at the sight of whisky.
*Celebrating. We’re selling my flat,* Margaret said, then left them to it.
Mr. Thompson had his phone recording. Later, Margaret listened, sickened, as Oliver slurred:
*Got it all planned… Don’t even want the kid. Get the flat, dump her in care if she misbehaves…*
*Better yet,* Mr. Thompson prompted.
*Easier to move in”Years later, Emily stood by her grandmother’s grave, fingers tracing the engraved dates, and whispered, *You kept your promise—thank you for staying*, before turning to join her husband and children under the golden autumn leaves.”
