—Granny, can you be a granny again?
—What do you mean, Poppy? I don’t understand.
—Well, Granny, all the kids in the neighbourhood have grandmas. Some have one, some have two, and I’ve got four—two of my own and one each from Mum and Dad. But Andy hasn’t got any. I feel so sorry for him.
—So you want me to be his granny?
—Oh, Granny, don’t be silly. Not to give you away—just to share you. So you could make him pancakes too, and knit him a warm scarf for winter.
—Oh, you sweet thing… Andy had a granny once—Nell. We grew up together, thick as thieves. Schoolmates, inseparable. But she… she died. In that crash. Right when Andy was born.
—Granny, why are you crying?
—It’s hard, love. She and her husband were on their way to pick up Andy’s mum from the hospital. Early in the morning. Then a lorry—a huge one—came straight at them. The driver fell asleep at the wheel… They were gone in an instant. Oh, it still hurts so much.
—Granny… Don’t cry. I’ll still invite Andy round. He loves your pancakes. And knit him socks for Christmas, yeah?
—Of course I will. But Poppy, don’t tell him any of this. If his mum hasn’t said anything, there’s a reason. You can keep a secret, can’t you?
—I can, Granny. Promise.
—That’s my girl. Now run along—lunch will be ready soon.
I dashed outside, skipping rope while the boys near Jack’s house were seeing who could spit the farthest. Jack was winning—you could tell by their faces, him grinning while Colin and Andy sulked.
—Guys! Someone’s moved into the empty house! Let’s go look!
—Last one there’s a rotten egg!
We all bolted down the lane toward the deserted house, untouched for two summers. But today, a van was parked outside, men hauling furniture. We raced closer. A sweaty, round-cheeked man tipped his flat cap and wiped his brow.
—Kids, where’s the nearest tap for a drink?
—I can fetch water from my house!
—Or the pump down the lane!
—Show us?
—Come on, we’ll take you. Who’s moving in?
—An old lady. A granny. Be kind to her, yeah? She’s got no family left. That’s all I know.
—We’re nice! Can we come meet her tomorrow?
—Course you can.
We scattered home, but Andy stayed. He dreamed of being a lorry driver—even loved the smell of petrol. He climbed the apple tree by the house and quietly watched.
Then, just below him, a voice spoke:
—Sorry, lad. Don’t mean to bother you, but I’ve nowhere to sleep. Lost my keys. Could you climb through the window and let us in?
Andy froze, then nodded.
—Name’s Andy. I’ll help. But I’ll need a lift up.
He jumped down, landing beside a tiny granny with kind eyes.
—What sort of pies do you like, Andy dear?
—Jam ones. And onion with egg!
—Noted. In a few days, bring your friends—there’ll be pies for all.
He wriggled through the window, unlocking the door. The house was dusty and bare. His shirt tore on a nail, and his heart sank—Mum would scold him. But Granny promised to mend it. And she did—by morning, you couldn’t tell.
From then on, Andy had a granny. Not by blood, but by heart. She knit him mittens, read him stories, poured endless cups of tea. Even his mum started visiting. Then one day, Granny Betty fell ill.
Andy and I made her porridge. I lit the stove, he peeled potatoes. Colin even stoked the fire when the nights turned cold. The grown-ups helped, but Andy cared for her most. She was *his* granny, after all.
Now, just like everyone else, he’s got one. His own. Not by birth, but by choice. And that’s what makes family real.
