I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, mascara trembling in my hand. The last time I’d put this much effort into my makeup was seven years ago, before that disastrous office party where I’d met Max. He left a year after our son was born, generously leaving us the flat.
My hand reached for my usual lip gloss but suddenly grabbed the scarlet lipstick instead. It had sat untouched since I’d become just “Tom’s mum.”
My phone buzzed on the edge of the sink, clattering to the floor. My hand jerked, leaving a black streak near my temple. Sarah was calling for the third time in an hour.
“Are you even coming?” Her voice was sharp through the receiver. “You promised to pick me up an hour ago!”
I bit my lip, watching Tom through the half-open door. He sat in front of the telly, surrounded by a ring of cornflakes. A lump rose in my throat.
“I need to find a new babysitter. Urgently.”
“What?!” Sarah gasped. “You said everything was sorted!”
“She cancelled. Last minute.”
The silence on the line thickened ominously. I knew exactly what Sarah was thinking: “Emma’s drowning again.” Five years alone with a child, and I still couldn’t anticipate these things.
“Mum!” Tom appeared in the doorway, trailing cereal behind him. “Is Dad coming today?”
The question hit like a punch to the gut. He asked every Friday, but my ex-husband hadn’t exactly fought for custody. Not that I’d pushed it.
“No, love,” I straightened his collar. “But tonight, you’ll have the most brilliant babysitter in the world!”
My laptop spat out a dozen options for “emergency babysitter.” The ad for “Granny for an Hour,” with its photo of a beaming elderly woman, felt like a cruel joke. My own mum had been living in Cornwall for three years. Things between us were strained—I didn’t want to worry her, and she accused me of shutting her out.
I clicked the ad and hit “Call.”
At exactly 7:03 PM, the doorbell shattered the quiet of our flat.
The woman on the doorstep looked like she’d stepped out of a vintage etiquette manual. Tall, straight-backed, in a crisp grey suit and immaculate white blouse. The only unusual detail—an old-fashioned owl brooch pinned to her lapel.
“You requested a babysitter?” Her voice was clear, with a slight rasp—the kind that expected to be obeyed.
I automatically stepped aside, letting her in. For the first time, I felt like a guest in my own home.
“Yes, but… I was expecting—”
“Someone else?” She turned sharply, the brooch glinting under the light. I faltered. She looked nothing like the cheery granny from the ad.
Bare feet pounded behind me. Tom gaped at her stern outfit.
“Are you a real witch? Like in the storybooks?”
“Tom!” I instinctively shielded him.
The woman snorted. Then she crouched, surprising us both with a warm smile.
“Clever lad. But tonight, I’m just Granny Margaret. Your babysitter. For the evening.”
She shrugged off her jacket with the precision of a surgeon removing gloves and hung it neatly. Her gaze swept the living room, assessing.
“Rules are simple. You leave. You may call, but only if essential. I’ll tend to the boy, and your nervous calls won’t help.”
I chewed my lip as she ran a finger along the shelf, checking for dust.
“Any references?”
She turned, and something in her eyes felt eerily familiar.
“Thirty-five years as a nursery teacher. Raised generations of children. Your Tom’s in safe hands.”
* * *
Rain lashed the café windows, smudging the city lights. I was twenty minutes late—exactly how long it took to convince myself Tom would be fine.
“Emma, finally!” Sarah waved, her manicure flawless as ever—soft pink, not a chip in sight. “We ordered you green tea.”
Mark stood as I approached, adjusting his glasses awkwardly. We’d only been dating two months—Sarah’s doing. He was her old school friend, freshly divorced.
“Sorry I’m late,” I hung my soaked coat on the chair. “Had to find a last-minute sitter.”
Sarah narrowed her eyes—the same look she’d given me at uni when I skipped lectures.
“What happened to Mrs. Harris? You said she was booked for the month.”
I reached for the sugar, avoiding eye contact.
“She found a better-paying job. Dropped us.”
Mark quietly pushed the milk toward me—I always took it in tea.
“The new sitter… reliable?” he asked carefully.
“Does it matter?” Sarah cut in, waving her fork. “You won’t even let your mother-in-law near Tom, but some random—”
My phone buzzed. A voice note from Tom:
“Mum, the witch lady found your necklace in Dad’s old box. She says you hid it ’cause it hurts to look at.”
My fingers clenched the phone. That necklace—Max gave it to me on our anniversary. I *had* buried it with his things.
“Emma?” Mark leaned in. “What’s wrong?”
Sarah snatched my phone.
“What the—” she hissed. “Is this woman going through your things?!”
Another message:
“And your back hurts from being tired. The witch lady says she’ll give you special cream.”
Mark stood abruptly, knocking his glass.
“I’ll drive you home.”
“Wait,” Sarah grabbed my arm, “let’s figure this out. You hired some—”
“It was a vetted agency!” My voice cracked. A few heads turned. “But she knows…” I lowered it, “things she *can’t* know. My back *does* hurt. That box was buried in the back of the cupboard.”
Silence. Even Sarah was speechless.
Mark broke it first:
“We’re going. All of us.”
* * *
The lift crawled upward. Sarah clicked her purse clasp nervously, Mark stayed quiet, and I studied my reflection—smudged mascara, messy hair.
“Should we call the police?” Sarah whispered.
“No. Let’s see first.”
The door opened before I found my keys.
“Mum!” Tom barreled into me, smelling of vanilla shampoo. “We made cake!”
The kitchen gleamed. On the table sat a huge raisin cake—just like my nan used to make.
And Granny Margaret…
She sat in my armchair, that necklace dangling from her long fingers.
“You’re early,” she noted calmly.
“You—” My voice wavered. “You went through my things?”
“No,” she set the necklace down. “But pain leaves traces.”
Sarah stepped forward, glaring.
“Who *are* you?”
Granny Margaret stroked her brooch.
“I taught nursery for twenty-eight years. The children called me ‘Magical Granny Margaret.’ And also…” 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 faint reproach. “Do you now?”
Sarah scoffed.
“You believe this nonsense?”
But I wasn’t listening. Because I *remembered*. That night. The woman in white who’d stroked my hair, murmuring. Her palms had been impossibly warm, like she’d held them to a fire.
Mark gently took my elbow.
“Emma, maybe—”
“Mum,” Tom tugged my hand, “the witch lady says you’re really tired. Why didn’t you tell me?”
The room fell silent, heavy.
Granny Margaret walked to the window. In the streetlight, her profile looked paper-cut sharp.
“You think asking for help is weakness.”
“I manage,” I said automatically.
“How?” She turned. “How do you ‘manage’ work? Tom’s questions? The clubs? Not calling your mother for months?”
Sarah gasped.
“You haven’t spoken to your mum?”
I clenched my fists.
“You’ve no right—”
“Rights,” she interrupted, “are earned by facing truth. You refused child support. Your parents’ help. Even your best friend doesn’t know how hard it is. You’re afraid,” her voice softened, “that 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 broke.
“I… I think I’m not coping. It’s too much.”
Mark pulled me into a sudden hug.
“Idiot,” Sarah whispered. “I’m *here*. Why didn’t you say?”
Silently, Mark handed me his handkerchief.
Granny Margaret nodded.
“Now we can begin.”
* * *
Dusk deepened outside. Sarah and Mark stayed because Granny Margaret had said, “Leave now, and she’ll shut you out for years.”
So the three of us sat at the kitchen table as Tom slept, and she sifted through old photos—the ones I’And as the first morning light filtered through the curtains, I realised—perhaps for the first time—that letting someone hold you up doesn’t mean you’ve fallen.
