I stood before the bathroom mirror, mascara trembling in my hand. The last time I’d applied it with such care was seven years ago, before that ill-fated office party where I’d met Max. He’d left a year after our son was born, magnanimously leaving us the flat.
My fingers reached for my usual lip gloss but suddenly closed around a tube of scarlet lipstick instead. It had lain untouched since I’d become just “Tom’s mum.”
The phone buzzed on the edge of the sink before clattering to the floor. My hand jerked, leaving a black streak near my temple. Lizzie was calling for the third time in an hour.
“Are you actually 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 ajar door. He sat cross-legged before the telly, surrounded by a ring of cornflakes. A lump rose in my throat.
“I need to find a new babysitter. Now.”
“What?!” Lizzie gasped. “You said everything was sorted!”
“The babysitter cancelled. Last minute.”
The silence on the line turned thick. I knew exactly what Lizzie was thinking: *Here we go again—another Emma mess.* Five years alone with a child, and I still hadn’t learned to foresee these things.
“Mum!” Tom appeared in the doorway, trailing cereal behind him. “Is Dad coming today?”
The question punched the air from my lungs. He asked every Friday, but my ex-husband had never been eager to see our child. Not that I pushed the matter.
“No, love,” I straightened his collar. “But tonight, you’ve got the most wonderful babysitter in the world!”
My laptop spat out a dozen options for “emergency babysitter.” The banner—*Granny for an Hour*, featuring a beaming elderly woman—seemed like a cruel joke. My own mother had lived in Brighton for three years. Our relationship was strained; I didn’t want to burden her, and she accused me of shutting her out.
I clicked the banner and hit *Call*.
At exactly 7:03 PM, the doorbell shattered the flat’s silence.
The woman on the threshold looked as though she’d stepped out of a wartime manual on domestic efficiency. Tall, stiff-backed, clad in a severe grey suit and immaculate white blouse. The only oddity was an old-fashioned owl brooch pinned to her lapel.
“You requested a babysitter?” Her voice was crisp, edged with the rasp of someone used to being obeyed.
I stepped aside on instinct, letting her in. For the first time, I felt like a guest in my own home, stammering, “Yes, but… I expected—”
“Whom, exactly?” She turned sharply, the brooch glinting under the ceiling light. I had no reply. She bore no resemblance to the cheery granny from the advert.
Bare feet pattered behind me. Tom gaped at her stern attire.
“Are you a real witch? Like in books?”
“Tom!” I instinctively shielded him.
The woman smirked. She crouched and—unexpectedly—flashed him a warm grin.
“Observant lad. Tonight, I’m just Mrs. Winthrop. Your babysitter. For this evening.”
She shed her jacket with the precision of a surgeon removing gloves and hung it neatly. Her gaze swept the living room, sharp and assessing.
“Rules are simple. You leave. You may call, but only for emergencies. I’ll engage your son properly—no need for nervous check-ins.”
I chewed my lip as she ran a finger along the shelf, checking for dust.
“Any references?”
Mrs. Winthrop turned, and something unsettlingly familiar flickered in her eyes.
“Thirty-five years as a primary school teacher. Raised generations of children. Your Tom is safe with me.”
* * *
Rain lashed the café windows, smearing the city lights into watery streaks. I was twenty minutes late—exactly how long it had taken to convince myself Tom would be fine.
“Emma, finally!” Lizzie waved, her manicure flawless as ever—soft pink, not a chip in sight. “We ordered you green tea.”
Steven stood awkwardly as I approached, adjusting his glasses. We’d only been dating two months—a setup by Lizzie, his old school friend recently divorced.
“Sorry,” I hung my dripping coat. “Last-minute babysitter drama.”
Lizzie narrowed her eyes—*that* look, unchanged since uni.
“What happened to Mrs. Dawson? You said she was booked for the month.”
I reached for sugar, avoiding her gaze. “She found a better offer.”
Steven nudged the milk toward me—he remembered how I took my tea.
“Is the new sitter reliable?”
“Does it matter?” Lizzie cut in, brandishing her fork. “You won’t even let your own mother near Tom, and now some random—”
My phone vibrated. A voice note from Tom: *”Mum, the witch found your necklace in Dad’s old box. She says it hurts to look at, so you hid it.”*
My fingers clenched the phone. That necklace—a gift from Max on our anniversary. I *had* buried it with his things…
“Emma?” Steven leaned in. “What’s wrong?”
Lizzie snatched the phone. “What the—” She cursed. “Is this woman snooping through your stuff?!”
Another message: *”And your back hurts from being tired. The witch promised to give you special cream.”*
Steven stood abruptly, knocking over his glass. “I’ll drive you home.”
“Wait.” Lizzie gripped my arm. “Let’s think. You hired some—”
“It was a reputable site!” My voice cracked. A few diners turned. “But she *knows* things—things she *can’t* know. My back *does* hurt. That box was buried in the farthest corner.”
Silence. Even Lizzie was speechless.
Steven broke it. “We’re going. All of us.”
* * *
The lift ascended agonisingly slowly. Lizzie fidgeted with her bag clasp; Steven stayed quiet; I stared at my reflection—smudged mascara, wild hair.
“Should we call the police?” Lizzie whispered.
“No. Let’s see first.”
The door opened before I found my keys.
“Mum!” Tom barrelled into me, smelling of vanilla shampoo. “We baked cake!”
The kitchen gleamed. On the table sat a huge fruitcake—just like my nan used to make.
And Mrs. Winthrop…
She sat in my armchair, the necklace draped over her 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.”
Lizzie stepped forward. “Who *are* you?”
Mrs. Winthorn stroked her brooch.
“I taught infants for twenty-eight years. They called me *Granny Win*. Also—” She turned to me. “I was at your hospital. Brought you medicine when you had fever after birth.”
I froze. She continued,
“You said, *‘Thank you, but I don’t need anyone.’*” Her tone held gentle reproach. “Do you need someone now?”
Lizzie scoffed. “You believe this rubbish?”
But I wasn’t listening. Because I *remembered*. That night. The woman in white who’d soothed me, palms fever-hot as if warmed by fire.
Steven squeezed my elbow. “Emma, maybe—”
“Mum,” Tom tugged my sleeve, “the witch says you’re really tired. Why don’t you tell me?”
The room fell heavy with silence.
Mrs. Winthrop moved to the window. Streetlight carved her profile from shadow.
“You think asking for help is weakness.”
“I manage,” I said automatically.
“How?” She turned. “How do you manage work? Tom’s questions? Classes? Not calling your mother for months?”
Lizzie gasped. “You haven’t spoken to your mum?”
I clenched my fists. “You’ve no right—”
“Right,” she interrupted, “belongs to those who face truth. You refused child support. Shut out your parents. Even your best friend doesn’t know how you struggle.” Her voice softened. “You fear that if you let people close, they’ll see—you’re not perfect. Not the ideal mother. Not the perfect daughter.”
I shut my eyes. Something inside me tore.
“I… I think I’m not coping. It’s so hard.”
Steven pulled me into a sudden embrace.
“Idiot,” Lizzie whispered. “I’m *here*. Why didn’t you say?”
Steven wordlessly pressed a handkerchief into my palm.
Mrs. Winthrop nodded. “Now we can begin.”
* * *
Dusk deepened to black outside. Lizzie and Steven stayed—because Mrs. Winthrop had said, *”If you leave now, she’ll shut you out for years.”*
So we sat, the three of us, as Tom slept and the babysitter silently sifted through old photos—the ones I’d hidden with the necklace.
“Why are you doing thisAnd as Mrs. Winthrop slipped out into the night, her owl brooch catching the moonlight one last time, I realized the greatest magic wasn’t in being strong alone—but in finally letting others be strong for me.
