**Suitcases at the Door**
“You’ve lost your mind! Where on earth am I supposed to put all your luggage?!” Margaret Bennett shouted into the phone, waving her free hand as if the person on the other end could see her. “I live in a one-bed flat—do you hear me? One bedroom! And there’s four of you?!”
“Mum, there’s no need to yell!” came her daughter Emma’s voice. “It’s only three—James stayed behind in Manchester for his exams. It’s just me, Alex, and little Amelia for a week, tops, until we find a flat.”
“A week?!” Margaret nearly dropped the phone. “Love, have you *seen* my place? There’s barely room for Alfie the cat to turn around! Where’s Amelia supposed to sleep—on my sofa?”
“We’ll manage, Mum. We can put down a sleeping bag. She’s tiny, she doesn’t need much space.”
Margaret glanced around her cramped flat—the creaky pull-out sofa where she slept, the worn armchair inherited from her late mother-in-law, the postage-stamp kitchen with its temperamental fridge. The only cheerful thing was the line of geraniums on the windowsill.
“Emma, what about a B&B? I’m on a pension, I haven’t got two pennies to rub together—”
“Mum, don’t be daft! We barely scraped together the train fare. Look, we’re already on the way—we’ll be there tomorrow. Just clear a corner for us, yeah?” *Click.*
Margaret slumped into her chair, staring at the phone. Emma and Alex were moving from Manchester to London for “better opportunities.” Meanwhile, she was expected to house them in her shoebox flat on the outskirts of town—where she could barely swing Alfie without hitting a wall.
The ginger-and-white cat rubbed against her legs, purring.
“Well, Alfie,” Margaret sighed, stroking his head, “prepare for company. It’s going to be like sardines in a tin in here.”
She stood, surveying the flat critically. The wardrobe took up half the room, shelves groaning under years of accumulated knick-knacks—photos, dog-eared books, trinkets from Emma.
“I’ll have to make space,” she muttered.
Her neighbour, Doris from across the hall, poked her head out as Margaret lugged boxes into the corridor.
“Margaret, love, spring cleaning in October?” Doris eyed the chaos.
“Emma’s coming. With the family. To *stay.*”
“Oh, lovely! Just visiting?”
“No. Permanently. Or until they find a place.”
Doris sucked in a breath. “But your flat’s barely big enough for you and Alfie! Young people these days—no sense of boundaries.”
“Doris, I haven’t got time for this,” Margaret snapped, retreating.
That night, nursing a cuppa at the kitchen table, she stewed. Emma—her only child—had remarried after her divorce, had little Amelia, and now, with Alex’s factory job gone, they were chasing London dreams on a shoestring budget. Meanwhile, Margaret’s pension barely covered beans on toast for one.
Alfie leaped onto her lap, curling into a ball.
“How are we supposed to fit, Alfie?” she murmured. “And how am I supposed to *feed* everyone?”
At half six the next morning, the doorbell rang. Emma stood on the threshold with a suitcase the size of a wardrobe, Alex behind her with duffel bags, and little Amelia—blonde ringlets ruffled from sleep—clutching her mother’s hand.
“Mum!” Emma flung her arms around Margaret. “Missed you so much!”
“Come in, love,” Margaret said weakly, eyeing the luggage.
“Morning, Margaret,” Alex said, shaking her hand. “Thanks for having us.”
Amelia hid behind her father, peeking at this stranger who was supposedly her gran.
“Hungry, are you?” Margaret rallied. “I’ll whip up breakfast.”
As they filed in, she caught Emma and Alex exchanging looks. Yes, the flat was small. *Very* small.
“Mum, where do we put our things?” Emma asked cautiously.
“I cleared space,” Margaret said, flustered. “Half the wardrobe’s empty, and the suitcases can go under the bed.”
“Under the bed…?” Alex echoed, eyeing the sofa bed. “And where do we sleep?”
“Well, the sofa pulls out. You two can share. Amelia can have the armchair—she’s tiny.”
Alfie, sizing up the newcomers from the kitchen doorway, froze when Amelia squealed, “Kitty!”
“Amelia, don’t touch him, he might scratch!” Emma warned.
“He wouldn’t harm a fly,” Margaret said firmly. “Alfie, meet Amelia.”
The cat sniffed the offered hand, then permitted a pat.
“Mum, does he use a litter box?” Emma asked. “Amelia’s got allergies.”
“Of course he does!” Margaret bristled. “Why, is that a problem?”
“No, just checking.”
Breakfast was awkward. Margaret laid out the meagre contents of her fridge—sliced ham, bread, jam—and brewed strong tea.
“Mum, got any milk?” Emma asked. “Amelia won’t eat cereal without it.”
“Ran out yesterday. I’ll pop to the shop.”
“I’ll go,” Alex offered. “Where’s the nearest?”
Margaret gave directions. “But they don’t open till eight.”
“Mum, you’ve got Wi-Fi, right?” Emma pulled out her phone.
“Wi-fi?”
“For job hunting. Alex needs to send out CVs.”
“In the library. Or there’s an internet café.”
Amelia pointed at the telly. “Can I watch cartoons?”
Margaret fiddled with the ancient set. “Here you go, love.”
Later, while Alex was out, Emma whispered, “Mum, we thought we’d find a flat in three, four days. Alex has interviews lined up.”
“That’s good,” Margaret said, forcing a smile.
“Yeah, but deposits, first month’s rent, agency fees… Might be two weeks before we can move out.”
*Two weeks.* Margaret pictured five people in her flat.
Emma brightened. “But Alex’s new salary’s decent—we’ll help with bills. Maybe even spruce the place up!”
“I don’t need sprucing,” Margaret said faintly.
The days blurred. Alex got a job (payday a month away). Emma cleaned offices evenings. Amelia commandeered the telly. Margaret, once the queen of her domain, now tiptoed around her own life.
One morning, over cornflakes:
“Mum,” Emma said, “we’re staying in London. Amelia’ll start nursery here.”
“Lovely. When do you move out?”
Emma blinked. “Why pay rent when we’re comfy here? You get time with Amelia, we chip in…”
*Chip in?* Margaret bit her tongue. They bought milk and bread—which Amelia mostly ate—while Margaret cooked, cleaned, and babysat.
Doris clucked. “They’re taking the mickey, Margaret. Free lodgings, free childcare—you’re being walked over.”
Late one night, overhearing Emma and Alex:
“Are we being cruel?” Emma whispered.
“She agreed to this,” Alex muttered.
Margaret’s heart cracked.
At breakfast, Amelia piped up, “Gran, why don’t you sleep in a *real* bed?”
Emma hushed her, but the damage was done.
Later, Margaret sat Emma and Alex down.
“I love you,” she said quietly. “But I can’t do this anymore. You’re adults. Find a place—*any* place. Come visit. But live *yourselves.*”
A week later, they rented a room in a shared house.
As the door closed behind them, Alfie curled into Margaret’s lap. She gazed out at the autumn leaves.
Alone.
But finally *home.*
