Patricia stood by the window, watching as her daughter Emma loaded the last boxes into the car. Emma fussed about, rearranging bags and explaining something to her husband. Thirty-one years old now, a proper adult, but Patricia still saw the little girl who used to cling to her skirt and cry when left alone.
“Mum, you ready?” Emma called from the driveway. “We should get going!”
Patricia picked up her small bag of essentials from the windowsill and slowly made her way to the door. In the hallway, framed photos sat atop the dresser—Emma’s wedding, little Sophie’s birthday, their family holiday to the Lake District. A normal family life—one that now felt worlds away.
“Coming,” she replied, locking the flat behind her.
The car sat open-booted in the drive. Emma’s husband, James, smoked by the porch, glancing impatiently at his watch.
“Hello, Patricia,” he nodded. “How’ve you been?”
“Alright,” she answered shortly.
James had always been formal with her, though they’d known each other for eight years. Not a bad man—just… detached. Patricia never quite felt at ease around him.
“Hop in the back, Mum,” Emma said, opening the rear door. “More comfy there.”
They drove in silence. Patricia watched through the window as familiar streets blurred into unfamiliar neighbourhoods. Moving in with Emma had seemed like the right decision. After her husband passed, living alone grew harder, and her health wasn’t what it used to be. Plus, there was Sophie—she could help with the little one.
“Here we are,” Emma announced as the car stopped outside a sleek modern flat. “Home sweet home.”
The apartment was spacious and bright—a large lounge, a separate kitchen, three bedrooms. Emma proudly showed off the renovations, the new furniture, the shiny appliances.
“And this is your room, Mum.” She pushed open the door to the smallest bedroom. “Got it all set up for you.”
Neat but impersonal. A single bed, a wardrobe, a desk by the window. All new. All unfamiliar.
“Thanks, love,” Patricia said, setting her bag down. “It’s lovely.”
“Where’s Sophie?” she asked, glancing around.
“Staying at her friend’s for the night. I’ll bring her round tomorrow so you two can properly meet.”
Patricia nodded. She’d only seen Sophie a handful of times—birthdays, Christmases. Emma rarely visited, always caught up with work, the house, James.
That evening, they sat drinking tea in the kitchen. James scrolled through his tablet, Emma chatted about the neighbours and nearby shops.
“You’ll love it here, Mum. Quiet area, nice people. Playground out back, GP surgery just round the corner.”
“It’s lovely, really,” Patricia agreed.
“And you can help with Sophie, yeah? Childcare’s so pricey, and nursery doesn’t start till September.”
James looked up from his tablet.
“Emma, we agreed your mum’s meant to be independent here. Don’t saddle her with babysitting.”
“It’s not babysitting! It’s spending time with her granddaughter—hardly a chore.”
“Course I’ll help,” Patricia cut in. “I didn’t move here to sit about doing nothing.”
James shrugged and went back to his screen.
The next morning, Emma brought Sophie home. Four years old, bright-eyed, chatty—the spitting image of Emma at that age.
“Sophie, this is Granny Pat. She’s going to live with us now.”
“Hello, Granny,” Sophie said politely, but she kept her distance.
“Hello, sweetheart.” Patricia crouched to her level. “You’re so pretty!”
“Mummy, why’s Granny in my toy room?”
Emma flustered.
“Sophie, this is Granny’s room now. We’ll move your toys into your bedroom.”
“But there’s no space! Where will I build my castles?”
“We’ll figure it out.” Emma scooped her up. “Don’t be upset.”
Patricia realised then—she’d taken over a space Sophie saw as hers. A pang of guilt tightened in her chest.
“Maybe I could sleep on the sofa?” she offered.
“Don’t be silly, Mum! You live here now—you need your own room.”
But all day, Sophie kept glancing at the closed door with something like loss in her eyes.
Days passed in a numb routine. Emma left for work, James stayed late, and Patricia looked after Sophie. The girl warmed to her slowly, but real closeness never came. They were polite—like strangers sharing a house.
“Sophie, want me to read you a story?”
“No thanks. Mummy reads picture books.”
“Shall we bake some biscuits?”
“Mummy buys them from the shop. She says they’re healthier.”
Every refusal stung. Patricia wanted to matter, to care for her granddaughter—but Sophie held her at arm’s length, like an outsider in her own world.
Dinner conversations revolved around work, weekend plans, friends Patricia didn’t know.
“How’s Olivia doing?” James asked.
“Brilliant—got a promotion. Invited us to her cottage this weekend.”
“We’ll go, then. Bringing Sophie?”
“Course. She loves playing with the kids there.”
Patricia stayed quiet, realising she wasn’t included. She was furniture—present, but not part of their lives.
“Maybe I’ll stay home,” she ventured. “You three go.”
“Why?” Emma frowned. “Come with us! Meet our friends.”
“Don’t be silly, love. You lot’ll be having fun—I’ll just be a spare wheel.”
“Mum, don’t say that!”
But Patricia saw James exhale in relief. He hadn’t wanted his mother-in-law tagging along.
On Saturday, they left for the cottage. Alone in the silent flat, Patricia wandered, unsure what to do. Back in her old home, there’d always been something—watering plants, chatting with Mrs. next door, popping to the corner shop where the cashier knew her order. Here, everything was foreign. Even the tea tasted wrong.
She tried the telly, but the channels were all set to shows she didn’t care for. Picked up a book but couldn’t focus.
They returned that evening, sun-kissed and laughing.
“You alright, Mum?” Emma asked, hanging up damp swimsuits. “Not too bored?”
“Fine, thanks. Had a quiet day.”
“Good. We had such a laugh! Sophie went paddling, James grilled burgers—proper lovely.”
Sophie dashed over, holding out shells she’d collected.
“Look, Granny! Aren’t they pretty?”
“Gorgeous,” Patricia agreed. “Where’d you find them?”
Sophie launched into a story about the river, the other kids, how Daddy taught her to float. Patricia listened, thinking—she could’ve been there. Could’ve shared that joy.
But they hadn’t asked. Not out of malice, just… she wasn’t part of their world.
Days bled together, the distance growing. Patricia tried to leave her mark—moving flowers, laying out her own doily. But Emma gently, firmly, put everything back.
“Mum, the plants get more light on the sill.”
“Pat, that tablecloth doesn’t match the decor. We’ve got a theme, you know?”
Slowly, Patricia understood: she’d been allowed into the house, but not their lives. She could sleep in the spare room, eat at their table, mind Sophie—but her thoughts didn’t matter. Her ways didn’t fit.
“Mum, why’re you so quiet lately?” Emma asked over breakfast one day.
“Oh, just settling in.”
“Well, settle faster, yeah? We’re happy like this, aren’t we?”
Happy? Patricia wasn’t sure. James had withdrawn further. Sophie never truly warmed to her. And Emma… polite, kind, but distant, like a caretaker, not a daughter.
One evening, she overheard them arguing in the kitchen.
“James, for God’s sake—Mum’s been here a month, and you barely speak to her!”
“What’s there to say? We’ve got nothing in common.”
“She’s family! Show some respect.”
“I do. But I don’t have to be her mate.”
“You’re not even trying! She’s lovely—if you made an effort—”
“Emma, let’s be honest. Your mum doesn’t belong here. She’s in the way.”
“How? She helps with Sophie, does chores—”
“That’s the problem. She’s always underfoot, meddling. And Sophie still treats her like a stranger.”
“She’ll adjust! It hasn’t been long.”
“She won’t. Kids sense when things feel forced. Your mum’s playing at being Grandma, but it’s not natural.”
Patricia crept away, heart pounding. So it was true—she was in the way. Everything she’d felt was real.
Next morning, James lingered at the kitchen table.
“PatriciaThe next day, Patricia packed her things quietly, left a note on the kitchen table, and took a taxi back to her own little flat, where the kettle whistled just the way she liked it and the silence felt like home.
