June 12th, 2023
When I first arrived in Manchester, I was twenty-seven. Back in my hometown, my mother was facing surgery, and there were piles of debt from the mortgage. I told myself I’d work here for a year and a half at most—then return home.
Finding work wasn’t hard. An agency offered me a position as a carer for an elderly woman. The flat’s owner, Margaret Whitmore, needed someone to look after her mother, Evelyn, who was eighty-four. The pay wasn’t much, but it was steady.
From the first day, Evelyn treated me with disdain. “Where are you from?” she demanded the moment I stepped in. I answered. She wrinkled her nose. “Another one from Eastern Europe. First it was the travellers, now you. Nothing but riffraff.” It only got worse.
Every morning began with complaints—porridge too lumpy, dusting half-hearted, door slammed too loud, even breathing too noisy. Sometimes I overheard her whispering to Margaret on the phone: “She’s stealing, mark my words. Keep an eye on her.” It made me sick. I washed her feet, helped her stand, bought her medicines—all met with cold scorn.
For six months, I endured it. Thoughts of my mother kept me from walking out. Then one day, Evelyn accused me of stealing fifty pounds. We turned the flat upside down—only to find the notes tucked in her own handbag. No apology. Just that same icy glare.
I packed my things. Told her I was leaving. She stood by the door, smirking. “Go on, then. You’ll crawl back—your lot always do.”
“I’ll manage,” I said quietly. “Even without you.”
Then—something shifted. Her voice lost its edge. Just bewilderment.
“You… put up with all this for your mother?”
I froze, then nodded. Told her everything—the surgery, the debts. She listened in silence. Then, slowly, she sat beside me, took my hand, and… wept. No words. Just tears down her wrinkled cheeks.
“Forgive me. I wasn’t punishing you. It was Margaret. She abandoned me. I thought if you left… she’d come back. But you—you bore it all. For your mum.”
After that, everything changed. We talked openly—she shared her life, I shared mine. She even gave me money to visit my husband. When I returned, she met me at the door with a scarf she’d knitted herself.
Four months later, she passed in her sleep. I grieved like she was family.
A week after, Margaret arrived with a solicitor.
“Evelyn left you a substantial sum,” he said.
Margaret went white. “She was mad! What did you do to my mother? Bribe her?”
I looked at her, then stepped forward and hugged her tight.
“That’s what I did. Just hugged her.”
**Lesson learned:** Cruelty often hides hurt. Kindness can unlock doors even the hardest hearts have barred.
