The rain pattered against the roof of the countryside cottage when Margaret heard a timid knock at the door. She set aside her knitting and listened. The knock came again—hesitant, almost apologetic.
“Who’s there?” she called, making her way to the door.
“Please, let me in,” came a faint woman’s voice. “I’m lost…”
Margaret unlatched the chain and cracked the door open. On the step stood a young woman, soaked to the bone. Her dark hair clung to her face, and her thin jacket was drenched. She clutched a small handbag tightly.
“Good heavens, you’re drenched!” Margaret unhooked the chain and swung the door wide. “Come in before you catch your death!”
“Thank you,” the girl murmured, stepping inside and leaving wet footprints on the mat. “I’m Emma. I was walking along the footpath, and it led me into the woods. My phone died, and now I’ve no idea where I am…”
“Right, off with that wet coat!” Margaret fussed, helping her out of the soaked jacket. “You’re dripping everywhere! What on earth were you doing out in this weather alone?”
Emma lowered her eyes, embarrassed. “I had a row with my… my boyfriend. He kicked me out of the car, said I could walk. Didn’t realise how far it was to town…”
“What a rotter!” Margaret huffed. “Leaving a young girl in the woods! Go into the kitchen—I’ll put the kettle on. You’re shivering.”
Emma followed her into the cosy little kitchen. Margaret flicked the kettle on and pulled out a thick dressing gown. “Here, change into this. We’ll hang your things on the radiator—they’ll dry by morning. Where’re you from?”
“The countryside,” Emma replied vaguely, gratefully accepting the gown. “I work in town, in an office.”
“Youth today!” Margaret shook her head. “Back in my day, men had decency—never treated a woman so poorly. But now? Sit down, I’ll fix you something warm.”
Margaret bustled about, pulling eggs and butter from the fridge, quickly frying them up. She sliced bread and fetched homemade pickles.
“Eat up, don’t be shy,” she said, setting the plate down. “You’re clearly starved. When did you last eat?”
“A bit this morning,” Emma admitted, digging in hungrily. “We were driving all day, arguing…”
“What was the row about, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Emma chewed quietly before answering. “He wanted me to… move in together. But I’ve got my job, my plans. I’m just not ready. So he got angry, said awful things…”
“Good on you for not rushing,” Margaret nodded approvingly. “At your age, I jumped at the first man who looked my way. Thought love would endure anything. It didn’t. Left me with a baby boy, ran off with another woman.”
“You have a son?” Emma asked.
“Had,” Margaret said darkly. “He’s grown now, got his own family. But we… don’t get on. Rarely see him.”
She poured herself tea, stirring in sugar absently.
“Do you live here alone?” Emma ventured.
“Just me. Late husband—second one—built this place. Good man, gone too soon. Now I only come up summers, not even every year. Got a flat in town for winter.”
Emma nodded, finishing her eggs. The rain eased, but dusk settled outside.
“Listen, love,” Margaret said, “stay the night. I’ll walk you to the bus stop in the morning. No sense heading out now in this weather.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to impose…”
“Nonsense! Company’s welcome. The sofa in the lounge is comfy, fresh linens too. Make yourself at home.”
They talked late into the evening. Emma spoke of her job at a retail firm, the struggles of renting in town. Margaret shared stories of her youth and lamented her loneliness.
“All my friends are gone—passed or moved to be near their kids,” she sighed. “Neighbours here are all elderly, poorly. Gets bleak on your own…”
“Why don’t you and your son get along?” Emma asked carefully.
Margaret’s face soured. “His wife can’t stand me. Says I meddle. Do I not have a right to ask after my grandkids? Now they don’t even invite me for holidays…”
The next morning dawned clear. Margaret packed Emma a breakfast and walked her to the bus stop.
“Thank you so much,” Emma said earnestly. “You honestly saved me!”
“Oh, posh! Come visit anytime. Here, take the address.”
Emma saved it in her phone, waving from the bus window.
Weeks passed. Margaret had nearly forgotten her unexpected guest when she heard that knock again.
“Emma!” She beamed, opening the door. “How’ve you been, love? Come in!”
“Could I stay a day or two?” Emma asked sheepishly. “My place in town’s being renovated. Landlady said to stay with family, but I’ve got none…”
“Of course! Stay as long as you need. Just nice to have someone about.”
Emma settled into the small upstairs room. She helped around the house—cooking, cleaning. Margaret adored having her there.
“Better than a daughter,” she confided to neighbour Betty. “Cooks lovely, handy with crafts. Wish I had a daughter-in-law like her…”
Days rolled by, peaceful and steady. Emma left for work each morning, returning in the evenings. They’d share supper, watch telly, chat over tea.
“Listen, Em,” Margaret said one evening, “I’ve been thinking of my will. Flat goes to my boy, but this place… maybe to you? No one else wants it, and you’ve been happy here.”
Emma flushed. “Don’t say that! It’s too soon. And it’s not right—you’ve got family.”
“Family who treat me like a stranger. You’re the one who feels like family.”
Time passed. Emma settled in as if she’d always lived there. Margaret blossomed under the care and company, no longer lonely.
Then everything changed.
Margaret had a heart attack. Emma visited daily in hospital, bringing treats, reading to her.
“Doctor says you’ll be discharged soon,” Emma told her one visit. “You’ll recover better at home.”
“Em,” Margaret whispered weakly, “there’s something in my bedside drawer, back in the far corner. Important papers. If anything happens to me—”
“Don’t talk like that!” Emma cut in. “You’ll be fine!”
But Margaret worsened. Doctors shook their heads; surgery was risky.
Emma left the hospital distraught. She went to the bedside drawer and found the will. The cottage *was* left to her.
She sat holding the papers for a long time. Then she pulled out her phone and dialled.
“Andrew? It’s Emma. We met before… Yes, exactly. Your mother’s in hospital—it’s serious. You should come.”
Two days later, a man in his fifties arrived with his wife and two teens. Andrew resembled his mother—same grey eyes, stubborn jaw.
“Where’s Mum?” he demanded, barely over the threshold.
“Hospital. She’s having surgery,” Emma replied.
“And who’re *you*?” his wife cut in, eyeing Emma suspiciously.
“I… live here temporarily. Margaret let me.”
“Right,” the wife sneered. “Another stray.”
Andrew prowled the house, inspecting changes. “New telly, fridge… Mum come into money?”
“We bought them together,” Emma said quietly. “I helped.”
“Helped?” The wife snorted. “What’s the catch? Or are you angling for inheritance?”
Emma paled but stayed silent.
At the hospital, Margaret lit up seeing her son.
“Andy! You came! Oh, I’m so glad!” She reached weakly for his hand.
Andrew gave it an awkward shake. “How you feeling, Mum? What’d the doctors say?”
“Need surgery. I’m scared, love. What if I don’t make it?”
“Don’t be daft!” he barked. “You’re tough!”
His wife lingered near the door, inspecting her nails. The kids fidgeted, bored.
“Dad, when’re we leaving?” the youngest whined. “It stinks in here.”
Back at the cottage, the wife rifled through drawers. “Andy, where’s your mum keep her papers? Probably in the bedside table.”
They found the will quickly. The wife gasped. “She left the cottage to this *stranger*? Where does that leave us?”
“Relax,” Andrew muttered. “She’s still alive. Things can change.”
But his wife was already scheming.
When Emma returned from shopping, the air had shifted. Andrew eyed her coldly; his wife was outright hostile.
“Listen, girl,” Andrew started, “Mum said you’re staying temporarily. How temporary?”
“I… don’t know.Margaret spent the rest of her days staring at the door, waiting for a knock that never came.
