When Mum decided to remarry, Poppy didn’t mind. After all, her mother’s choice—a kind, steady man named Edward—had always been decent to her. He treated Mum with the sort of gentle devotion one might reserve for a fragile teacup. Everything seemed fine, except fifteen-year-old Poppy had one condition:
“Mum, I don’t mind you getting married. Uncle Ed’s lovely, and you’d be lonely without me once I leave for uni anyway. But I’m moving in with Gran. I’m going to stay in her flat in Manchester.”
“To Gran’s? In Manchester? You’re fifteen, Poppy! You’re not even of age—how on earth can I just let you go?” Mum was having none of it.
“Why not? Gran raised you all by herself—she can look after me too if you’re that worried,” Poppy insisted. “Besides, I already rang her, and she’s thrilled I’m coming.”
“Right, so everyone’s decided without me,” Mum sighed, somewhere between disappointed and resigned.
“Trust me, it’s better this way. Uncle Ed’s lovely, but he’s still a stranger to me.”
Just then, Mum’s phone buzzed—Gran, Elizabeth Carter, was calling.
“Hello, love. So, have you and Poppy sorted things? Honestly, I think she’ll be better off with me. You know I adore that girl—do you really think I can’t handle one nearly-grown granddaughter?”
“Mum, I know you adore her, but you understand—a mother’s heart…”
“It’ll be fine, darling. I managed with you, didn’t I? Poppy and I will be just fine.”
Mum hung up, and Poppy, already shoving clothes into a suitcase, grinned. “See, Mum? It’ll be brilliant!”
Gran wasn’t some frail old dear—she was a retired maths teacher with a spine of steel. And Poppy? Well, she was spirited. They had their rows, of course, but Gran was wise enough never to let things boil over.
They’d bicker, and that very evening, Gran would slip into Poppy’s room, smooth her curly hair, and spin tales of her youth until Poppy drifted off, grievances forgotten. Sometimes, Poppy would cave first, realising she’d been unfair. She’d buy Gran’s favourite mint humbugs, they’d share tea, and peace was restored.
This was how they lived—until Poppy decided to leave. She’d graduated uni in Manchester, landed a job, but the pay was dismal. A colleague mentioned a brilliant firm in Edinburgh—great bosses, decent colleagues, and a salary worth writing home about.
“Gran, don’t be cross. I’m leaving, but we’ll stay in touch.”
“Poppy-love,” Gran said, stroking her hair, “must you really go so far? Can’t you find something here?”
“I’ve tried, Gran. Started on probation, then got bumped to junior with a salary barely covering tea bags.”
“That’s how it starts, love! You need experience. Bloom where you’re planted.”
But Poppy was set. She wanted adventure, money, everything at once. So she packed her bags and left.
Edinburgh was kind to her. A good job, decent pay, even a company flat. When her first paycheque landed, she splurged on treats—even Gran’s humbugs. But sipping tea alone that evening, the weight of solitude hit her. No one to share the sweets with. The humbugs sat untouched in the bowl.
Time passed. She rang Mum and Gran daily. Life was fine. She saved for a car—maybe a loan, some savings. But as they say, man plans, and God laughs.
One day, Mum called. Gran was gone.
“What? How?” Poppy choked out between sobs.
“Her heart, love. She never told us how bad it was. I knew, but… I never thought it’d be so soon.”
Poppy crumbled. The loss was a punch to the gut. In the taxi home, tears streaked her face.
“You alright, love?” the driver asked.
“No. But there’s nothing you can do.” She knew she’d cry properly at home, but the tears wouldn’t wait.
“How?” she kept thinking. “Missed the funeral—flight delayed by fog. Never got to say goodbye.”
She stood outside Gran’s flat, now hers. Gran had signed it over years ago. The silence inside was deafening.
“Suppose I’ll have to sell it,” she muttered, sinking into her favourite armchair.
She remembered Gran’s voice: “Poppy-love, wash your hands—I’ll put the kettle on.”
Now, the flat was silent. Oppressively so. She clamped her hands over her ears.
Then—a tiny noise. A squeak. She froze. From the slightly ajar cupboard door, a ginger face peeked out.
“Blimey—who are you?” she gasped as the cat darted out.
Gran had mentioned a stray she’d taken in—May, named for the month she’d arrived.
“May!” Poppy called. The cat wound around her legs, then trotted to the kitchen, glancing back as if to say, *Follow me*. “Right, you’re hungry.”
Puzzled, Poppy wondered how May had survived alone. Then—another squeak. May leapt back into the cupboard and emerged with two wobbly ginger kittens.
“Crikey. A whole family.” May settled to feed them.
“Good grief. What do I do now?”
She knew zilch about kittens. A quick search brought up a local vet. She called.
A knock came later.
“Afternoon. You called about a pet?”
A kind-faced bloke—just a bit older—stood there.
“Yes. Come in.” She pointed. “That’s the emergency.”
“What’s happened? I’m Oliver, by the way.”
“Uh… childbirth? Hers, not mine.”
He laughed, then explained everything—kitten care, feeding May, even helped set up a cosy bed. Before leaving, he “forgot” to delete her number.
Next morning, he rang.
“How are the little rascals? Need a hand tonight?”
“They’re fine. Drop by if you like.”
That evening, they strolled through the park. Oliver chatted about animals; Poppy, who’d never thought much about pets, found herself enthralled. Soon, she emailed her resignation.
Time passed. Oliver and Poppy planned a wedding. She told Mum she’d bring her fiancé to visit. After ordering Gran’s headstone, they visited the grave.
“Sorry, Gran. Maybe I shouldn’t have left. Maybe you’d still be here. But I’m back for good. And Oliver’s wonderful—we’re getting married.” She laid flowers, touched the photo on the stone, and left.
That night, Gran visited her dream. They stood in a field of daisies, warmth radiating from Gran’s smile.
“Thank you, Poppy-love, for May. You’ve always had a good heart. Don’t fret—I’m not cross. And Oliver? He’s a keeper. Be happy.” She vanished.
Poppy woke, heart light. A new day dawned—one week until the wedding.
