You know, children, I’ve been sitting here in this care home for a while now, and sometimes my thoughts drift back to the way things used to be. There was an old woman in our block… from flat twenty-three. Oh, nobody liked her one bit. Come to think of it, no one really knew her name—not her first, not her middle, nothing. And truth be told, no one really cared to ask.
She was tiny, grey-haired, with thick spectacles held together by bits of sticky tape—grubby and frayed at the edges. She shuffled about in worn-out shoes with holes in the toes, carrying an old string bag, while a little dog trotted after her. Small, that dog was, but it barked like a guard hound—loud and fierce at anyone who dared come near her door. And there were plenty who did, because three things about her drove the whole block mad.
First—that telly. Blaring from dawn till dusk, full volume. Second—the cockroaches, spilling out of her flat and creeping into every corner of the stairwell. And third—that musty, sour smell that clung to the air, seeping into the lift and the steps.
It drove people to despair. They’d come knocking, shouting, demanding, “When’s all this going to stop?” And the old woman would just peer at them with her small, squinting eyes, smiling faintly like a child, and say:
“Any day now…”
And for a little while, it would quiet down. But not for long. It always started up again.
Do you know what her name was? Edna Mayfield. Eighty-four years old. Last winter, she fell terribly ill—a cold so bad it near deafened her. She wanted a hearing aid, but the queue was long and her pension barely covered rent, medicine, and scraps for her little dog, Pippin—her one and only sunshine.
Pippin was her true friend. He came into her life years ago, after her husband passed and the children—well, there were none. Edna had been walking home in the rain when she spotted a shivering pup in a skip—filthy, trembling, utterly alone. She’d meant to walk past, barely keeping herself upright, but he followed her. And so he stayed, becoming her whole world.
That flat… it was like something out of a witch’s hovel: all grime and stench, with roaches scuttling about. But Edna either didn’t notice or didn’t care. The neighbours complained louder—a losing battle, it seemed.
Then along came Emily—new to the building, divorced, with a son. She signed the lease in relief and ignored the smell at first. But one evening, spotting two cockroaches darting across her kitchen counter, she shuddered. And so the war began.
But here’s the odd thing: the woman from the third floor told her about Edna Mayfield. About the telly, the roaches, the reek. Emily pitied her, knowing loneliness herself. She decided to help.
And so began a new life. Emily and her son, Oliver, visited the old woman, brought groceries, played with Pippin. Edna glowed, no longer alone, while Emily and Oliver found family where they least expected.
In time, the smell faded, the roaches vanished, and the telly softened. But the whispers started—Emily only wanted the flat for herself. She paid them no mind. What mattered was the warmth she’d brought Edna.
Nearly a year passed. Then one day, Edna Mayfield left this world. Quietly, without fuss, just as she’d have wanted. Pippin stayed with Emily and Oliver—now a proper little family.
So you see, children, life can be hard and unfair. But even in old age, even for the forgotten, a small miracle can happen—when someone comes along and gives a little kindness. That’s real happiness.
