**The Grandmother from Nowhere**
Molly was sleeping like she’d pulled three back-to-back shifts when an insistent buzz at the door jolted her awake.
“Bloody hell, who’s there at this hour?” she grumbled, rolling onto her other side. But the buzzing didn’t stop—persistent, impatient, as if someone outside was racing against time.
Grumpily wrapping herself in a dressing gown, Molly shuffled to the door and peeked through the spyhole. Outside stood a crumpled-looking old woman clutching an enormous, fluffy cat, her face pale and exhausted, as if life had drained right out of her.
“Who is it?” Molly barked, with zero intention of opening up. There were enough urban legends about mysterious old ladies knocking at odd hours—and not all of them ended well. But then, suddenly, the old woman gasped, slid down the wall, and crumpled to the floor. The cat wriggled free and circled her, letting out a pitiful meow.
“Why me…?” Molly sighed, swinging the door open.
“Love, are you all right? I’ll call an ambulance—don’t worry, you’ll be fine,” she whispered, scooping the frail figure inside. She guided her to the sofa, then dialled 999.
The cat, unnervingly perceptive, sat beside them, watching Molly’s every move.
“What’s your name, love?”
“Agatha… Agatha Whitmore… my papers are in there…” the old woman rasped, gesturing weakly towards a worn-out handbag.
Molly rifled through it, pulling out some documents, but before she could ask anything else, Agatha whispered,
“Listen, dear… I can’t go to hospital. My grandson’s waiting. If I don’t get him his rent money, he’ll throw me and the cat out…”
“The paramedics will decide if you’re fit to go anywhere,” Molly said firmly. “The cat’s fine—I’ll feed him, keep an eye on him. But why’s *he* taking money from *you*?”
“Best you don’t ask, love,” Agatha murmured, her gaze sliding away.
Another knock came—the paramedics arrived, checked her over, and declared she needed immediate care at St. Barts.
“I’m *not* going!” Agatha protested weakly.
“Go on, love,” Molly insisted. “I’ll visit—promise. Me and the cat will get on just fine.”
The next morning, Molly woke earlier than usual, one thought nagging at her: *Why do I keep getting dragged into other people’s dramas?* But her heart whispered back—maybe it wasn’t for nothing. There was something familiar about Agatha.
Molly barely remembered her own parents—gone at 13, thanks to dodgy homebrew. After that, life had spiralled: foster care, group homes. Only one elderly neighbour, Mrs. Wilkins, had made her childhood bearable, but she’d passed, too. Since then, Molly had been on her own—until now.
At 23, she was sharp, resilient, no stranger to hardship. Yesterday, while checking Agatha’s papers, she’d spotted an address. Today, she headed straight there.
The house on Elm Road was unremarkable. Two old ladies sat gossiping outside, and within minutes, Molly had the full story.
Agatha had raised her grandson after his parents died in a crash. But the boy, now a man, had turned rotten—demanding rent, threatening her beloved cat if she didn’t comply. He lived with some girlfriend while renting out his parents’ place, leaving Agatha to fend for herself. Police? “Family matter,” they’d said.
Fuming, Molly marched upstairs and hammered on the door. A bleary-eyed bloke reeking of last night’s lager answered.
“You little *toe-rag*,” she snarled, shoving past him. “How *dare* you turf an old woman out of her own home? Pack your rubbish—*now*—or I swear—”
Fifteen minutes later, he bolted, duffel bag in tow. Molly stayed, cleaned up, fed the cat, then went to the hospital.
Agatha wept when she saw her.
“Brought you food, sorted the flat. And *he’s* gone. No arguments, love. No one should sleep rough at your age.”
“Thank you, dear. Thought I’d die out there…”
“We need you. *He*—” she nodded at the cat, now purring—*definitely* needs you. Rest. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
A week later, Molly brought Agatha home.
“It’s so… *clean*,” Agatha marvelled. “How can I ever repay you?”
“Can I call you *Nan*?”
“Of course, love. You’re family now.”
The cat stretched, blissfully relaxed for the first time in years. The house no longer held fear.
A year passed. Molly became the granddaughter Agatha deserved. The grandson? Never showed his face again. Molly moved in, rented out her old flat, and gave every penny to Agatha.
“Nan, I’d feel rotten keeping it. You treat me like royalty.”
Soon after, the grandson died in a pub brawl. Molly didn’t rejoice—just felt a dull ache. *Such a waste.*
Two years later, love found Molly. By chance. The new GP, sweet and gentle, with a soft spot for Agatha. *Tom.* The way he doted on her melted Molly’s defences.
“Don’t let this one slip, love,” Agatha whispered.
When Tom proposed, Molly cried. A year later, their first child arrived, making Agatha the proudest great-grandmother alive.
They had twelve more years together. At 95, Agatha slipped away in her sleep—sharp as a tack till the end, still folding baby clothes, still telling stories.
Molly grieved hard. But Tom and the kids kept her steady. The old cat was gone, but another stray had taken his place.
Then came the day to sort the house—still legally Agatha’s. Molly had never pushed to change it; it hadn’t felt right. But while clearing paperwork, she found an envelope.
*”My darling Molly, You gave me back my daughter, Victoria. Without you, I’d have missed so much joy. Thank you. Take this gift—it’s in the sideboard, under the drawers. You’ve earned it, my beloved girl.”*
Molly couldn’t stop the tears. *”Beloved girl.”* The words pierced her heart.
Tom pulled out a bundle of papers and a fat envelope. The deeds to the house. And cash—every penny Molly had ever given Agatha from the rent.
*”The deeds were signed long ago—no arguing. The money’s yours. You’ll know what to do.”*
Molly and Tom lived long, happy lives, surrounded by children, grandchildren, even great-grandchildren. And always, in pride of place on the mantelpiece, stood a photo—Agatha’s warm smile, and beside her, that big, fluffy cat.
