When I arrived in Manchester, I was twenty-seven. Back in Moldova, my mother was waiting for a surgery we could barely afford, and the shadow of mortgage debts loomed over us. I told myself I’d work a year, maybe eighteen months—just enough to go back home.
I found work quickly through an agency—a caretaker for an elderly woman. The landlady, Evelyn Whitmore, needed someone to look after her eighty-four-year-old mother, Margaret. The pay was modest but steady.
From the very first day, Margaret despised me. “What are you?” she demanded the moment I stepped in. I told her. She grimaced. “Another Moldovan. First the gypsies, now you. Trash, the lot of you.” It only got worse.
Every morning began with complaints—the porridge was wrong, the dusting lazy, the door slammed too loud, even my breathing grated on her. Once, I overheard her whispering to Evelyn: “She’s stealing, mark my words. Watch her.” It made me sick. I washed her feet, helped her stand, bought her medicine—all for nothing but cold disdain.
I endured it for six months. Only thoughts of my mother kept me from walking out. Then one day, she accused me of stealing fifty pounds. We turned the flat upside down—and found the notes tucked in her own purse. No apology, no remorse. 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 soon enough—poverty always wins.”
“I’ll manage,” I said quietly. “Even without you.”
Then—something shifted. Her voice lost its venom. Just confusion. “You… put up with all this… for your mother?”
I froze. Nodded. Told her everything—the surgery, the debts. She listened in silence. Then, slowly, she shuffled over, sat beside me, took my hand—and wept. No words. Just tears tracing the lines of her face.
“Forgive me. I was cruel. Not to you. To Evelyn. She left me. I thought if you walked out… she’d come back. But you… you stayed. For your mother.”
After that, everything changed. We talked—really talked. She told me about her life; I told her mine. She even gave me money to visit home. When I returned, she met me at the door with a scarf she’d knitted herself.
Four months later, she died in her sleep. I grieved like she was family.
A week after, Evelyn arrived with a solicitor.
“I must inform you of the will,” the man said. “Margaret left you… a substantial sum.”
Evelyn paled. “She’s lost her mind! What did you do to my mother? Bribe her?”
I looked at her. Then, without a word, stepped forward—and hugged her.
“That’s what I did. Just hugged her.”
