When I first arrived in Manchester, I was twenty-seven. Back in Moldova, my mum was about to have surgery, and there was a mountain of mortgage debt hanging over us. I told myself I’d work hard for a year and a half—tops—then head back home.
Finding a job didn’t take long. An agency placed me as a live-in carer for an elderly woman. The flat’s owner, Charlotte Edwards, needed someone to look after her eighty-four-year-old mother, Margaret. The pay wasn’t much, but it was steady, so I took it.
From the very first day, Margaret made it clear she despised me. “Where are you from?” she snapped the moment I walked in. When I told her, she wrinkled her nose. “Another Moldovan. First it was the Romani, now you. Nothing but rubbish washing up on my doorstep.” And it only got worse.
Every morning started with complaints—the porridge was wrong, I dusted badly, I shut the door too loud, even my breathing annoyed her. Sometimes I’d catch her whispering to Charlotte on the phone: “She’s stealing, mark my words. Keep an eye on her.” It made me feel sick. I washed her feet, helped her stand, bought her medicine, and all I got in return was icy contempt.
I stuck it out for six months. The thought of my mum in hospital was the only thing stopping me from walking out. Then one day, Margaret accused me of stealing £500. They tore the place apart—only to find the notes tucked in her own handbag. No apology, no guilt. Just that same cold glare.
I packed my things. Told her I was leaving. She stood by the door with a bitter smirk. “Go on then. You’ll come crawling back—people like you always do.”
“I’ll manage,” I said quietly. “Even without you.”
Then, completely out of nowhere, her voice changed. No anger left—just something raw and shaky.
“You… put up with all this… for your mother?”
I froze, then nodded. And then it all spilled out—the surgery, the debt. She listened in silence. Then, slowly, she hobbled over, sat beside me, took my hand… and just burst into tears. No words. Just tears rolling down her wrinkled cheeks.
“I’m sorry… I wasn’t hurting you. I was punishing her. Charlotte. She left me. I thought if you walked out, she’d come back. But you… you stayed. For your mum.”
After that, everything changed. We talked properly—about her life, mine. She even gave me money to visit my husband. When I returned, she met me at the door with a scarf she’d knitted herself.
Four months later, she passed. Quietly, in her sleep. I sobbed like she was my own.
A week after, Charlotte showed up with a solicitor.
“We’re here about the will,” he said. “Margaret left you… a substantial sum.”
Charlotte went white. “She’s lost her mind! What did you do to my mother? Bribe her?”
I looked at her, then suddenly stepped forward—and pulled her into a hug.
“That’s all I did. Just hugged her.”
