“Can you believe she blew up like that? ‘Who even needs you, you old baggage? You’re just a burden to everyone. Stinking up the place… If it were up to me, I’d… Ugh, but I have to put up with you. I hate you!’
Polly nearly choked on her tea. She’d just been chatting with her grandmother, Margaret, over video call. Her gran had stepped away for a moment—’Hang on, love, I’ll be right back,’ she’d said, groaning as she got up from her chair and shuffled into the hallway.
The phone stayed on the table, camera and mic still on. Polly had switched over to her laptop screen—when suddenly, that voice drifted in from the hallway.
At first, she thought she’d imagined it. But then she glanced back at the phone. The sound of the door creaking, someone entering the room. On screen, strange hands appeared, then the side of a body, then—a face.
Olivia. Her brother’s wife. That voice—definitely hers.
The woman went straight to Margaret’s bed, flipped up the pillow, then the mattress, shoving a hand underneath.
‘Sitting here all day drinking tea… I swear, she should just hurry up and kick the bucket already. What’s the point dragging it out? You’re useless, taking up space, wasting air…’ Olivia muttered.
Polly froze. For a second, she forgot how to breathe.
Olivia left without noticing the camera. A few minutes later, Margaret returned. She smiled, but her eyes stayed dull.
‘There we are. Now—I didn’t even ask. How’s work, love? Everything all right?’ she said, like nothing had happened.
Polly nodded stiffly. She was still processing, her gut screaming at her to march over and throw that brazen cow out right now.
Margaret had always seemed unshakable to Polly—like a proper iron lady. Not the shouting kind, but that quiet, steely strictness honed from years teaching in classrooms, dealing with kids and their parents.
She’d spent forty years as an English teacher. The students adored her—Margaret could even make Shakespeare interesting.
After Grandad passed, she didn’t break, but her perfect posture sagged. She went out less, got sick more. Her smiles weren’t as bright. Still, she kept her cheer. ‘Every age has its joys,’ she’d say, and even now, she found ways to enjoy life.
Polly had always loved her for feeling safe around her—like no problem was too big. Gran had fixed everything. When Polly’s brother needed tuition money, Margaret handed over her cottage. When Polly scraped together a mortgage deposit, Margaret gave her savings.
When Polly’s brother, Greg, complained about rent after marrying Olivia, Gran offered them a room. ‘Plenty of space in this three-bed,’ she’d said. ‘And someone to keep an eye on me—what if my blood sugar dips or my blood pressure spikes?’
‘It’s boring alone anyway. The young ones could use the help,’ she’d say warmly.
Greg was supposed to look after her, but Polly ended up handling groceries, meds, even bills. She could afford it, and her conscience wouldn’t let her stand by. Sometimes cash, sometimes bank transfers, sometimes—knowing Gran’s habit of squirrelling things away—just showing up with food. Meat, fruit, dairy—anything to keep her eating well.
‘Your health matters, especially with your diabetes,’ Polly would say.
Gran always thanked her but avoided eye contact, like she felt guilty ‘burdening’ anyone.
Olivia had always rubbed Polly the wrong way. Sickly sweet manners, but cold eyes. That calculating stare, no warmth, no respect. But Polly stayed out of it—not her marriage. She’d just ask Gran, ‘Everything alright?’
‘All fine, love,’ Margaret would insist. ‘Olivia cooks, keeps things tidy. Young still, of course, but she’ll learn.’
Now Polly knew: it was a lie. In company, Olivia played the meek little lamb. But alone?
‘Gran… I heard everything. What *was* that?’
Margaret went still for a second, like she hadn’t heard right, then looked away.
‘Oh, it’s nothing, love,’ she sighed. ‘Olivia’s just tired. Greg’s been away on contract work. She’s under strain.’
Polly narrowed her eyes, studying Gran like she was seeing her for the first time—every new wrinkle, the exhaustion in her stare. That old spark was gone. Just stubbornness left, and fatigue. And something new: fear.
‘Strain? Gran, did you *hear* what she said?! That’s not strain—that’s—’
‘Polly…’ Margaret cut in. ‘It’s fine. So she lost her temper. Young people do. I’m old—I don’t need much.’
‘Right. Gran. Don’t treat me like an idiot,’ Polly snapped. ‘Either you tell me everything now, or I get in the car and drive over. *Choose*.’
Gran went quiet for a few seconds. Then she slumped, adjusted her glasses, and the illusion cracked. The strong woman Polly knew was gone—just a tired old lady left.
‘I didn’t want to worry you,’ she began. ‘You’ve got enough on your plate. But… it’s been going on a while.’
It turned out Olivia’s nastiness ran deeper than Polly imagined.
The young couple had arrived with huge suitcases and grand plans to save for a mortgage in six months. At first, Gran was thrilled—the flat felt alive again, footsteps in the mornings, cooking smells. Even forced laughter was better than silence. Olivia tried at first—baked scones, made tea, even took Gran to the GP twice.
Then Greg left for work, and everything changed.
‘First, she just got snappy,’ Gran said. ‘I thought she missed Greg. Then she started taking food for herself. Said you bought too much anyway, said she needed it more—young, might have a baby soon. What could I say? Less food—maybe I’d lose a few pounds.’
Olivia had even borrowed money from Gran—cash Polly had given for *medication*. Olivia blew it on a mini-fridge for her room, then *locked* the door. All the good food Polly brought? Ended up in there.
The money was never paid back. Instead, Olivia started rifling through Gran’s hiding spots, pocketing whatever she found.
‘She took the telly too. Said it was bad for my eyes,’ Gran wiped her eyes. ‘Turns off the Wi-Fi sometimes. I’m… I’m like a prisoner here.’
‘Did you tell Greg?’ Polly asked.
Gran shook her head.
‘She said if I did, she’d… tell everyone I made her miscarry. That I drove her to it. I don’t even know if she *was* pregnant. But she said they’d all pity her—and hate me.’
Polly didn’t know what to say. She wanted to scream, curse Olivia out. But instead:
‘Gran, *no one* gets to treat you like that. No one.’
Gran burst into tears. Polly comforted her gently, but she already knew—this wasn’t over. She wouldn’t let it slide.
Half an hour later, Polly and her husband were driving to Gran’s. She filled him in on the way. He couldn’t believe it at first, but he trusted her.
Gran opened the door straight away, fiddling nervously with a handkerchief.
‘Oh—you should’ve called! I’d have put the kettle on—’
‘Not here for tea, Gran,’ Polly said calmly. ‘We’re here to sort this. Where’s Olivia?’
‘She went out. Doesn’t tell me… Come in, though.’
Margaret stepped aside. Polly headed straight for the kitchen. The fridge was nearly empty—a couple of expired milk cartons, a dozen eggs, mouldy pickles. The freezer? Just ice.
Polly turned to her husband, and he nodded. They moved fast. Olivia’s room was locked—cheap, flimsy thing. One screwdriver later, it was open.
Sure enough—mini-fridge inside. Polly found the yoghurts she’d brought Gran days ago. Cheese, sausages, even fresh veg.
Fury simmered, but Polly held it in. She and her husband waited in Gran’s room.
Olivia stormed in half an hour later.
‘Who messed with my door?!’ she shrieked, fists clenched.
Then Polly stepped out.
‘Me.’
Olivia froze, eyes darting. She tried to bluster.
‘Who the hell do you think you are, barging into *my* room?’
Polly got right in her face—Olivia was shorter.
‘I’m the granddaughter of the woman who *owns* this house. Who the hell are *you*?’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘You’ve got ten minutes to pack. Or your stuff goes out the window. Clear?’
‘I’ll tell Greg!’
‘Tell *whoever*! He’s not here. If I have to, I’Polly watched as Olivia finally scurried out the door, her shrill threats fading into the street, leaving the house—and Gran—finally at peace.
