Sophie nearly choked on her tea. She had just been chatting with her grandmother, Margaret Elizabeth, over video call. Margaret had stepped away for a moment.
“Wait a second, love, I’ll be right back,” she said, groaning as she rose from her armchair and shuffled into the hallway.
The phone remained on the table, the camera and microphone still on. Sophie had switched to her computer screen, but then… it happened. A voice, sharp and venomous, carried from the hallway.
At first, Sophie thought she must have misheard. But then she glanced back at the phone. Judging by the sound of the door opening, someone had entered the room. First, unfamiliar hands appeared on the screen, then a partial figure, then a face—Emily. Her brother’s wife. Of course—that voice was unmistakably hers.
Emily approached Margaret’s bed, lifted the pillow, then the mattress, and rummaged beneath it.
“Sat there sipping tea like she owns the place… Wish she’d just drop dead already,” Emily muttered under her breath. “Useless old bag, taking up space. If it were up to me—”
Sophie froze. For a few seconds, she forgot how to breathe.
Soon, Emily left, oblivious to the camera. A minute later, Margaret returned. She smiled, but the warmth never reached her eyes.
“Here I am! Oh, I meant to ask—how’s work going? Everything alright?” Margaret asked, as if nothing had happened.
Sophie nodded stiffly, struggling to process what she’d just heard. Every nerve in her body screamed at her to march straight over and throw that vile woman out. Right now.
Margaret had always been Sophie’s unshakable pillar. Never raising her voice, just that quiet, firm authority honed from decades in the classroom—forty years teaching English literature. Students adored her; she made even the driest classics come alive.
When her husband passed, Margaret didn’t crumble, but her once-perfect posture softened into a slight stoop. She went out less, fell ill more often. Her smiles weren’t as bright. Still, she carried on, insisting every age had its beauty.
Sophie loved her for the safety she provided—a rock who could handle anything. Years ago, Margaret had given her grandson the family cottage to fund his degree and handed Sophie her last savings to help with the mortgage.
When Sophie’s brother, James, complained about London rents after his wedding, Margaret offered them her spare room. “Plenty of space, and you can keep an eye on me,” she’d said cheerfully.
Sophie helped with groceries, prescriptions, even the council tax. Her salary allowed it, and guilt wouldn’t let her stand by. Sometimes she gave cash, sometimes transfers, sometimes just turned up with bags of food—meat, fish, fresh fruit.
“Your health matters, Nan. Especially with your diabetes,” Sophie reminded her.
Margaret always thanked her but avoided eye contact, as if ashamed to be a burden.
Emily had always set Sophie on edge—sickly sweet words, plastered-on politeness, but ice in her stare. Sophie never interfered. Not her marriage. She only asked Margaret if things were alright.
“Perfectly fine, darling,” Margaret assured her. “Emily cooks, keeps the house tidy. Young, of course, but she’ll learn.”
Now Sophie knew: a lie. In company, Emily played the meek lamb. Alone? A wolf.
“Nan… I heard everything. What the hell was that?”
Margaret stilled for a second, as if she hadn’t heard right. Then she looked away.
“Oh, it’s nothing, love. Emily’s just tired. James is always away on contracts. She’s stressed.”
Sophie studied her grandmother like she was seeing her for the first time—noticing every new wrinkle, realising the spark in her eyes had dulled. The stubbornness remained, the exhaustion too. And something new. Fear.
“Stressed? Nan, did you hear what she said? That’s not stress. That’s—”
“Sophie—” Margaret cut her off. “It’s fine. She lashed out. Young people, eh? I don’t need much anyway.”
“Right. No. You’re not brushing this off,” Sophie snapped. “Either you tell me everything now, or I’m driving straight to yours. Choose.”
Margaret hesitated. Then her shoulders sagged, and she adjusted her glasses. The illusion shattered. This wasn’t the strong woman Sophie knew—just a weary old lady.
“I didn’t want to trouble you,” Margaret whispered. “You’ve enough on your plate. But… it’s been going on for ages.”
The truth was worse than Sophie imagined. At first, James and Emily had arrived with grand plans to save for a house. Margaret had welcomed them, thrilled the flat felt alive again. Emily baked scones, made tea, even took Margaret to the GP.
Then James left for a contract, and everything changed.
“First, she was just snappy,” Margaret explained. “Then she started hoarding food—said you bought too much anyway. Said she needed it more, being young, wanting a baby… What could I say? I don’t need much.”
Emily had “borrowed” money meant for Margaret’s prescriptions—to buy a mini-fridge for her locked bedroom. All the best food Sophie brought ended up there.
The TV vanished next. “Bad for your eyes,” Emily claimed. The Wi-Fi mysteriously cut out. “I feel like a prisoner sometimes,” Margaret admitted.
Sophie’s fists clenched. “Did you tell James?”
Margaret shook her head.
“She said if I did… she’d tell everyone I caused her to lose a baby. That I stressed her out. I don’t even know if she was pregnant! But she said they’d all pity her—and hate me.”
Sophie didn’t trust herself to speak. She wanted to scream. Instead, she said quietly:
“Nan. No one gets to treat you like that. No one.”
Margaret burst into tears. Sophie held her, soothing her, but her mind was already made up: this ended today.
Within half an hour, Sophie and her husband were en route. She briefed him in the car. He was sceptical—until they arrived.
Margaret opened the door instantly, wringing a tea towel in her hands.
“You should’ve called! I’d have put the kettle on—”
“We’re not here for tea, Nan,” Sophie said calmly. “Where’s Emily?”
“Out somewhere. She doesn’t tell me— Come in, then.”
The fridge was nearly empty: expired milk, eggs, mouldy pickles. The freezer? Just ice.
Sophie exchanged a look with her husband. Next stop: Emily’s locked room. A flimsy lock—he popped it with a screwdriver.
The mini-fridge was packed. Sophie’s yoghurts, cheese, even fresh veg—all there.
Rage simmered, but Sophie kept cool. They waited in Margaret’s room.
Emily returned half an hour later.
“Who touched my door?!” she shrieked, fists clenched.
Sophie stepped out.
“Me.”
Emily froze, eyes darting. Then she sneered.
“Who the hell do you think you are?”
Sophie stepped closer, towering over her.
“The granddaughter who owns this flat. Now—pack your crap. You’ve got ten minutes. Or I toss it out the window myself.”
Emily spat insults but stormed off to pack. Margaret hovered, teary.
“Sophie… the neighbours’ll hear—”
Sophie pulled her into a hug.
“This isn’t a scene, Nan. Just taking out the trash.”
They stayed the night. The next day, they restocked the fridge and medicine cabinet. As they left, Margaret wept—hopefully not from guilt or fear, Sophie prayed.
James called later, furious.
“Are you mental? Where’s Emily supposed to go? Think you can do whatever you want?”
Sophie hung up. Hours later, she sent a voice note:
“Ask your wife how she starved our nan. That woman gave you everything. Show up with her again—see what happens.”
Silence.
Emily moved in with a friend, posting rants about “toxic family” online. James liked them. Sophie heard nothing more.
Margaret’s flat grew cosy, if quiet. Weeks later, she asked Sophie to teach her to stream shows. They started with *Sherlock*, moved to comedies. Sometimes they watched together.
“Haven’t laughed this hard in years,” Margaret admitted once, cheeks sore.
Sophie just smiled. For the first time in ages, she felt at peace. Once, her nan had protected her. Now, it was her turn.
