Keep an Eye on Granny, It’s No Trouble for You!

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 10 minViews 3

Look after my mum, it wont be that hard, Margaret said, her voice edged with worry. You know my mother isnt the same as she used to be. Her age, the memory loss the doctors say she needs someone watching her. Id do it myself, but work and all that. Youre homeworking, arent you? It shouldnt be a problem for you.

Emily pressed her lips together. She did work from home, translating documents and sometimes doing online consultations. Her schedule was flexible, but that didnt mean she had endless spare time.

Margaret, Im not sure what to do, Emily replied cautiously. Ive never dealt with this before. Maybe we should hire a livein carer? Or move her to a care home where she can be looked after by professionals

Margarets eyes flashed with indignation. A care home? How can you say such a thing! Thats my mother! I wont hand her over to a place where strangers are looking after her. Were family.

Emily glanced at James, hoping for support, but he didnt even look up from his phone.

Emily, Mum doesnt ask for much, James said finally, still glued to the screen. Just pop in the morning, pop in the evening. Feed her, give her a little help. Nothing difficult, youll manage.

Emily sighed. Arguing would be pointless. Besides, they were still staying in Margarets flat she had kindly let the young couple stay after their wedding while they saved for their own place. Refusing now would feel ungrateful.

All right, Emily said softly. Ill give it a try.

Margarets face lit up. She stood, walked around the kitchen table and gave Emily a firm hug.

Thank you, love. You have no idea how much this means to me. Ill give you the keys and write down the address. Mum lives just a short fifteenminute walk away. Only, Emily, she can be a bit you know, nervous. If she says something odd, just ignore it, okay?

Emily nodded, convincing herself she could handle it. What could be that hard about looking after an elderly woman?

The next morning she learned otherwise.

Ediths flat was in a rundown Victorian block with peeling walls and creaky stairs. Emily climbed to the third floor, knocked, and waited. Inside there was a thump, shuffling footsteps, then the click of a lock.

The door swung open to reveal a stooped old woman in a threadbare dressing gown. Edith stared at Emily with cloudy eyes.

What do you want? she rasped.

Good morning, MrsEdith. Im Emily, Jamess wife. Margaret asked me to look after you. May I come in?

The old lady snorted, then stepped aside. Emily slipped into the hallway and was hit by a wave of stale air mixed with medicine and something sour. The flat was a mess magazines, ragged slippers, and empty pill bottles piled on a tiny table. From the kitchen floated the smell of burnt food.

What would you like for breakfast? I can sort something up, Emily said, turning to the elder.

Edith snapped, I dont want anything! Who sent you? Some spy again?

Emily blinked. A spy?

I just want to help, Emily began.

Help! the old woman echoed, her voice thick with sarcasm. All of you pretend to be caring, but youre just waiting for me to go, so you can grab the flat!

Emilys throat tightened. She moved to the kitchen, switched on the kettle and rummaged through the fridge, finding a few eggs, a slice of ham and some hardbread. She decided on scrambled eggs.

While she cooked, Edith perched on a stool by the door, muttering nonstop.

Youre always late. Yesterday Margaret promised to come, and she never did. Liar. And youll just eat me out of house and then claim theres nothing left.

Emily kept her eyes on the pan, ignoring the tirade. When the eggs were ready she placed the plate in front of Edith, who glanced at it, took a bite, grimaced and pushed it away.

Its terrible. Way too salty. Cant you even cook? she barked.

Emily bit her lip, tasted the eggs herself the seasoning was perfect.

MrsEdith, you need to eat, otherwise you cant take your medicines, Emily said gently.

Dont tell me what to do! I know when Im hungry! Edith shouted, shuffling out of the room and slamming the door. Emily stood in the kitchen, staring at the untouched plate, swearing softly under her breath. The day had just begun.

That evening the routine repeated. Edith refused dinner, spurned her tablets and accused Emily of wanting to rob her. Emily pleaded, explained, but it was all for naught. By nightfall her head throbbed.

James met her at the kitchen when she got back home.

Hows it going? he asked, nonchalant.

Hard, Emily admitted, sinking onto a stool. Your mum shes a nightmare. She shouts, shes rude, she wont eat.

James shrugged. Age. She warned us. Hang in there, Em. It wont be forever.

Emily wanted to ask what he meant by forever, but kept quiet as he disappeared into his bedroom, slamming the door.

A week passed, then another. Emily visited Edith twice a day, cooking, tidying, trying to keep some order. She pushed her translation work into the evenings, often staying up till midnight, only to rise early and head back to the flat. Edith never softened. On the contrary, she found fault with everything: the food being too cold, too hot, Emily speaking too loudly or too softly. She flung objects, yelled, called Emily a freeloader and a parasite. Emily clenched her fists and endured, but her patience was wearing thin.

A month later Ediths health collapsed. She stopped getting out of bed, ate barely anything, and complained of pain. Emily called a doctor, who examined her, prescribed new medication and warned that her condition was serious.

That night Emily collapsed onto the sofa, exhausted to the point she couldnt even cry, just stared at the ceiling.

The next day Margaret asked, Emily, hows Mum now?

Not good, Emily replied, weary. The doctor says she needs constant care. I cant keep doing this, Margaret. Im drained. I still have to work, I need rest. I cant manage.

Margarets voice turned icy. So youre refusing?

Im not refusing, Im asking for help. Lets hire a carer

Hire a carer! Margaret snapped. What, you think Im made of money? This is your duty, Emily. We gave you a roof over your head. Show some gratitude, even a little!

Emilys hands curled into fists. Ive spent a month looking after your mother. Cooking, cleaning, putting up with her abuse, working nights to get everything done. I cant do this any longer.

Cant? Then get out. Out the door, everywhere. Cant, can you hear, James?

Emily turned. James stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

Emily, Mums right, he said evenly. You should help the family. Youre a woman, after all, and we ought to be grateful for the roof she gave us.

Emily stood up, feeling a sudden lightness in her chest. Fine. I understand. Everything.

Margaret gasped, and James blinked, as if he hadnt heard what hed just said.

Emily, what are you doing? Where are you going? James asked, bewildered.

Emily was already in the bedroom, pulling a small suitcase from under the bed. She packed the few belongings she owned a coat, some documents, her laptop everything she could carry. The rest stayed with Jamess parents when she moved in.

James followed her, watching her pack, his face shifting from confusion to irritation.

Emily, stop. You cant just leave.

I can, she replied shortly, zipping the bag.

Where to? Back to your parents?

Yes. Then Ill find my own place. We have nothing to split the flat isnt ours anyway.

James opened his mouth, but no words came. Emily walked past him, out the front door. Margaret stood in the hallway, pale and stunned.

Emily, where are you going? Margaret called.

Im leaving. Thanks for the hospitality, Emily said, stepping onto the street. She inhaled deeply and smiled, relief flooding through her.

The divorce was processed quickly. James didnt contest; he didnt even attend the hearing. Emily received the decree, tucked it away in a drawer and never thought of him again.

She rented a small onebedroom flat and began living for herself calm, measured, free of shouting and endless tension. The year slipped by unnoticed.

One afternoon Emily met her old friend Lucy at a café. They chatted about work, summer plans, and then Lucy asked, Did you hear what happened to your exmotherinlaw?

Emily looked up from her tea. No. Whats the story?

She passed three months ago. Margaret made a fuss all over the village. Turns out the old lady had left the flat to a distant relative a niece, I think. Margaret tried to fight it, claimed the mother was insane, but the will had been drawn up five years earlier when Edith was of sound mind.

Emily froze. She left the flat to a distant relative?

Yes. Margaret was counting on keeping the flat, which is why she insisted Mum stay at home instead of a care home. She wanted to appear loving so no one would question her claim. In reality she was using you as free labour to keep the property under her control.

Emily leaned back, a warm, satisfying feeling spreading through her. Justice, at last, had turned the tables.

Lucy raised an eyebrow. You smiling now, love?

Emily shook her head. Nothing. Just justice has its way.

Lucy laughed. So what now? Want to get a cake? Maybe a glass of champagne and a good coffee?

Lets do that, Emily said. Im celebrating the fact that life can be wildly unpredictable.

Later they left the café, strolling down the high street. Emily walked light, almost as if she were floating. Perhaps shed been a bit too pleased at Margarets downfall, but shed learned that the older woman had only wanted to drain her energy and then discard her. In the end, Margaret got nothing the flat went to someone else, and James stayed stuck in his own misery. That, as far as Emily could tell, was the whole of the tale.

Key in Hand Rain drummed against the flat’s window in a steady rhythm, like a metronome counting down the time. Michael perched on the edge of a battered single bed, hunched over, as if trying to shrink himself from fate’s notice. His large, once-strong hands—hands that once managed heavy equipment—now lay powerless on his knees. His fingers would clench every so often, as if trying desperately to grasp something intangible. He did not simply stare at the wall; he studied the faded wallpaper as though it were a map of lost hope, tracing routes from the NHS GP to the private diagnostics clinic. His eyes were washed out, like an old black-and-white film stuck on a single frame. Yet another doctor. Yet another condescending, “Well, at your age, what do you expect, Mr Harris?” He wasn’t angry; anger took energy, which he lacked. Only exhaustion remained. The pain in his back was more than a symptom—it had become his landscape, the background to every move and every thought, the white noise of helplessness drowning out everything else. He followed all the advice: took the tablets, applied the creams, endured physio on a cold NHS couch, feeling like a broken part on the scrapyard of life. And all the while, he waited. Passively, almost with religious faith, he waited for some life-raft—a government scheme, a miracle physician, a brilliant professor—to finally throw him that rescue rope, save him from this quicksand. He looked out at the horizon of his life and saw only grey rain through the pane. Where once his will had been sharp—solving any problem at the factory or at home—it had dissolved down to one daily task: endure, and hope for rescue. Family… once present, had faded away. Time slipped by too quickly. First his daughter—clever Katie—left for London and a brighter future. He couldn’t fault her; he wanted the best for her. “Dad, I’ll help, when I’m settled,” she promised by phone. Although, that wasn’t the point. Then his wife left—not to the shops, but forever. Rachel was taken quickly—merciless cancer, discovered too late. Michael was left not only with a ruined back, but with the silent reproach of still being here, half-walking, half-lying, while she, his rock, his spark, his Rachel, faded to nothing in three months. He nursed her as best he could, until her cough turned to a rattling, and the shine in her eye quietly vanished. The last words she spoke, gripping his hand: “Stay strong, Mike…” But he wasn’t strong. He broke, finally. Katie rang, suggesting he move in with her, try her startup life in her rented flat. But why would she need him underfoot, a burden in an unfamiliar home? She wasn’t coming back, either. Now it was only Rachel’s younger sister—Valerie—who visited, once a week, regular as clockwork. She brought soup in Tupperware, pasta, mince, and a new box of paracetamol. “How are you, Mike?” she’d ask, shaking off her coat. He’d nod: “Alright.” They’d sit in silence as she tidied his bedsit, as if order in things might restore order to his life. Then she’d leave, trailing the scent of perfume and the quiet, physical feeling of someone repaying a debt. He was grateful. And so painfully alone. His loneliness wasn’t just physical—it was a cell, built of helplessness, grief and a simmering anger at the unfair world. One especially bleak evening, his gaze drifted across the threadbare carpet and landed on his front-door key. He must have dropped it, struggling in from the clinic last time. Just a key—nothing special. A piece of metal. But he found himself staring, really seeing it, as if for the first time. It waited. He remembered his granddad—vividly, as though someone flicked a light on in a dark memory. Granddad Peter John, with his empty sleeve tucked into his belt, would sit on a stool and manage to tie his laces with one hand and a broken fork. Not rushing, carefully, with quiet triumph when he managed it. “Watch and learn, Mikey!” he’d say, eyes shining with victory over circumstance. “Tools are always at hand, lad. Sometimes they look like junk to everyone else. You just have to spot your ally in a pile of rubbish.” As a boy, Michael thought that was just an old man putting a brave face on things. Granddad was a hero—heroes can do anything. But Michael wasn’t a hero; fighting bad luck and back pain left no room for clever tricks with cutlery. Yet now, looking at the key, the memory felt less like a fairy tale and more like a quiet rebuke. Granddad didn’t wait for help; he grabbed what was there. A broken fork—and won, not over pain or loss, but helplessness. What had Michael chosen? Only waiting, bitter and passive, at the doorstep of other people’s goodwill. The thought made his heart race. Now, the key—this chunk of metal ringing with echoes of granddad’s words—was a wordless command. He stood, groaning, ashamed even though the room was empty. He shuffled over, pushed himself up, joints crackling. Picked up the key. Tried to straighten—his back screamed in protest. He froze, teeth clenched, waiting for the wave to pass. But instead of giving up, he tottered to the wall. He pressed the blunt end of the key to the wallpaper at the point of pain in his back, applying slow pressure, body weight behind it. Not to fix it—but just to meet pain with pain, reality brushing up against reality. He found a spot where this rough negotiation brought a touch of dull relief, as if something inside finally eased open a fraction. He tried again, moving the key a little each time. Each motion slow, attentive, exploratory—a negotiation, not a cure. His tool was not a fancy medical gadget, but this battered key. He felt foolish. A key’s no miracle. But the next night he tried again. And the next. He mapped the spots where pressure brought not more pain, but odd relief, as though spreading apart the old, tight vise grip. Soon, he used the door-frame to gently stretch. A glass of water by the bed reminded him to drink—just drink. Free. Michael stopped waiting, hands folded. He used what he had: a key, a door-frame, the living-room floor for feather-light stretches, his own will. He started a notebook—not about pain, but “key victories.” “Stood at the stove five minutes longer today.” Three empty baked bean tins on the sill became his mini-allotment. Filled with soil from the communal garden, each sprouting a few onion sets. Not a real garden—just three tins of life, and a new responsibility. A month on, seeing new scans, the GP raised her eyebrows. “Some change, Mr Harris. Have you been doing anything?” “Yes,” Michael said, simply. “Making use of what’s to hand.” He didn’t mention his key. The doc wouldn’t get it. But Michael knew. Salvation hadn’t arrived on a rescue boat. It had lain on the floor, unremarkable, while he stared at the wall, still waiting for a light to be switched on. One Wednesday, Valerie paused on the doorstep. On the windowsill, in those tins, lush spring onions thrived. The flat smelled not of damp and medicated creams but something altogether fresher, hopeful. “You… what’s this?” she managed, seeing him, upright by the window. “Garden,” he replied, simply. After a moment: “Fancy some for your soup? Homegrown.” That evening, she stayed for tea, and he—without complaints of his health—talked about the stairs in the block, how he now tackled one flight extra each day. No Dr. Dolittle arrived bearing a magic potion. Rescue hid itself in a key, a door-frame, an old tin, an ordinary flight of stairs. It couldn’t undo pain, loss, age. But it put tools back in his hands—not to win the whole war, just for small battles, each day. And sometimes, when you stop waiting for a golden ladder from the sky and spot the ordinary concrete steps under your feet, you find that climbing—slowly, carefully, one step at a time—is life itself. And on the sill, in three battered tins, grew the greenest, proudest onions—his own, extraordinary, English garden.

The Key in My Hand Rain drummed against the window of the small London flat, as steady as the ticking of a metronome counting down the hours. Michael perched on the edge of his sagging bed, hunched as if trying to make himself smaller—less visible to the fate that shadowed his days. Once-strong hands, forged by years at the machine shop, now rested uselessly in his lap. From time to time, his fingers clenched, as if reaching for something lost, something he couldn’t quite name. He stared not just at the peeling wallpaper, but read it as a map of hopeless journeys: from NHS surgery to private diagnostic clinic, each route more futile than the last. His gaze had faded somehow, like a still from an old black-and-white film stuck forever on the same frame. Yet another doctor, yet another patient smile. “Well, you have to understand, sir—these things come with age.” There was no anger left in him. Anger needed strength, and that was one resource he no longer had. Only fatigue remained. The ache in his back was not just a symptom—it had become his personal landscape, the backdrop to every sluggish movement and tired thought, a white noise of helplessness drowning out all hope. He followed every prescription: swallowed the pills, rubbed in pungent ointments, lay on the cold table in the physio suite, feeling like a broken appliance discarded in a skip. And all this time—he waited. Passive, almost devout in his hope, for the life raft that one day someone—be it the government, a miracle-working doctor, or some wise professor—would toss his way before he was pulled under for good. He scanned the horizon of his life and saw only the grey curtain of rain outside the window. The will that had once tackled any problem at the factory or weathered any plumbing emergency at home, was now shrunk down to a single function: endure, and hope for a miracle from elsewhere. Family. Once, it had been there. It had slipped away, quickly and undeniably. Time passed. His daughter, clever Katie, left first—off to London in pursuit of a better life. He’d never begrudged her her dreams; you want everything for your only child. “Dad, I’ll send money as soon as I find my feet,” she’d said over the phone. It didn’t matter; he would never have asked. Then his wife was gone too. Not just out to the shops—gone. Rachel was overtaken swiftly—ruthless cancer found too late. Michael was left with a crippled back and the silent accusation that he, half-mobile and half-alive, had survived. She, his anchor, his spark, his Rachel, faded in just three months. He nursed her as best as he could, until the coughing grew rough and the sparkle in her eyes slid away. The last thing she said, in a hospital bed, her hand in his, was, “Hang in there, Mike…” He didn’t. He broke completely. Katie called, begged him to move in with her in her rented flat—but what use was he there, a stranger in a strange home? He refused to be a burden. And she, predictably, wasn’t coming back. Now, only Rachel’s younger sister, Val, visited. Once a week, like clockwork, she’d bring homemade soup in Tupperware, a bag of painkillers, sometimes some pasta or a ready meal. “How are you, Mike?” she’d ask, easing off her coat. He’d nod: “All right.” They sat in silence as she tidied his poky little place, as if scrubbing the flat could somehow scrub his life clean too. Then she’d leave, leaving behind a scent not quite his, and the almost physical presence of a debt owed out of duty. He was grateful—and endlessly lonely. His solitude was not just physical—it was a prison built from his own helplessness, pain, and a low-burning resentment at the unfairness of it all. One especially grey evening, his eyes drifted over the battered carpet and caught on a key fallen near the door. He must have dropped it on his last, laboured return from the surgery. Just a key. Nothing special—a bit of metal. He stared at it, as if for the first time, at something rare and strange. He remembered his granddad, clear as a light switched on in a dark room. Old Peter, one sleeve tucked into his waistband, would perch on a stool and tie his shoes one-handed, using a broken fork. Patient, focused, huffing with pride when he managed. “See, Mikey,” he’d say, eyes twinkling—victory through ingenuity. “The right tool’s always nearby—even if it looks like rubbish. You just need to see an ally in the junk.” Michael, back then, thought it was just old man’s bluster—a bedtime story for comfort. Granddad was a hero; heroes can do anything. But Michael wasn’t a hero, and his war with pain left no room for such tricks. Now, eying the key, that memory came to him, not as comfort, but as a reproach. Granddad hadn’t waited for help; he took what he had, and beat back helplessness—not just pain or loss. And Michael? All he’d taken up was waiting, bitter and passive, hunting charity like a beggar at a neighbour’s doorstep. The thought lit a spark. This key—this scrap of metal, echoing his granddad’s words—turned into a silent command. He stood—slowly, groaning, ashamed even before an empty room. Shuffled over, picked up the key. Tried, with difficulty, to stand upright—a streak of ice-hot pain stabbing his back. He froze, teeth clenched, waiting for the spasm to pass. But instead of collapsing, he turned toward the wall. He pressed the blunt end of the key against the faded wallpaper, right at the source of the pain. Then, gingerly, pressed his back into it with what little strength he had. He had no goal to “massage” or “treat.” This wasn’t medicine—it was pressure. Steady, focused, pain against pain—reality against reality. He found, to his shock, a spot where the struggle let up—a muted relief, like a knot inside him loosened for a moment. He shifted the key up, then down. Repeated. Not fast—listening, testing, finding a groove. It wasn’t therapy—it was negotiation. And the key, not a fancy physio gadget, was his tool. It was stupid, he thought. A key isn’t magic. The next night, as pain surged again, he tried once more. And the next, and the next. He started to use the doorframe to gently stretch. He remembered, seeing the water glass by his bed, to drink—just water, nothing fancy. Michael stopped waiting, hands folded. He used what he had: the key, a sturdy frame, the floor for tiny stretches, his own stubbornness. He started a notebook—not complaints, but “key victories”: “Today, stood at the hob for five minutes longer.” He lined up three empty baked bean tins on his sill, filled them with earth from the communal garden, and pressed in a few little onion bulbs. Not a garden—just a few green shoots he was now responsible for. A month later, at his GP appointment, the doctor looked at the new scans with surprise. “There’s improvement. Have you been doing your exercises?” “Yes,” Michael replied simply. “Made do with what was at hand.” He didn’t mention the key—the doctor wouldn’t have understood. But Michael knew. No rescue ship had swept in. Salvation was just a key on the floor, unseen while he stared at the wall, waiting for someone else to flip the switch. One Wednesday, when Val came by, she froze at the door. Fresh green onion shoots grew in the tins. The room now smelled—not of pills and defeat—but of something hopeful. “You… what’s this?” she gaped, seeing him stand confidently by the window. “Bit of a garden,” he answered. After a pause: “Want some for your soup? Homegrown, fresh.” She stayed longer that night. They sipped tea, and—without mentioning aches or test results—he told her how each day he climbed one more flight of stairs in the block. Salvation hadn’t come as some Doctor Dolittle with a miracle pill. It had crept in as a key, a doorframe, an empty tin, an ordinary set of stairs. It hadn’t cured the pain or dismissed the loss or rewound his years. It just put tools in his hands—not to win the war, but for the daily battles only he could fight. Turns out, the moment you stop searching for a golden staircase from the sky and see the solid concrete one right under your feet, you can begin to climb after all. Slowly, steadily, sometimes halting—but always, step by step, upwards. And on the windowsill, in three humble cans, spring onions grew—the finest little garden there ever was.