“Kieran, have you lost the plot? Do you think Id invite you to stay with me for money? I just feel sorry for you, thats all.”
Kieran sat in his wheelchair, staring through the grimy hospital window at the courtyard below. Luck hadnt been on his sidehis room overlooked the hospitals dreary inner square, where a few benches and flower beds stood mostly deserted.
Winter had settled in, and patients rarely ventured outside. Kierans ward was empty. A week ago, his roommate, Jamie Whitmore, had been discharged, leaving him lonelier than ever.
Jamie had been a lively bloke, full of jokes and stories, which hed act out like a proper West End performerfitting, since he was a drama student in his third year. In short, boredom was impossible around Jamie. Plus, his mum visited daily, bringing homemade biscuits, fruit, and sweets, which hed generously share with Kieran.
Now, without Jamie, the room felt hollow, and Kieran had never felt more alone.
His gloomy thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the nurse. His heart sankinstead of the cheerful young nurse, Emily, it was the perpetually stern and sour-faced Matron Margaret.
In his two months at the hospital, Kieran had never once seen her smile. Her voice matched her expressionsharp, blunt, and thoroughly unpleasant.
“Stop dawdling. Back to bed!” barked Matron Margaret, syringe in hand.
Kieran sighed, obediently turning his chair toward the bed. With brisk efficiency, she helped him lie down, flipping him onto his stomach.
“Trousers off,” she ordered. He complied, bracing himselfbut, to his surprise, the injection was painless. Matron Margaret had a knack for it, and for that, he was silently grateful.
“How old is she?” he wondered, watching her intently. “Must be retired already. Probably still working because the pensions rubbish. Thatd make anyone grumpy.”
She found his faint blue vein and slid the needle in with practised ease, making him wince only slightly.
“Done. Has the doctor been round today?” she asked, already packing up.
“Not yet,” Kieran said. “Might come later.”
“Right. And stop sitting by the windowyoull catch a draft. Skinny as a rake as it is.” She marched out before he could protest.
He wanted to be offended, but he couldnt. Beneath her brusqueness, there was something oddly caring in her tone. Not that hed ever admit it.
Kieran was an orphan. His parents had died when he was four, in a house fire in their village. Hed been the only survivor, escaping with just a badly healed burn on his shoulder and wristhis mother had thrown him from a shattered window seconds before the roof collapsed.
He remembered little of themjust fleeting scenes, like snippets of an old film. His mothers gentle nature, his fathers tall frame and love of maths. A ginger tabby cat, called Marmalade or perhaps Whiskers. No photo albums survived the fire.
No one visited him at the hospitalthere was no one to visit. At eighteen, the council had given him a small flat in a high-rise, fourth floor. Living alone suited him, but sometimes the loneliness hit like a gut punch. Still, hed grown used to it.
Hed wanted to go to university after school but missed the grades, so hed settled for technical college. He liked it well enoughbut fitting in was another matter. Quiet and bookish, he had little in common with his classmates. Even the girls preferred louder, more confident lads.
Two months ago, rushing to class, hed slipped on icy pavement and broken both legs. The fractures were bad, healing painfully. But now, finally, the doctors said he could go home.
That was the good news. The bad news? His flat had no lift, no rampsand hed be in a wheelchair for weeks.
After lunch, Dr. Harris, the orthopaedic surgeon, came in.
“Right, Kieran, the bones are mending nicely. A few more weeks on crutches, and youll be back on your feet. No need to stay hereyoull finish treatment as an outpatient. Someone picking you up?”
Kieran nodded, lying.
“Good. Matron Margaret will help you pack. Try not to break anything else.”
Alone again, Kieran panicked. How would he manage? His thoughts were cut short by Matron Margarets return.
“Whyd you lie to the doctor?” she asked bluntly.
“About what?”
“Dont play daft. Youve got no one. How will you get home?”
“Ill manage.”
“You wont. You cant even walk yet.”
“Its not your problem.”
She sat beside him. “Kieran, Ive been in medicine thirty years. Youll need help. Why are you being so stubborn?”
“Even if I do, why do you care?”
“Because you can stay with me. Ive got a spare room. Just till youre back on your feet.”
Kieran stared. Live with her? They were strangers.
“Well?”
“Its awkward. I cant pay”
“Kieran, do I look like a landlady? Im offering because I want to. Now, are you coming or not?”
After a pause, he nodded.
Matron Margarets cottage was snugtwo small rooms, a crackling fireplace, the smell of home-cooked meals. At first, Kieran kept to himself, terrified of being a burden.
“Stop being daft,” she scolded. “Ask for what you need.”
Gradually, he relaxed. The snow outside, the warmth insideit felt like the childhood hed lost.
Weeks passed. The wheelchair was traded for crutches, then discarded entirely.
One day, after a check-up, they walked home together.
“Ive got exams to catch up on,” Kieran muttered. “So much lost time.”
“Take a gap year,” Matron Margaret said. “Your legs need rest.”
Theyd grown close. Kieran often wondered if he could call this place homeif he could call her family.
The next morning, as he packed, he turned to find her crying in the doorway. Without thinking, he hugged her.
“Stay,” she whispered.
And he did.
Years later, at his wedding, Matron Margaretnow just Margaretsat in the mother-of-the-grooms seat. A year after that, she held her newborn granddaughter, named after her, in the delivery room.
Because sometimes, family isnt just who youre born toits who chooses you.
