**New Neighbours**
As I approached my building, I spotted a stranger—a young man—stepping inside, guiding a small boy with a schoolbag. I quickened my pace and followed closely.
*Wonder which flat they’re heading to. Never seen them before,* I thought, climbing the stairs a flight behind. They stopped on the third floor, right across from my door. The man fumbled with his keys.
“Hello,” I said, fishing mine from my bag.
“Hello,” he muttered before they disappeared inside. I did the same.
*New neighbours, then. Bit gruff, isn’t he? Just a grunt and that’s it,* I grumbled to myself.
Three months ago, we’d buried old Mrs. Whitmore, who’d lived there. A retired primary school teacher, always polite, though frail in her later years. I’d pop in sometimes—she’d ask me to fetch groceries when she was poorly, and we’d share tea.
That evening, after dinner and some time online, I turned in without another thought about them.
The next day, a Saturday, I slept in. Around noon, I headed out for groceries just as my new neighbours did the same. The man had a week’s worth of stubble, dark hair, a stern look. He locked the door while the boy—scrawny, about seven—hovered beside him, eyes downcast, miserable.
I greeted them. The man gave a curt, “Alright,” but the boy stayed silent.
He took the lad’s hand and started downstairs.
“You just moved in?” I asked.
“Aye,” he said flatly, not slowing.
*Fine, no need to pry,* I thought. *But why doesn’t the boy speak?*
Most lads his age were lively, especially the ones who dashed into the shop near my work after school. But this one was withdrawn. Maybe adjusting to the move.
*And where’s his mum? Never seen her.*
Dark thoughts crept in—what if the man wasn’t his father? I shoved them aside. Time would tell.
A month passed with little interaction. Then, one evening, a knock. Peering through the peephole, I saw the neighbour.
“Evenin’,” he said when I opened up. “Sorry to bother you late. It’s just—my boy, Alfie, he’s got a fever. Don’t know what to do. You got a thermometer? Name’s James, by the way.”
“Emily,” I said, leading him to the kitchen.
I dug out the first-aid box, handed him a thermometer and some paracetamol. “Call the GP in the morning.” He nodded.
His stern face had softened—he looked worried, embarrassed.
“Thanks. I’ll return these. Never had to treat him before. If you ever need anything…”
“Wait.” I handed him a plate with half an apple pie I’d baked. “For Alfie. Help him get his strength up.”
James hesitated but took it with a grateful smile—warm, surprisingly kind.
Next morning, I woke early. *What if James has work? Alfie’ll be alone.*
I knocked. He answered, already dressed to leave.
“Morning. Alfie alright?”
“Aye. Fever’s down. Called the doctor. The pie was grand—thank you.”
“You’re leaving him alone? What if he gets worse?”
We stepped inside. Alfie lay quiet.
“Hey, Alfie, how you feeling?” No reply, just a sad look.
James pulled me aside.
“He hasn’t spoken since his mum died. House fire. We were at my mum’s in the countryside. Doctor says he’ll talk again in time. I’m a rescue worker—can’t stay home. Alfie manages. Second year at school. He’ll let the GP in.”
“That’s not right,” I insisted. “I’ll stay. It’s my day off.”
James hesitated. “If it’s no trouble… Here’s the spare key. I’m late—” And he was gone.
Never married, no kids of my own—but I’d always got on with them. This was different.
“Alfie, eaten anything?” He pointed to an empty teacup and half a slice of toast. “Right. Fancy an omelette?” A tiny nod. A ghost of a smile.
Their fridge was near empty. I whipped up eggs, then decided to make lunch too.
When James returned, the flat smelled of stew. Alfie was asleep; I’d dozed off in the armchair.
“Evening,” I yawned. “GP came late—busy, I suppose. Just a sore throat. Prescription’s there. Soup and rice on the stove. Your fridge is bare.”
“I was gonna shop this weekend,” he admitted, grateful. “Thank you. First shift in ages I wasn’t worried. He eats at school, but… I’ll stock up tomorrow.”
I nodded, half-promising to check. We smiled. I left.
Next Friday, I dropped by after work. Alfie’s fever was gone. A week later, he was back at school. I visited often.
One Saturday, taking out the bins, I found Alfie on the landing with a woman locking their door.
“Hello. You are?” I asked. “Where’s James?”
“His teacher. His dad wasn’t answering calls. Had to bring him here last night. Off to mine now.” Her tone was clipped.
“I’m the neighbour. Worked late—had no idea. Leave Alfie with me. I’ll sort it.”
Alfie brightened. The woman left, relieved.
Inside, I told Alfie I’d be back after dumping the rubbish.
I rang the rescue service.
“Who’s asking?”
“His neighbour. His son’s with me. What happened?”
“James is in hospital—broke his leg yesterday. Lost his phone during a rough call.” They gave the details.
Soon, Alfie and I were at his bedside. The boy took one look at his dad’s cast, dangling leg, and shrieked, “Dad! Don’t die!”
“Not a chance, lad. It’ll heal,” James laughed. Then—”Alfie? You’re talking!” He hugged him tight.
“I can talk now. I was scared for you. And… I’ve got a mum.” He pointed at me. I flushed.
Silence. Then we all burst out laughing.
“Well, life sorts itself out,” James said. “But Alfie and I ought to ask—Emily, would you?”
I stood dumbstruck. Alfie tugged my hand. “You’ll stay, won’t you? Be our mum?”
James held his breath.
I smiled. “Yes.”
He exhaled.
Every day, I visited James—sometimes with Alfie, who thrived back at school. Soon, James was home, though still on crutches. His mates drove him to check-ups.
The flat stayed tidy now, the kitchen always smelling of fresh cooking.
“Right, lads—wash up, dinner’s on,” I’d say, and they’d obey.
Six months later, we married. A year after that, Alfie got a baby brother—Charlie, all giggles. Alfie rushes home from school just to make him smile.
Funny how life works. Sometimes the pieces fall right where they should.
