**New Neighbours**
As I approached my building, I spotted a stranger—a young man ushering a little boy with a schoolbag into the entrance. I quickened my pace and followed them inside.
*Wonder which flat they’re going to. Never seen them before.* I trailed behind by a flight as they climbed the stairs. They stopped on the third floor, right across from my door. The man fumbled with his keys.
“Hello,” I said, stepping toward my own door to fish my keys from my handbag.
“Hello,” came his curt reply before they disappeared inside. I let myself in as well.
*New neighbours, then. Bit surly, wasn’t he? Just a grunt and that was it.* I huffed under my breath.
Mrs. Edith Whitmore, the elderly woman who’d lived there before, had passed away three months prior. A retired primary school teacher, she’d always been kind—frail, though, and often ill. I’d visit occasionally, run errands for her when she was unwell, and we’d share tea.
That evening, after dinner, I scrolled online before turning in, the new neighbours still a mystery.
The next morning, I slept in—Saturday, after all. By afternoon, I headed to the shops just as my neighbours stepped out. The man had a week’s worth of stubble, dark hair, and a stern expression. Beside him stood a thin boy of about seven, peering up with sad, guarded eyes.
I greeted them. The man muttered, “Alright,” but the boy stayed silent.
Taking the child’s hand, he started downstairs.
“You’ve just moved in?” I asked.
“Aye,” he answered flatly.
*Fine, no need to pry.* But the boy’s silence nagged at me. Lads his age were usually lively, chattering like sparrows. Why was he so withdrawn? Maybe still adjusting.
*And where’s his mum? Never seen her.*
Dark thoughts flickered—what if this man wasn’t his father? I shook them off. Time would tell.
A month passed with little interaction. Then, one evening, a knock. Peering through the peephole, I saw the neighbour. I let him in.
“Evening. Sorry to bother you so late,” he said, polite but uneasy. “My Oliver’s got a fever. Don’t know what to do. Have you got a thermometer? I’m William, by the way.”
“Emily,” I replied, leading him to the kitchen. I handed him a thermometer and some paracetamol. “Call the GP in the morning.”
He nodded, his stern face softening with worry.
“Ta. Never had to treat him before. If you ever need anything…”
“Wait.” I wrapped half an apple crumble I’d baked earlier. “For Oliver. Helps to eat when you’re poorly.”
He hesitated but took it with a warm smile—the first I’d seen from him.
The next morning, despite it being my day off, I woke early. *What if William’s at work? Oliver can’t be left alone.* I knocked. He answered, already dressed to leave.
“Morning. Off to work? How’s Oliver?”
“Aye. Brought his temp down and called the GP. The crumble was grand—thank you.”
“But he can’t stay alone! What if he worsens?”
We stepped inside. Oliver lay quietly in bed.
“Hey, Oliver. Feeling better?” No reply—just a sad glance.
William followed me to the kitchen. “He hasn’t spoken since… since his mum died in a fire. We were at my mum’s in Yorkshire when it happened. Doctor says he’ll talk again, in time. I’m a paramedic—can’t skip work. Oliver manages. Second year at school.”
“That’s not right,” I insisted. “I’ll stay. It’s my day off.”
Relieved, William handed me his keys and hurried off.
Oliver hadn’t eaten much—just toast and tea. I made him an omelette, and he gave a faint smile. Their fridge was nearly empty. *I’ll cook something proper.*
When William returned, the flat smelled of stew. Oliver was asleep; I’d dozed off in the armchair. The GP had come late—just a sore throat, prescription ready for morning.
“Fridge was bare. Made enough for you both.”
“Meant to shop this weekend,” he admitted gratefully. “Didn’t worry today, knowing he was with you.”
I promised to check on Oliver again.
Days later, he was back at school. I popped in sometimes.
One Saturday, taking out the bins, I found Oliver and a woman locking their door.
“Hello? You are…?”
“Oliver’s teacher. His dad wasn’t answering calls. Had to stay the night.” Her tone was clipped.
“I’m Emily, their neighbour. I’ll look after him.”
Oliver brightened. The teacher left, relieved.
I called the rescue service. “William’s in hospital—broke his leg yesterday. Lost his phone during a call-out.”
At the hospital, Oliver raced to his father’s bed. “Dad! Don’t die!”
William laughed. “It’s just a leg, lad! And—you’re talking!”
Oliver beamed. “I was scared. And… now I’ve got a mum.” He pointed at me.
My face burned. Silence. Then we all laughed.
“Life sorts itself out,” William said. “But we ought to ask Emily properly.”
Oliver squeezed my hand. “Will you stay with us?”
William held his breath.
I smiled. “Yes.”
After that, I visited William daily. Oliver thrived at school. William came home on crutches—colleagues drove him to check-ups. The flat stayed tidy, the kitchen always smelling of something fresh.
“Hands washed, lads—dinner’s ready,” I’d say, and they’d obey.
We married six months later. A year after that, Oliver got a baby brother—Henry, a cheerful little thing. Oliver rushes home from school just to see him grin.
