The rain tapped steadily on the roof of the countryside cottage when Margaret Wilson heard a timid knock at the door. She set aside her knitting and listened. The knock came again—hesitant, almost apologetic.
“Who’s there?” she called out as she approached the door.
“Please, could you open up?” came a faint woman’s voice. “I’m lost…”
Margaret opened the door just enough to see through the chain. A young woman, about twenty-five, stood on the doorstep, soaked to the bone. Dark hair clung to her face, and her light jacket was drenched. She clutched a small handbag.
“Good heavens, you’re soaked through!” Margaret unhooked the chain and swung the door wide. “Come in, quickly, before you catch your death!”
“Thank you so much,” the girl said, stepping inside and leaving wet footprints on the mat. “I’m Emily. I was following a path, and it led me into the woods. My phone died, and I don’t even know where I am…”
“Off with that wet coat at once!” Margaret fussed, helping to peel off the sodden jacket. “You’re dripping everywhere! What on earth were you doing out in this weather alone?”
Emily lowered her eyes, embarrassed.
“I had a row with my… with my boyfriend. He made me get out of the car and said I could walk. I didn’t realise it was this far to town…”
“What a rotten thing to do!” Margaret exclaimed. “Leaving a girl alone in the woods! Go into the kitchen—I’ll put the kettle on. You’re shaking like a leaf.”
Emily followed her into the cosy little kitchen. Margaret switched on the electric kettle and fetched a thick dressing gown from the cupboard.
“Here, put this on while your clothes dry. We’ll hang them by the radiator—they’ll be dry by morning. Where are you from?”
“Just from the county,” Emily said vaguely, gratefully accepting the robe. “I work in town, in an office.”
“The youth these days!” Margaret shook her head. “In my day, men had some decency—never would’ve treated a woman like that. The world’s gone mad… Sit down, I’ll fix you something to eat.”
Margaret bustled about the stove, pulling eggs and butter from the fridge, frying them up quickly. She sliced bread and laid out homemade pickles.
“Eat up, don’t be shy,” she said, setting the plate before Emily. “You look half-starved. When did you last have a proper meal?”
“Just some toast this morning,” Emily admitted, digging in eagerly. “We were driving all day, arguing…”
“What was the row about, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Emily hesitated, chewing her bread.
“He wanted us to… to move in together. But I have my job, my own plans. I’m not ready. So he got angry, said some awful things…”
“You’re right not to rush,” Margaret nodded approvingly. “At your age, I hurried into marriage with the first man who came along. Thought love would endure anything. It didn’t. He left me with a baby boy, ran off with another woman.”
“You have a son?” Emily asked.
“Had,” Margaret’s face darkened. “Grown now, with his own family. But we don’t… don’t get on. Hardly see him.”
She poured herself tea, stirring in sugar absently.
“Do you live here alone?” Emily ventured.
“Just me. The cottage belonged to my late husband—my second. Good man, gone too soon. I only come here in summer now, and not every year. Have a flat in town for winter.”
Emily nodded, finishing her eggs. The rain had eased, but dusk was falling outside.
“Listen, love,” Margaret said, “stay the night. I’ll see you to the bus stop in the morning. No sense wandering out in this now.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to impose…”
“Nonsense! I’m glad for the company. The sofa in the parlour’s comfy, fresh linens and all. Make yourself at home.”
That evening, they talked for hours. Emily spoke of her job at a marketing firm, the struggle of renting in town. Margaret shared stories from her youth, lamenting her loneliness.
“All my friends have scattered—some passed, some moved nearer their children,” she sighed. “Neighbours are all elderly and poorly too. Gets lonely…”
“Why don’t you and your son get on?” Emily asked gently.
Margaret’s face soured.
“His wife doesn’t care for me. Says I meddle. Can’t a grandmother ask after her own grandchildren? Now they don’t even invite me for holidays…”
The next morning, the skies cleared. Margaret packed Emily a breakfast for the road and walked her to the bus stop.
“Thank you so much,” Emily said earnestly. “You saved me!”
“Oh, don’t be silly! Come back anytime you like. Take the address.”
Emily saved it in her phone, waving from the bus window.
Weeks passed. Margaret had nearly forgotten her unexpected guest when she heard the familiar knock.
“Emily!” she beamed, opening the door. “How lovely! Come in!”
“Could I stay a night or two?” Emily asked sheepishly. “My flat’s being renovated—landlady said to stay with family, but I’ve none nearby…”
“Of course! Stay as long as you need. Company does me good.”
Emily settled into the small upstairs room. She helped with chores, cooked, cleaned. Margaret adored having her around.
“Better than a daughter,” she told her neighbour Mrs. Baxter. “Cook’s a treat, handy with a needle too. Wish I’d had a daughter-in-law like her…”
Days passed peacefully. Emily left for work each morning, returned each evening. They dined together, watched telly, chatted over news.
“You know, Emily,” Margaret said one evening, “I’ve been thinking of my will. The flat’ll go to my boy, but this place… maybe to you? No one else wants it, and you’ve been happy here.”
Emily flushed.
“Don’t say such things! It’s too soon. And it wouldn’t be right. You have a son, grandchildren…”
“A son who’s near a stranger now. You’ve been like family.”
Time wore on. Emily settled in as if she’d always lived there. Margaret thrived under the care and attention, her loneliness fading.
Then, everything changed.
Margaret suffered a heart attack, landing her in hospital. Emily visited daily, bringing treats, reading aloud.
“The doctor says you’ll be discharged soon,” Emily said during one visit. “You’ll recover at home.”
“Emily,” Margaret murmured weakly, “there’s something… In the bedside drawer, furthest back, there’s an envelope. Important papers. If anything happens…”
“Don’t talk like that!” Emily cut in. “You’ll be fine!”
But Margaret worsened. Doctors spoke of a risky operation.
Emily returned from the hospital distraught. She went to Margaret’s room, opened the drawer. Among the papers lay a will—the cottage was left to her.
She sat holding the documents a long while. Then, she took out her phone.
“Mr. Harrison? It’s Emily. We met before… Yes. Your mother’s in hospital. It’s serious. You should come.”
The next day, a man in his fifties arrived with his wife and two teens. Margaret’s son had her same stern jaw, the same grey eyes.
“Where’s Mum?” he demanded, barely over the threshold.
“In hospital. She’s having surgery,” Emily said.
“And who are you?” his wife cut in, eyeing Emily sharply.
“I… I’ve been staying here. Margaret said it was alright.”
“Right,” the wife sniffed. “Another stray.”
Robert—Margaret’s son—scanned the house.
“Place has changed,” he muttered. “Mum come into money? New telly, fridge…”
“We bought them together,” Emily said softly. “I helped.”
“Helped?” His wife laughed coldly. “What for? Or are you after the inheritance?”
Emily paled but stayed silent.
At the hospital, Margaret brightened at the sight of her son.
“Robbie! You came!” She weakly reached out.
Robert awkwardly took her hand.
“How are you, Mum? What do the doctors say?”
“Surgery soon. I’m scared, Robbie. What if…?”
“Nonsense! You’re tough,” he said brusquely.
His wife lingered by the door, examining her nails. The teens fidgeted.
“Dad, can we go? It stinks in here,” the younger whined.
Back at the cottage, the wife rifled through drawers.
“Robert, where does your mother keep her papers?” she asked when Emily stepped out.
“Dunno. Bedside table?”
They found the will quickly. His wife gasped.
“She’s left the cottage to some stranger! What about us? Where’s her loyalty?”
“Calm down,” Robert grunted. “She’s not gone yet.”
But hisMargaret passed away without ever knowing that Emily had been forced to give up the home they’d shared, and the last kind soul who’d truly cared for her was gone forever.
