The orphan girl became a carer for a kind elderly woman and installed a camera just in case What she saw left her running to the police in the dead of night!
Emily stood before the crooked cottage, clutching a crumpled slip of paper with the address. The wind nipped at her neck, tugging at her thin jacket, and inside, she felt just as hollow as the abandoned houses empty windows. Twenty years in the orphanage, and now here she wasalone, with a small suitcase and a handful of pounds. What next? She had no idea.
The house looked as though it had been deserted for decades. The roof sagged, the shutters clung on by a prayer, and the porch groaned dangerously under her feet. Tears pricked her eyes. Was this really all she had after two decades without a family?
Then, a creak. The neighbours gate swung open, and an elderly woman in a floral dressing gown stepped onto the narrow path. Spotting Emily, she paused, studied her for a moment, then marched over.
“What are you doing standing out here?” she asked, concern knitting her brow. “Youll catch your death. Its October, love, and youre barely dressed.”
Emily pulled out a notepad and scribbled: *I was given this house. Im from the orphanage. I dont speak.*
The woman read it and sighed sympathetically. “Oh, you poor dear. Im Margaret Davies. And you?”
*Emily,* she wrote, her letters shaky.
“Well, you cant stand out here freezing. Come inside, warm up, have a cuppa. Tomorrow, well see about fixing up that housethere are lads in the village wholl help.”
Margarets home smelled of fresh scones and warmth. Yellow curtains, embroidered tablecloths, potted plants on the windowsillseverything breathed comfort, something Emily had never known. A photo on the wall showed a young man in a police uniform.
“Thats my son, James,” Margaret said, following her gaze. “A constable. Good man, though hes hardly ever home. But you, lovehow will you manage? Need work?”
Emily nodded and wrote: *Desperately. Anything. I can clean, cook, care for people.*
“Listen, theres an old dear I knowBeatrice Thompson. She needs a carer. Has family, but theyre more trouble than theyre worth. Fancy meeting her? Ill give you the address.”
Beatrices house was large but neglectedpeeling paint, an overgrown garden, junk strewn about. A woman in her forties answered the door, exhaustion and irritation etched into her face.
“You the carer?” she asked, eyeing Emily. “Im Claire, her granddaughter. Thats Mark, my husband.”
The man in the armchair barely glanced up from his beer, the stench of alcohol clinging to him.
“Hard work,” Claire said, lighting a cigarette. “Grans bedriddenfeeding, washing, cleaning. Shes sharp-tongued, too. Well pay £300 a month, foods whatevers about. Suit you?”
Emily wrote: *Ill take it. Im mute, but I understand and work carefully.*
“Mute?” Claire exchanged a glance with Mark. “Might be better. No gossiping, no complaints. Come on, meet her.”
Beatrice lay in a dim room, curtains drawn, the air thick with medicine and must. Her body was frail, her eyes full of pain and loneliness. Emilys chest tightened at the sight.
“Gran, this is Emily. Shell look after you,” Claire announced. “Mark and I are off for a week. Sort yourselves out.”
The old woman studied Emily. Something flickered in her gazehope?
*Your name?* Emily wrote.
“Beatrice Thompson And yours?”
*Emily. Ill take good care of you.*
For the first time, Beatrices lips twitched into something like a smile.
Over the next month, Beatrice flourished. Emily cooked fresh meals, read aloud, helped her move, arranged flowers by the window. The house transformedclean, warm, alive.
But whenever Claire and Mark visited, the mood soured. They scowled at the “pampered” old woman, grumbling about wasted food and medicine.
“Does she really need all this?” Claire muttered. “Shes not long for this world.”
After one visit, Emily found fresh bruises on Beatrices arms. The old woman wept, refusing to eat.
*What happened?* Emily wrote.
“Nothing, dear Just old age,” Beatrice whispered, hiding her tears. “No one wants me.”
Emily knew thenshe had to act. The next day, she went to an electronics shop, gesturing and scribbling until the clerk understood.
“A hidden camera? What for?”
*To protect someone who cant protect herself.*
The clerkOliverstudied her, then nodded. “This ones discreet, good quality. And take it. Free. Justbe careful.”
Emily hid the camera in Beatrices room. When she watched the footage, her blood ran cold.
Mark gripped Beatrice, shaking her. “Wheres the money? Hand over your pension! We need a new car!”
“Darling, Ive nothing leftits all on medicine”
“Liar!” Claire snapped. “Youre hiding it! And this house shouldve been ours by now!”
Mark backhanded Beatrice. She crumpled onto the bed, sobbing.
“Well bring the papers next time,” Claire said coldly. “Sign themor its the care home for you.”
Emily trembled with rage. She showed Beatrice the video.
*Why endure this? We must tell someone! This is abuse!*
“Wholl believe me, dear?” Beatrice whispered. “Im old, ill. Theyre young, strong. And where would I go?”
*I believe you. And so will others.*
Emily sprinted to Margarets.
*Is James home?* she scribbled, breathless.
“Whats wrong, love?” Margaret paled at her panic.
Emily showed the video. Jamess jaw tightened. “This is assault, theft, coercion. Were going now.”
At the house, Claire and Mark screamed it was a setupuntil the footage played.
“Evidence doesnt lie,” James said, cuffing them. “Youre under arrest.”
Beatrice was hospitalised. The doctors found broken ribs, bruisesyears of abuse. “You saved her life,” one said.
Margaret offered Emily a home. “Stay with me. Youre a heroine, love.”
When Beatrice returned, she was weak but brighter. “Emily, you saved me. How can I thank you?”
*Just get well,* Emily wrote.
Beatrice took her hand. “Im leaving you this house. Youve earned it more than my family ever did.”
Life improved. Claire and Mark got probation, banned from contacting Beatrice. Oliver, the shop clerkMargarets grandsonvisited often, admiring Emilys courage.
“Emily,” he said one evening in the garden, “have you tried speech therapy? Maybe doctors could help?”
*Im scared. What if it doesnt work?*
“What if it does?” he smiled. “Ill be with you.”
Months later, her first word*”Thank you”*left the house in stunned silence, then tears.
A year on, Oliver knelt in that same garden. “Marry me. I love you as you are.”
“Yes,” she said, her voice clear.
At the small wedding, Beatrice beamed, Margaret toasted, and James raised a glass: “To kindness, justice, and those who defend the weak!”
Emily smiled. She had a home, a family, a voiceand shed never stay silent again. Because silence was complicity. And she chose love, courage, and truth.
