Gloria hurried across the schoolyard to collect her granddaughter after class. Her heels clicked against the pavement just as they had in her youth, when her heart still brimmed with faith in kindness and gratitude. She was in high spirits—finally, after years of scrimping and saving, she’d bought her own little flat. A snug one-bedder in a new build, bright and clean, with a shiny kitchen and a view of the park. To Gloria, it was more than bricks and mortar; it was freedom, hard-won and sweet.
She’d sacrificed plenty to get there. Two years of tightening belts, selling the old cottage she and her late husband had built in the countryside, and—yes—a bit of help from her daughter, which she’d sworn to pay back. Her daughter and son-in-law were young, after all, with their own bills to fret over. Gloria’s pension stretched far enough, especially now she had a place to call her own.
Waiting at the school gates was eight-year-old Sophie—her joy, her reason for sticking around the city when she’d have rather stayed among rolling hills. A late-in-life baby for her daughter, born when she was nearly forty. Gloria had agreed to move closer to help, fetching Sophie from school, feeding her, keeping her company till her parents clocked out. Then she’d retreat to her flat, technically in her daughter’s name (a precaution against scammers), though in her heart, it was hers.
They were strolling hand in hand when Sophie suddenly stopped and fixed her with a solemn look.
“Granny… Mummy says we have to put you in a care home.”
The words hit like a bucket of ice water. Gloria’s knees nearly buckled.
“What did you say, love?” she managed, voice thin.
“You know, one of those places where all the old people live. Mummy said you wouldn’t be lonely there…”
Gloria’s chest tightened. She forced a smile, though her lips trembled.
“How d’you know that, sweetheart?”
“I heard Mummy and Daddy talking in the kitchen. She said she’d already sorted it with some lady. They won’t send you straight away—they’ll wait till I’m bigger. But don’t tell her I told you, okay? Promise?”
“Course not, poppet,” Gloria whispered, fumbling with the front door. “I’m feeling a bit peaky—just gonna lie down a tick. You go change, alright?”
Sophie scampered off, and Gloria sank onto the sofa, still in her coat. The walls swam, and Sophie’s voice echoed in her ears: *care home… you wouldn’t be lonely… already sorted…*
Three months later, she packed her bags. No drama, no showdown. Just turned the key and walked away.
Now Gloria rents a cottage in the Cotswolds from an old friend. The air’s fresher, the neighbours warmer. She’s saving for her own place, however humble. Friends and distant cousins rally round with casseroles and kind words—though a few tut and mutter, *”Couldn’t you just talk to your daughter? Kids make things up, you know.”*
Gloria’s reply never wavers: “Kids don’t invent things like that. I know my girl. Not a call, not a text, not a word since I left. That says it all.” She smiles, sharp as a blade. “Let her wonder how I found out. I won’t ring. I won’t write. And I won’t apologise.”
