Julia was singing with joy—she finally had her own flat. Not a cramped room in a shared house, not a corner rented from a grumpy landlady, but a proper two-bedroom flat in a quiet part of Manchester. No more nosy Margarets switching off the lights at eleven or shouting through the door to “keep the shower quieter.” No more watchful eyes judging her every move. Just her and the sweet, free air of adulthood.
Her parents had helped her buy it after selling her late aunt’s old place. Julia decorated it just how she liked and invited her best mate, Emily, over to celebrate. They laughed, sipped tea, and ate cake. Later, Julia walked Emily out. As they stepped into the hallway, they spotted a woman sitting on the stairs, nibbling a sandwich, a worn-out handbag beside her.
“Sorry, but… who are you?” Julia asked.
The woman hesitated, swallowing quickly. “I’m… Margaret Collins. I used to live here. This flat… it was mine, wasn’t it?”
Julia recognised her—yes, this was the woman who’d sold the flat a few months ago.
“What are you doing here?”
“Well, love…” Margaret’s eyes welled up. “I’ve nowhere else to go.”
The friends exchanged glances. Margaret wiped her tears and told her story.
After her divorce, she’d raised her son, James, on her own. Gave him everything he needed. He grew up kind, responsible, hardworking—got a good job, married a lively woman named Sophie. At first, it was fine. They moved into his three-bed house, leaving Margaret in her own place. Then came their son, Oliver, followed by little Amelia. A few years later, Sophie and James suggested she sell her flat and move in with them. “It’ll be easier,” they said. “You’re already looking after the kids anyway.”
She agreed. Half the money was meant to go into her savings, the other half to them. But the money never appeared.
Living with them became unbearable. Kids from dawn till dusk. Sophie at work, James at the office. Cooking, cleaning, laundry, childcare—all on her. Yet she wasn’t allowed to discipline them—just feed them, mind them, stay quiet.
When she complained of exhaustion, James just said, “Mum, you’re coping fine. The kids are happy, Sophie’s happy, I can focus on work. Isn’t it lovely, all living together?”
Margaret was worn to the bone. That summer, while they were on holiday, she lied about visiting a friend—instead, she wandered the city, even slept by the river on a bench. And today, without thinking, she’d come back to her old building. She didn’t know why. It just felt right.
“I even thought… maybe I could stay the night up on the roof,” she admitted quietly.
Julia and Emily were horrified.
“You can’t do that!” Emily snapped. “You’re not alone in this. You’re staying with Julia tonight.”
“Oh, I couldn’t—”
“None of that!” Julia insisted.
Over more tea, Emily—a solicitor—gently asked where the money from the flat had gone.
“James said he’d put half in a savings account…” Margaret whispered.
“With that, you could get a small place of your own,” Emily said firmly. “We’ll help.”
A month later, Margaret moved into a tiny but cosy flat—just a few floors down in the same building. Whatever Emily said to James, no one knew. But he paid up.
Sophie stopped speaking to her. The grandkids, though, still visited—on their own.
And Margaret started smiling again. She and Julia became close, going to the theatre and art galleries together.
“Here’s what I’ve learned,” Emily said one day. “Grow old in your own home. Otherwise, you might end up without even a roof over your head.”
Julia nodded. “And never stay quiet when someone backs you into a corner.”
