**Returning to a Strange Doorstep**
Julia sang with joy—now she had her own flat. Not a shared space in a bedsit, not a rented room under the watchful eye of a nosy landlady, but a proper two-bedroom flat in an ordinary suburban neighbourhood of Manchester. No more Margarets switching off the lights at eleven or shouting through the door to *”keep the shower quiet.”* No more supervisors monitoring her every move. Just her and the sweet breath of adulthood.
Her parents had helped her buy it by selling her late aunt’s old property. Julia did the place up, furnished it to her taste, and invited her friend Emily over for a housewarming. They laughed, sipped tea, and ate cake. Later, Julia walked Emily out. As they stepped into the hallway, they spotted a woman sitting halfway up the stairs, neatly eating a sandwich, a worn-out bag beside her.
*”Excuse me, but who are you?”* Julia asked, startled.
The woman swallowed awkwardly. *”I’m… Irene Bennett. I used to live here. This flat—wasn’t it mine once?”*
Julia recognised her—yes, this was the woman who’d sold the flat a few months ago.
*”What are you doing here?”*
*”You see, girls…”* Irene’s eyes welled up. *”I’ve got nowhere else to go.”*
The two friends exchanged glances. Irene began to cry as she told her story.
After her divorce, she’d raised her son, Andrew, alone—sacrificed everything for him. He grew up decent, responsible, kind. Studied, got a job, married a no-nonsense woman named Tracy. At first, all was well. They moved into his three-bed flat; Irene stayed in her own. Then came grandchildren—Oliver first, then Daisy. A few years later, Tracy and Andrew suggested she sell her flat and move in with them. *“It’ll be easier,”* they said. *“You’re practically already looking after the kids.”*
She agreed. Half the money was meant for her savings, half for them—but the money never reached her.
Living with them became unbearable. Children from dawn till dusk. Tracy at work, Andrew at the office. Cooking, laundry, cleaning, childcare—all on her. But she wasn’t allowed to discipline them—just feed, mind them, and keep quiet. Not a word out of line.
When she complained about exhaustion, Andrew just said, *“Mum, you’re coping. The kids are fine, Tracy’s happy, I can focus on work. Isn’t this what family’s for?”*
Irene was drained to the bone. That summer, when they left for a seaside holiday, she claimed she’d visit a friend. Instead, she wandered the city, sleeping by the river on a bench. That night, something pulled her back to the old building.
*“I even thought… maybe I could sleep on the rooftop,”* she admitted quietly.
Julia and Emily couldn’t hold back.
*“This isn’t right!”* Emily snapped. *“You’re not alone. Come inside—you’re staying with Julia.”*
*“I couldn’t impose…”*
*“Nonsense,”* Julia insisted.
Over tea, Emily, a solicitor, gently pressed for details—where had the money from the flat gone?
*“Andrew said he’d put half in savings…”* Irene whispered.
*“That money could buy you a studio flat,”* Emily said firmly. *“We’ll help.”*
A month later, Irene moved into a small but entirely her own flat—same building, different floor. Whatever Emily said to Andrew, no one knew, but he paid up.
Tracy stopped speaking to her. The grandchildren visited on their own.
And Irene smiled again. She and Julia became friends, attending the theatre and galleries together.
*“Here’s what I’ve learned,”* Emily said one day. *“Meet old age in your own home—or you might end up without even a roof.”*
Julia nodded. *“And never stay silent when they push you into a corner.”*
