**Diary Entry – 12th October, 2023**
I set aside my knitting and listened. Someone was fumbling with the front door latch. The sound was familiar, but I wasn’t expecting visitors at this hour. Half past nine in the evening—neighbours were long abed, and my granddaughter Lily only came round on weekends.
The lock clicked, the door creaked open. Heavy footsteps shuffled in the hallway, accompanied by soft sniffles.
“Who’s there?” I called out, tightening my grip on my walking stick.
“Mum, it’s me,” came the reply.
My heart lurched. I hadn’t heard that voice in over a year. My son, James, had stormed out after another drunken row and hadn’t been back since. The odd text assuring me he was alive—that was all I’d had.
“James?” I ventured, uncertain.
“Yeah, Mum. It’s me. Don’t be scared.”
I pushed myself up from the armchair, leaning on my stick, and hobbled to the hallway. Flicking on the light, I saw him standing there—unkempt beard, rumpled jacket, mud-splattered jeans. He looked rough, but thank God, he was sober.
“James!” I threw my arms around him, ignoring the stale smell. “Oh, my boy, I’ve missed you so!”
“Me too, Mum. I’m sorry,” he murmured, hugging me tight. “I know I’ve made a right mess of things.”
I pulled back, studying his face. Thinner, shadows under his eyes—but clear-headed. Not drunk.
“Come in, sit down,” I fretted. “I’ll heat something up for you.”
“Wait, Mum.” He caught my arm. “I didn’t come alone.”
“Not alone?”
He turned toward the door, speaking softly. “Come on, love. Don’t be shy.”
A small figure peeked out from behind him—a girl, about five or six, in a faded pink dress and scuffed sandals. Curly blonde hair, wide grey eyes darting nervously.
I gasped. “Who’s this?”
James rested a hand on her shoulder. “Mum, this is Emma. My daughter.”
“Daughter?” I sank onto the hallway stool, gripping my stick. “What do you mean? Since when?”
“Long story, Mum. Let’s get her fed and cleaned up first. She’s knackered—we’ve been travelling all day.”
Emma clung to her father, silent, those big eyes scanning the unfamiliar room.
“Of course,” I said, snapping back to sense. “Sweetheart, are you hungry? Fancy a bite?”
She nodded but didn’t budge from James’ side.
“Kitchen’s this way.” I led them, limping ahead. “I’ll whip something up.”
James settled Emma at the table while I bustled about. She eyed the cosy kitchen—fresh flowers on the sill, lace curtains, the old teapot on the shelf.
“Mum, have you got anything for kids? Milk, porridge?” James asked.
“I’ve milk—I’ll warm it. Porridge won’t take but a minute. You like porridge, love?”
Emma nodded again.
While I cooked, James explained quietly, “This is your nan’s house. Where I grew up. See the flowers? Tomorrow, if it’s nice, I’ll show you the garden. There’s a swing.”
“When’s Mummy coming?” Emma piped up in a tiny voice.
James hesitated. “Emma… Mummy’s not coming. Remember what we talked about?”
She dropped her gaze. “She’s dead?”
“Yeah, sweetheart. She is.”
My hands stilled at the stove. What mother? What had happened? How many more shocks was he bringing home?
I set a bowl of porridge and warm milk before Emma. “Eat up, darling. Then a bath and bed.”
She took a tentative bite, then dug in with relish.
“Good?” I asked.
“Mm,” she mumbled through a full mouth.
“Clever girl.”
James picked at his food, eyes never leaving Emma—tucking her napkin closer, nudging the milk within reach.
“James,” I said low, “we need to talk.”
“I know, Mum. Just let’s get Emma settled first.”
The girl was already nodding off, exhausted.
“Come on, poppet.” I took her hand. “Let’s get you clean.”
In the bathroom, I helped her undress. The dress was filthy, the sandals falling apart. Beneath, her thin arms and legs were bruised.
“Emma, what’s this?” I gently touched a dark mark on her wrist.
“Fell over,” she said simply.
“Often?”
She shrugged.
I ran a warm bath, settling her in. She played with the bubbles, stealing shy glances at me.
“What’s your name?” she asked suddenly.
“Margaret. But you can just call me Nan.”
“Nan,” she repeated, testing the word.
“That’s right. How old are you?”
“Five. Nearly six.”
“Big girl. School soon.”
Emma nodded. “Mummy said I’m clever. I can read.”
“Can you? You’ll have to read to me tomorrow.”
For the first time that night, she smiled.
Afterward, I tucked her into my bed—no cot, so she’d share with me.
“You’ll sleep here,” I said, smoothing the blankets. “I’ll take the sofa.”
“No,” she whispered, panicked. “I’m small. I won’t take up space.”
“All right, then. We’ll share.”
She sighed, content, and closed her eyes. Soon, she was asleep.
Back in the kitchen, James was smoking.
“Not in the house,” I said.
“Sorry.” He stubbed it out. “Nerves.”
“You’ve reason enough. Now—explain.”
He rubbed his face. “It’s complicated, Mum.”
“I’ve time.”
He paced, then sat heavily. “Remember when I left? After that row with the Johnsons?”
“Vividly. Drunk, making a scene.”
“Yeah. I was ashamed. Thought it better to go than drag you down.”
I remembered. James, swaying, shouting, brawling over nothing. The police called.
“I went to Dave’s—remember him? Army mate. Lived out in Kent. Took me in.”
“And?”
“Dave did odd jobs—logging, building sites. I worked with him. Made decent money, pissed it all away. He drank too, but not like me.”
He fell silent, gathering himself.
“Family next door—single mum, little girl. Sarah. Emma’s mum.”
“Ah.”
“Sarah worked at a corner shop, barely scraped by. Emma was left alone loads. I helped sometimes—chopped wood, fixed things.”
“Fell for her, did you?”
James shook his head. “Not like that. We just… talked. Both lonely.”
“And then?”
“Sarah got sick. Cancer. Quick, in the end. Died last winter.”
I crossed myself. “God rest her. The girl?”
“They were gonna put Emma in care. Sarah had no family. I couldn’t let that happen.”
“Why? She’s not yours.”
James met my eyes. “She is, Mum. Emma’s mine.”
I gaped. “Yours? But you said—”
“I didn’t tell you everything. Sarah and I… we were together. Emma’s my daughter.”
“Lord above.” I clutched my chest. “Why keep it secret?”
“Shame, Mum. I’m a drunk. What kind of father was I? Sarah raised her alone. I just… drifted in and out.”
“And now?”
“Took custody. Got the papers. But nowhere to live. Dave kicked me out when he found out. Said he didn’t need the hassle.”
I stood, staring out the window. Streetlamps glowed in the dark.
“So I’ve a granddaughter,” I murmured.
“Yeah, Mum. You have.”
“You’re… sober now?”
“Four months dry. Sarah—before she died, she begged me to look after Emma. Knew I had to change.”
“Managing?”
“Barely. But trying.”
I turned. “James, her papers—birth certificate?”
“All sorted. I’m her legal father. Sarah wasn’t sure at first, but we did a test—she’s mine.”
“And where will you live?”
“Dunno. Thought… maybe here? I’ll work, pay my way. Just need time.”
I studied him. He’d changed. Eyes steady, shoulders squared. No longer just thinking of himself.
“Course you can stay,” I said. “This is your home. And Emma’s my granddaughter now.”
James exhaled, relief washing over him. “Ta, Mum. I’ll make it right.”
“We’ll see. No slipping back. You’ve a child to raise.”The next morning, as sunlight spilled through the curtains, Emma giggled while flipping pancakes with me, James grinned over his coffee, and I realised—sometimes the broken pieces come back together in ways you never expected, but exactly how they should.
