Margaret Elizabeth set down her knitting and listened. Someone was fumbling with the front door lock. The sound was familiar, but she wasn’t expecting anyone at this hour. Half past nine in the evening, the neighbours were already asleep, and her granddaughter Emily only visited on weekends.
The lock clicked, the door creaked open. Heavy footsteps and quiet snuffling echoed in the hallway.
“Who’s there?” Margaret called out, gripping her walking stick.
“Mum, it’s me,” came the reply in a voice she hadn’t heard in a year and a half.
Her heart skipped. That voice belonged to her son, Michael. He’d stormed out after another drunken row and hadn’t come back since—just the occasional text to say he was fine.
“Michael?” she asked uncertainly.
“Yeah, Mum. It’s me. Don’t be scared.”
Margaret pushed herself up from her armchair and hobbled to the hallway, flicking on the light. There stood her son—unkempt, with a scruffy beard, a crumpled jacket, and stained jeans. He looked rough, but at least he was sober.
“Michael!” She hugged him, ignoring the stale smell. “Oh, my boy, I’ve missed you so much.”
“Me too, Mum. I’m sorry,” he murmured, pulling her close. “I know I’ve messed up.”
She stepped back, studying him closely. Skinny, hollow-eyed, but his gaze was clear. Not drunk.
“Come in, sit down,” she fussed. “Let me warm something up for you.”
“Actually, Mum—” He hesitated. “I didn’t come alone.”
“What do you mean?”
He turned toward the door. “Come in, love, don’t be shy.”
A small figure peeked out from behind him—a girl, maybe five or six, in a grubby pink dress and scuffed sandals. Blonde ringlets framed her face, and her wide grey eyes were full of fear.
Margaret gasped. “Who’s this?”
“Mum, meet Lily,” Michael said, resting a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “My daughter.”
“Daughter?” Margaret sank onto the hallway stool. “What daughter? Since when?”
“It’s a long story. Can we get her fed and cleaned up first? She’s exhausted—we’ve been travelling all day.”
Lily clung to Michael, silent, her eyes darting nervously around the unfamiliar space.
“Of course, of course,” Margaret said quickly. “Sweetheart, are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?”
Lily nodded but didn’t let go of her father.
“Right, let’s get you to the kitchen,” Margaret said, leading the way with her uneven steps. “I’ll whip something up.”
Michael settled Lily at the table. She glanced around curiously—the small but cosy kitchen, the lace curtains, the teapot on the shelf.
“Mum, d’you have anything for kids? Milk? Porridge?” Michael asked.
“I’ve got milk, I’ll warm it. Porridge’ll only take a minute,” Margaret said, busying herself. “Do you like porridge, love?”
Lily nodded again.
As Margaret cooked, Michael whispered to Lily.
“This is your grandma’s house. Where I grew up. See the pretty flowers by the window? Tomorrow, if it’s nice, I’ll take you outside. There’s a swing in the garden.”
“When’s Mummy coming?” Lily asked in a tiny voice.
Michael hesitated.
“Lily, remember what I told you? Mummy… won’t be coming.”
Lily’s fingers twisted in her dress.
“She died?”
“Yeah, sweetheart. She did.”
Margaret, stirring the porridge, went still. What mother? What had happened? How many more shocks was her son going to bring home?
She set a bowl of porridge and a glass of warm milk in front of Lily.
“Eat up, darling. Then we’ll get you bathed and tucked in.”
Lily took a tentative bite. Finding it good, she dug in hungrily.
“Nice?” Margaret asked.
“Mm-hmm,” Lily mumbled around a mouthful.
“Good girl. Eat as much as you like.”
Michael picked at his food, watching his daughter closely—adjusting her napkin, nudging the milk closer.
“Michael,” Margaret said quietly. “We need to talk.”
“I know, Mum. But let’s get Lily to bed first.”
The girl was already struggling to keep her eyes open. The journey had worn her out.
“Come on, poppet,” Margaret said, taking Lily’s hand. “Let’s get you washed up.”
In the bathroom, she helped Lily undress. The dress was filthy, the sandals falling apart. Beneath, the girl’s thin little body was covered in bruises.
“Lily, what happened here?” Margaret asked softly, tracing a dark spot on her arm.
“Fell over,” Lily said simply.
“Do you fall over often?”
Lily shrugged.
Margaret filled the tub with warm water and let the girl play with the bubbles. Lily giggled, splashing gently, occasionally glancing up at her.
“What’s your name?” she asked suddenly.
“Margaret Elizabeth. But you can call me Grandma.”
“Grandma,” Lily repeated, as if testing the word.
“That’s right. How old are you?”
“Five. Soon six.”
“Big girl. Starting school soon?”
Lily nodded.
“Mummy said I’m clever. I can already read.”
“Brilliant! You’ll have to read me a story tomorrow, then.”
For the first time all evening, Lily smiled.
After the bath, Margaret wrapped her in a fluffy towel and carried her to bed. She hadn’t a proper bed for a child, so she made do with her own big one.
“You’ll sleep here,” she said, tucking Lily in. “I’ll take the sofa.”
“No,” Lily whispered, alarmed. “I’m small. Won’t take up space.”
Margaret softened. “All right, we’ll share.”
Lily sighed in relief and closed her eyes. Within minutes, she was asleep.
Margaret crept back to the kitchen. Michael sat at the table, cigarette in hand.
“Not in the house,” she said.
“Sorry,” he muttered, stubbing it out. “Nerves.”
“I’ll bet. Tell me everything.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face.
“It’s complicated.”
“I’ve got time.”
He stood, paced, sat back down.
“Remember when I left a year and a half ago? After that fight with the neighbours?”
“I remember. Drunk out of your mind, causing a scene.”
“Yeah. I was ashamed. Thought it’d be better to disappear than keep embarrassing you.”
Margaret said nothing. She remembered it too well—Michael staggering in, picking a fight, the police at the door.
“I went to stay with Dave, remember him? Army mate. He had a place in the countryside. Said I could crash there.”
“And?”
“Dave did odd jobs—construction, forestry. I worked with him. Made decent money, but I drank most of it. He drank too, just not as bad.”
Michael paused, gathering himself.
“There was a woman living nearby. Single mum with a little girl. Sophie, her name was. Lily’s mum.”
Margaret nodded. “Go on.”
“Sophie worked at a shop. Pennies, really. Lily was alone a lot. I helped out sometimes—fixed stuff, chopped wood.”
“So you fell for her?”
Michael shook his head.
“Not like that. We just… kept each other company. Both lonely, I suppose.”
“And then?”
“Then Sophie got sick. Cancer. It was quick. She died last winter.”
Margaret crossed herself.
“God rest her. And the girl?”
“Social services wanted to take Lily. No other family. I couldn’t let that happen.”
“Why not? She’s not yours.”
Michael looked up, eyes sharp.
“She is, Mum. Lily’s my daughter.”
Margaret gasped.
“How? You said you just helped them—”
“I didn’t tell you everything. Sophie and me… we were together. Lily’s mine.”
“Good Lord.” Margaret pressed a hand to her chest. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because I was ashamed. A drunk like me—what kind of father would I be? Sophie raised Lily on her own. I just pitched in sometimes. Never even gave her money—drank it all.”
“And now?”
“I got custody. Papers and all. But we’ve nowhere to go. Dave kicked me out when he found out about Lily. Said he didn’t need the hassle.”
Margaret walked to the window, staring into the dark street.
“So I’ve a granddaughter,” she murmured.
“Yeah, Mum. You do.”
“And you—you’re sober?”
Michael nodded.
“Four months clean. When Sophie was dying, she asked me to take care of Lily. Knew I had to change.”
“And you have?”
“Trying. It’s hard, but I’Margaret looked at her son, then at the sleeping child, and whispered, “Welcome home, both of you.” .
