Margaret Williams 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, and the door creaked open. Heavy footsteps and faint sniffling came from the hallway.
“Who’s there?” Margaret called, gripping her walking stick.
“Mum, it’s me,” came a voice she hadn’t heard in a year and a half.
Her heart skipped a beat. Her son, Michael, had walked out after yet another drunken row and hadn’t returned—only the occasional text to say he was alive.
“Michael?” she said uncertainly.
“Yeah, Mum. It’s me. Don’t be scared.”
Margaret rose from her armchair and limped to the hallway, switching on the light. There stood her son, unshaven, in a crumpled jacket and mud-streaked jeans. He looked rough, but at least he wasn’t drunk.
“Michael!” She hugged him tight, ignoring the sour smell. “Oh, love, I’ve missed you.”
“Me too, Mum. I’m so sorry,” he murmured, holding her close. “I know I messed up.”
She pulled back, studying his gaunt face—hollow-cheeked but clear-eyed.
“Come in, sit down,” she urged. “I’ll warm something up—”
“Wait,” Michael caught her hand. “I’m not alone.”
“What?”
He turned toward the door. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t be scared.”
A small figure stepped from behind him—a girl of about five, in a grubby pink dress and scuffed sandals. Her blonde curls framed wide, wary grey eyes.
Margaret gasped. “Who’s this?”
Michael rested a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Mum, this is Sophie. My daughter.”
“Daughter?” Margaret sank onto the hallway stool. “What do you mean? Since when?”
“Long story,” Michael sighed. “Let’s get her fed and cleaned up first. She’s exhausted—we’ve been travelling all day.”
Sophie clung to her father, silent but scanning the unfamiliar room.
“Of course,” Margaret said quickly. “Sweetheart, are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?”
The girl nodded but didn’t budge from Michael’s side.
“Kitchen’s this way,” Margaret said, leading them slowly. “I’ll fix you something.”
Michael settled Sophie at the table. She eyed the cosy room—lace curtains, potted geraniums, a china teapot on the shelf.
“Mum, d’you have anything for kids? Milk? Porridge?”
“I’ve got milk warming. Porridge won’t take a minute. Do you like porridge, Sophie?”
Another nod.
As Margaret cooked, Michael spoke softly to his daughter. “This is your grandma’s house. I grew up here. See those pretty flowers? Tomorrow, if it’s sunny, I’ll show you the garden. There’s a swing.”
Sophie’s thin voice piped up: “When’s Mummy coming?”
Michael hesitated. “Sweetheart… Mummy isn’t coming. Remember what we talked about?”
She looked down. “Did she die?”
“Yeah, love. She did.”
Margaret, stirring the pot, stiffened. Whose mother? What else hadn’t he told her?
She set a bowl of porridge and warm milk before Sophie, who ate hungrily.
“Good?” Margaret asked.
“Mmm,” Sophie mumbled through a full mouth.
“That’s my girl.”
Michael picked at his food, eyes fixed on his daughter—adjusting her napkin, nudging the milk closer.
“We need to talk,” Margaret said quietly.
“I know. Let’s just get Sophie to bed first.”
The girl was already nodding off.
“Come on, poppet.” Margaret took her hand. “Let’s get you washed up.”
In the bathroom, she peeled off the dirty dress. Beneath it, Sophie’s thin arms and legs were bruised.
“Love, what happened here?” Margaret asked gently.
“Fell over,” Sophie muttered.
“A lot?”
A shrug.
Margaret filled the tub, watching Sophie play with the bubbles, stealing shy glances at her.
“What’s your name?” the girl asked suddenly.
“Margaret Williams. But you can call me Gran.”
“Gran,” Sophie repeated, testing the word.
“How old are you?”
“Five. Nearly six.”
“Big girl! Starting school soon?”
“Mm. Mummy said I’m clever. I can read.”
“Brilliant! Read to me tomorrow, eh?”
For the first time that evening, Sophie smiled.
After the bath, Margaret tucked her into the big bed.
“Sleep here tonight,” she said. “I’ll take the sofa.”
Sophie’s eyes widened. “Don’t go. I won’t take up much space.”
“Alright, then. We’ll share.”
The girl sighed contentedly and drifted off.
Downstairs, Michael sat smoking at the kitchen table.
“Not in the house,” Margaret said.
“Sorry.” He stubbed it out. “Nerves.”
“I’ll bet. Now explain.”
He rubbed his face. “It’s a mess, Mum.”
“I’ve got time.”
He paced, then sat again. “Remember when I left? After that fight with the neighbours?”
“Drunk and disgraceful. Yes.”
“I was ashamed. Thought it’d be better if I just disappeared.”
Margaret remembered—the shouting, the police.
“I went to Dave’s—you remember Dave? Army mate. Lived out in the country. Said I could stay.”
“And?”
“Worked odd jobs with him. Cash in hand. Spent most of it on booze.”
He trailed off, gathering himself.
“There was a woman nearby. Single mum—Lydia. Sophie’s mum.”
Margaret nodded.
“Lydia worked at a corner shop. Pennies, really. Sophie was alone a lot. I helped sometimes—chopped firewood, fixed things.”
“Fell for her?”
“Not like that. We were… lonely. Spent time together.”
“And then?”
“Lydia got sick. Cancer. Went quick. Died last winter.”
Margaret crossed herself.
“Sophie was going into care. No family. I couldn’t let that happen.”
“Why? She’s not yours.”
Michael looked up. “She is, Mum. Sophie’s my daughter.”
Margaret clutched the counter. “How?”
“We were together. Just once. Lydia never told me—not till she was dying. Got a DNA test after. She’s mine.”
“My God. Why keep it secret?”
“Because look at me!” His voice cracked. “I’m a drunk. Useless. Lydia raised her alone. I barely helped—just handed over cash when I wasn’t pissing it away.”
“So what now?”
“Dave kicked me out when he found out about Sophie. Nowhere else to go.”
Margaret stared out the dark window.
“So I’ve got a granddaughter.”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re sober?”
“Four months. Lydia made me promise. I had to change.”
“Can you keep it up?”
“Trying. It’s hard.”
She turned. “Papers? Birth certificate?”
“All sorted. I’m her legal guardian now.”
“And where will you live?”
“Mum, I don’t know. Could we… stay here? I’ll work. Pay my way.”
She studied him—the new lines on his face, the steadiness in his eyes.
“Of course you can stay. She’s family.”
Michael exhaled. “Thank you. I’ll make it right.”
“See that you do. That little girl needs you sober.”
They talked logistics—clothes, toys, a proper bed. Michael vowed to job-hunt tomorrow.
Upstairs, Sophie was awake when Margaret slipped into bed.
“Can’t sleep, poppet?”
“I’m scared,” Sophie whispered.
“What of?”
“That Daddy’ll leave me.”
Margaret pulled her close. “He won’t. He loves you.”
“Mummy loved me, but she died.”
“That was the illness, sweetheart. Daddy’s healthy. He’s staying.”
“Do you love me?”
“’Course I do. You’re my grandgirl.”
“I love you too, Gran.”
Sophie curled into her and slept.
At dawn, she woke first, padding barefoot to the kitchen where Michael sat with tea.
“Morning, Daddy.”
“Morning, sweet pea. Sleep okay?”
“Bed’s soft.”
“Good. Want breakfast?”
She nodded. He warmed milk, spread jam on toast.
“Daddy, are we staying here?”
“If Gran says yes.”
“She’s nice.”
“Best there is. Raised me, you know.”
Margaret shuffled in, robe buttoned to the chin.
“Morning, my dears.”
“Gran,The morning sun streamed through the lace curtains as Sophie clambered onto Margaret’s lap, her tiny hands clutching a storybook, and for the first time in years, the old house felt like a home again.
