Margaret Hopkins set aside her knitting and listened. Someone was fumbling with the front door lock—a familiar sound, though she hadn’t expected visitors at this hour. Half past nine, the neighbors were already asleep, and her granddaughter Emily only came on weekends.
The lock clicked. The door creaked open. Heavy footsteps shuffled in the hallway, accompanied by labored breathing.
“Who’s there?” Margaret called, gripping her walking stick.
“Mum, it’s me,” came the reply.
Her heart lurched. She hadn’t heard that voice in over a year. Her son, Michael, had stormed out after another drunken row and never returned. Just the odd text to say he was still alive.
“Michael?” she whispered.
“Yeah, Mum. It’s me. Don’t be scared.”
Margaret rose from her armchair, leaning heavily on her stick, and shuffled into the hall. She flicked the light on. There he stood—his beard wild, his jacket crumpled, his jeans stained. He looked a mess, but his eyes were clear. Sober.
“Michael!” She threw her arms around him, ignoring the stench of sweat and grime. “Oh, love, I’ve missed you!”
He hugged her back, his grip tight. “Missed you too, Mum. I’m sorry. I know I’ve made a right mess of things.”
She pulled back, studying him. Gaunt, hollow-eyed—but sober.
“Come in, sit down,” she fussed. “I’ll heat something up.”
“Wait,” Michael caught her hand. “I’m not alone.”
“Not alone?”
He turned toward the door and called softly, “Come on in, sweetheart.”
From behind him stepped a tiny figure—a girl of five or six, in a grubby pink dress and scuffed sandals. Blonde ringlets framed her face, her wide grey eyes darting nervously.
Margaret gasped. “Who’s this?”
Michael rested a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Mum, meet Lucy. My daughter.”
“Daughter?” Margaret sank onto the hallway stool. “Since when?”
“Long story,” Michael sighed. “Let’s get her fed first, yeah? She’s knackered—it was a long journey.”
Lucy clung to her father, silent but watchful, her gaze flickering over the unfamiliar room.
“Of course,” Margaret murmured. “Pet, are you hungry? Fancy a bite?”
Lucy nodded but didn’t budge from Michael’s side.
“Right, kitchen, then.” Margaret limped ahead. “I’ll rustle something up.”
Michael settled Lucy at the table. She peered around—at the lace curtains, the teapot on the shelf, the flowers by the window.
“Mum, got anything for kids?” Michael asked. “Milk? Porridge?”
“Milk’s in the fridge, I’ll warm it. Porridge won’t take a minute,” Margaret bustled. “Do you like porridge, love?”
Lucy nodded again.
As Margaret stirred the pot, Michael spoke softly to his daughter. “This is your gran’s house. I grew up here. See those flowers? Tomorrow, if it’s nice, we’ll go out back. There’s a swing.”
“When’s Mummy coming?” Lucy piped up, her voice tiny.
Michael hesitated. “Luce… Mum’s not coming. Remember what we talked about?”
Lucy’s eyes dropped. “Did she die?”
“Yeah, sweetheart. She did.”
Margaret froze, her back to them. A mother? What happened? How many more shocks would he bring?
She set a bowl of porridge and a glass of warm milk in front of Lucy.
“Eat up, pet. Then we’ll get you bathed and tucked in.”
Lucy took a tentative bite. Liked it. Dug in hungrily.
“Good?” Margaret asked.
“Mm,” Lucy mumbled through a full mouth.
“That’s my girl.”
Michael picked at his food, his gaze never leaving his daughter—adjusting her napkin, nudging the milk closer.
“Michael,” Margaret said quietly. “We need to talk.”
“I know. Just let’s get Lucy settled first.”
The girl was already nodding off, her eyelids drooping.
“Come on, sunflower,” Margaret took her hand. “Bath, then bed.”
In the bathroom, she helped Lucy undress. The dress was filthy, the sandals falling apart. Beneath, her small frame was littered with bruises.
“What happened here, pet?” Margaret asked gently, tracing a dark mark on her arm.
“Fell over,” Lucy mumbled.
“Do you fall a lot?”
Lucy shrugged.
Margaret ran a warm bath. Lucy sat quietly, swishing bubbles, sneaking glances at her.
“What’s your name?” Lucy asked suddenly.
“Margaret. But you can call me Gran.”
“Gran,” Lucy repeated, tasting the word.
“That’s right. How old are you?”
“Five. Nearly six.”
“Big girl. School soon.”
Lucy nodded. “Mummy said I’m clever. I can read.”
“Can you? Let’s hear you tomorrow, then.”
For the first time that evening, Lucy smiled.
After the bath, Margaret wrapped her in a towel and carried her to bed. No proper bed yet—just her own wide mattress.
“You’ll sleep here,” she said. “I’ll take the sofa.”
“Don’t go,” Lucy whispered. “I’m small. I won’t take up space.”
“Alright,” Margaret relented. “We’ll share.”
Lucy sighed, nestling close. Moments later, she was asleep.
Margaret slipped out and returned to the kitchen. Michael sat smoking.
“Not indoors,” she said.
“Sorry.” He stubbed it out. “Nerves.”
“I’ll bet. Now—start talking.”
He rubbed his face. “It’s complicated.”
“I’ve got time.”
He stood, paced, sat again.
“Remember when I left? After that row with the neighbors?”
“I remember. Drunk. Made a scene.”
“Yeah. Couldn’t face you after. Thought it was better to go.”
Margaret said nothing. She remembered. The shouting, the fight over nothing, the police called.
“Went to stay with Dave. Army mate. Had a place out in the countryside.”
“And?”
“Dave did odd jobs—building, forestry. I worked with him. Paid decent, but I pissed it all. He drank too, but not like me.”
He paused, gathering himself.
“There was a woman nearby. Single mum. Claire. Lucy’s mum.”
“Ah.”
“Claire worked at a corner shop. Pennies. Lucy was alone a lot. I helped sometimes—chopped wood, fixed things.”
“Fell for her?”
Michael shook his head. “Not like that. We were just… lonely. Saw each other a few times.”
“Then?”
“Claire got sick. Cancer. Went quick. Died last winter.”
Margaret crossed herself.
“God rest her. And the girl?”
“Social services were gonna take her. No family. I couldn’t let that happen.”
“Why? She’s not yours.”
Michael looked up. “She is, Mum. Lucy’s mine.”
Margaret gasped. “Yours? You said you just helped—”
“I didn’t tell you everything. Claire and I… we were together. Lucy’s my daughter.”
“Lord above.” She clutched her chest. “Why keep it secret?”
“Because I was ashamed. A drunk, Mum. What kind of dad could I be? Claire raised her alone. I just slipped her cash when I wasn’t pissed.”
“And now?”
“Now I’ve got her. Legal guardianship, all sorted. But no place to live. Dave kicked me out—didn’t want ‘kid trouble.’”
Margaret went to the window. Night outside, streetlamps glowing.
“So I’ve got a granddaughter,” she murmured.
“Yeah.”
“And you—you’re off the drink?”
“Four months sober. Claire asked me to look after Lucy. I had to change.”
“Managing?”
“Barely. But trying.”
She turned to him. “Does Lucy have papers? Birth certificate?”
“All sorted. I’m on it. Claire wasn’t sure at first, but we did a test—she’s mine.”
“Right. Where will you live?”
“Dunno. Maybe here? I’ll work, pay my way. Just need time.”
Margaret studied him. He’d changed. Something firm in his face now, a weight in his eyes. Before, he’d only thought of himself. Now he had Lucy.
“Course you can stay,” she said. “This is your home. And Lucy’s family now.”
Michael exhaled. “Cheers, Mum. I’ll make it right.”
“See that you do. You’ve got a child now.”
“I know. I’d do anything for her.”
They talked logistics—clothes for LucyAnd as the three sat together that evening—Lucy nestled between them, finally safe—Margaret felt the old house breathe again, as if it had been waiting all this time to become a home once more.
