Stay with Me, Fear Not

“I won’t leave you, don’t be afraid,”

Sophie slipped into her bright summer dress for the first time, dabbed a hint of colour on her thin lips, and studied herself in the mirror. “Maybe I should dye my hair?” She sighed and stepped out of her flat.

Outside, the first truly hot summer’s day had arrived. The sun blazed, the grass shimmered green, and white clouds drifted lazily across the sky. Finally—after a dreary May and half of June filled with chilly winds and rain.

Sophie often strolled in the small park opposite her home when she wasn’t running errands. It wasn’t much of a park, just a few lawns bordered by neatly trimmed hedges, crisscrossed by tiled paths lined with benches. She’d walk the paths and settle on one of the benches near the statue of King Alfred outside the university. These were proper benches with backs, unlike the usual narrow ones.

She sat, tilting her face toward the sunlight filtering through the leaves. A little girl of about four, her blond pigtails bouncing, shrieked with delight as she chased pigeons. Her mother sat on the next bench, absorbed in her phone.

A man in light trousers and a navy jumper took a seat opposite Sophie, watching the little girl too. Eventually, the mother tucked her phone away and led her daughter off. With nothing left to watch, Sophie caught the man’s eye. He stood and approached her bench.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked, sitting nearby. “I’ve seen you often. Do you live close?”

“Typical. Old enough to know better,” Sophie thought but said nothing.

He didn’t seem bothered and made himself comfortable.

“I live just there,” he said, pointing to a nearby building. “I’ve seen you from my balcony. Studied at the university, worked there, lived near it my whole life.”

“Were you a lecturer?” Sophie asked, curiosity getting the better of her.

“Retired now. Been a while.” Sophie nodded, silent.

“Lovely weather at last,” he remarked. “Are you a widow? You always walk alone.”

“Persistent, isn’t he?” she thought. But loneliness had worn her down. Talking to the furniture wasn’t an option.

“I am now. My husband and I divorced long ago. Then he passed.” She surprised herself by confessing.

“My wife died two years back,” he said, lifting his face to the sky as if searching for her there.

The conversation drifted to children and grandchildren. Sophie learned his son lived abroad, his daughter in London. When his wife was alive, the family often gathered around the big dining table—noisy, cramped, and alive. Alone now, he refused to burden his children.

“You’re so well kept,” Sophie remarked. “I assumed one of your children looked after you.”

“I manage fine. Not difficult if you try.”

“I should go. There’s a show I watch.” Sophie stood, though she never watched TV. She just needed an excuse to leave—and prayed he wouldn’t ask about the programme. Instead, he stood too and mentioned he preferred reading.

“So do I!” Sophie brightened. “Though my eyes aren’t what they were. Large-print books only now.”

“I’ve plenty of those. Would you like me to bring one next time? My library’s extensive. I’ll pick something for you.”

Sophie shrugged and said goodbye.

“Dreamer. ‘Next time’…” she mused on her way home. Yet she spent the evening thinking of him.

The next day, she dressed carefully and returned to the park. He was already waiting by the statue, a book in a bag beside him. At the sight of her, he stood, beaming. Her heart raced, and a quiet smile lit her face.

Soon, she eagerly awaited their daily walks, fussing over her appearance. One day, they realised time was short and decided not to part. Sophie moved into his spacious flat.

From then on, they were inseparable—walking in all weathers, shopping, visiting the theatre, reading together in the evenings. At first, Sophie feared gossip. “Lost her mind, playing housekeeper to an old man,” neighbours might say.

But he was surprisingly capable—even cooking decently. They shared chores. Within years, she couldn’t imagine life without him. She’d never expected to find peace and happiness so late.

“Sophie, we ought to make it official,” he said one day. “This isn’t right, living together unwed.”

“Don’t be silly. What’ll people say? What if the children object?” she laughed.

“The children didn’t ask permission for their lives. Neither will we.”

“Still…” she wavered.

Time passed. He brought it up now and then, but she stalled.

“Look at us—creaking bones, sand slipping through the hourglass. A registry office? Ridiculous!” she teased.

Then her daughter called, tiptoeing into the subject.

“Mum, are you still living with that man? Any plans to come back? Things between Sasha and my husband aren’t great. Could he stay in your flat? He’s got a girlfriend—lovely girl. That alright?”

Tanya, Sophie’s daughter, had divorced Sasha’s father long ago. Now, at twenty, he was at university. A year earlier, Tanya had remarried. Her son and new husband didn’t get on.

“Of course he can stay. No point it sitting empty. Is he thinking of marrying?”

“Mum, eventually. But couples live together first nowadays. So he’ll move in tomorrow?”

Sophie agreed. What else could she do? He was her grandson.

A year later, she and James tidied the flat. She dusted while he vacuumed. Suddenly, he bent to unplug it and collapsed. He groaned, limbs unresponsive. The paramedic’s diagnosis was grim: a stroke.

In the hospital, his pleading eyes met hers.

“I won’t leave you. Don’t be afraid. I’ll help. You’ll be home soon,” she soothed. “Should I call the children?”

He looked terrified. She understood.

“No, no need. We’ll manage.”

And they did. Sophie cared for him as he weakened—his right side useless, speech gone. She read to him, fed him, bathed him. Sometimes she took him to the park, his frail steps leaning on her. But he worsened, and one rainy night, he died.

After weeping, she called his children. They came for the funeral.

“This is your fault. Love at your age? Nowhere else to live? After his flat?” his daughter hissed, pacing.

“Liz, stop. Dad was happy with her,” his son interceded. “Thank you, Sophie, for caring for him. But you weren’t married. You’ll need to leave. I hope you’ve somewhere to go.”

Sophie looked around. She’d lived here years, made it home. New curtains, her crockery… She sighed.

“May I keep this book—and his photo?” She pointed to the first book he’d given her.

“Take them.”

She packed her things and returned to her flat. Her grandson’s face fell seeing her.

One night, she overheard him and his girlfriend.

“Is your gran staying forever? She’s ancient. Gave me such a look when I wore shorts—I wanted to vanish.”

“Ancient? I’m only sixty-five!” Sophie fumed silently.

She called her daughter.

“Mum, I’ve just started living! Sasha’s grown, I’ve remarried. And now you? Did you really tend some stranger for free? Why didn’t you secure your future? Wed him? They couldn’t have evicted you then. You expect me to take you in? How’s that meant to work?”

“But it’s my flat! Or should I go to a care home? With a living daughter?”

Silence.

Sophie consulted a solicitor. He assured her no one could evict her. She could try agreeing with her grandson—or sue. Or trade the flat, though its small, adjoining rooms made that near impossible.

“Sue? My own grandson?” she shuddered.

Her grandson sulked, avoiding her. Finally, she issued an ultimatum: coexist or leave.

His girlfriend packed for her dorm. The next day, he left too, hurling insults.

Sophie nearly stopped him—but didn’t. He was young; life stretched ahead. She and her late husband had earned this flat. If peace was impossible, let him go. At least no court was involved.

“So, James. Our children. Yours threw me out. Mine… I miss you,” she murmured to his photograph.

Lonely days returned. She visited the park, sat on their bench, and remembered. Sometimes he visited her dreams, chatting away—though she rarely recalled his words upon waking. Later, she began shooing him.

“Go. Don’t rush me. It’s not my time yet.”

The lucky ones share a lifetime, weathering storms, then pass together—or swiftly, before illness wearies their kin. But often, one remains. While strong, they care for themselves, help family. Once frail, theyAnd in the quiet of the evenings, as the sun dipped below the rooftops, Sophie would sit at her window, watching the world go by, still whispering to James in the silence, still waiting—but no longer afraid.

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Stay with Me, Fear Not