“A Stranger, Yet the Closest”
“Eleanor Whitaker, have you lost your mind?!” Graham Foster’s voice trembled with indignation. “I’m not family!”
“And who is?” The woman straightened sharply, crumpling the hospital slip in her hand. “My son, who calls twice a year from his flat in London? Or my granddaughter, who’s forgotten her grandmother entirely? You’re the one who’s checked on me every day for three years, bought my medicine when my pension didn’t stretch far enough!”
Graham shifted uncomfortably in the hallway, a tall, stooped man of sixty-five with silver stubble and kind, tired eyes. He’d come as usual that morning to see if she needed anything from the shops—only to be met with this.
“But the flat—you can’t just sign it over to me! What will people say? The neighbours?” He twisted his worn flat cap in his hands.
“I couldn’t care less what they think,” Eleanor snapped, retreating to her armchair by the window. “Sit down. Don’t just stand there like a lamppost.”
Graham perched uneasily on the edge of the sofa. Outside, an October drizzle tapped against the glass, making the room feel cosy. On the sill, a pot of violets bloomed—ones he’d brought in spring, saying they never thrived in his own dim flat but might cheer her.
“Listen carefully,” Eleanor said, folding her hands. “Saw the doctor yesterday. Heart’s worse. Blood pressure’s all over the place. Said it could happen any time now. You understand.”
“Don’t talk like that!” Graham flinched. “You’ve years left—I’ll help, same as always. There’s new medicines now, good ones—”
“Graham,” she said softly, and he startled. She rarely used his first name. “You know what I’m saying. I’m terrified of dying alone. But with you here… it doesn’t feel so frightening.”
They’d met three years ago in the GP’s waiting room. Eleanor had been clutching a referral to cardiology, breath shallow, while he waited for urology. He’d noticed her struggling, offered water from his flask.
“Ta, love,” she’d whispered. “You’re a kind soul.”
Turned out they lived in neighbouring estates. Graham began dropping by—first weekly, then more often. She’d make him lunch; he’d fix things round the flat. Slowly, they’d grown accustomed to each other.
Graham had his own sorrows. His wife had died five years back—cancer. No children. Left alone in a silent flat where every object whispered of the past. He’d worked as a mechanic all his life, retired on a modest pension, drifting through quiet days.
Eleanor’s son, Oliver, had moved to London after uni, became some sort of software engineer, married, had kids. At first, he visited at Christmas. Then less. Called on birthdays, New Year’s—polite questions about her health, empty promises to visit.
“He’s ever so busy,” she’d tell the neighbours. “High-pressure job. And the little ones, his wife’s poorly often…”
Truth was, Oliver had simply forgotten her. Not out of malice—life had swallowed him whole, and his mother now lived on its fringes. Pension sorted, flat tidy—good enough.
Her granddaughter, Lily, sometimes sent photos on WhatsApp. Lovely girl, clever eyes, but a stranger. Barely remembered her nan.
“Graham,” Eleanor asked once over tea and scones, “did you never want kids?”
“Wanted them.” He stirred his cup slowly. “But it never happened. My wife—God rest her—was always at the hospital. Then it was too late. She’d say, ‘Find someone younger, have your family.’ But how could I? She was… my only.”
Eleanor reached across the table, covered his hand with hers.
“You’re a good man, Graham. Rare, these days.”
He reddened, looked away. “Not special. Just ordinary.”
“No. Ordinary people don’t care. You ache for everyone.”
It was true. Graham couldn’t walk past suffering. Everyone in the building knew—if something broke, call Graham. Mrs. Higgins’s leaky tap? He’d fix it. Single mum on the fifth floor had her pram vandalised? He’d buy a new one. Old Mrs. Carter hospitalised? He’d feed her cat.
“You carry everyone’s burdens,” Eleanor told him. “You’ll wear yourself out.”
“How else should it be?” he’d reply, baffled. “People need help.”
Neighbours respected him but chuckled behind his back—*too soft, like some saint*. Eleanor knew better. Men like him were rare.
She was no simple woman either. A librarian all her life, well-read, thoughtful. Raised Oliver alone after her husband died young, poured everything into him—only for him to fly the nest. A common tale, but no less painful.
“Know what hurts most?” she confessed one evening. “Not that he left. Children must live their lives. But that he became a stranger. Calls me, and his voice—so polite. Like I’m some distant aunt.”
“Maybe he doesn’t know how else to be?” Graham ventured. “Men aren’t always clever with these things.”
“No, Graham. He knows. Just doesn’t want me in his life. Ashamed, maybe. His wife’s posh—parents are academics. And here’s his mum, a small-town librarian.”
“Then he’s a fool,” Graham said sharply—uncharacteristically. “Pardon my language, but he is. A mother’s not something to shame.”
Eleanor had stared, surprised. Graham never criticised, always made excuses. But this…
“Don’t mind me,” he mumbled. “Just don’t understand it. A person only gets one mother. How do you turn away?”
“We’re from different times, Graham. Family meant more to us.”
Now, in the same room, Eleanor returned to the will. Graham twisted his cap, lost for words.
“Listen,” she pressed. “I’ve thought it through. Oliver doesn’t need this flat—he’s got his own life. Sell it, spend the money, and that’s that. But you’d live here, tend my flowers, maybe take in someone who needs help. You’re like that—can’t walk past someone hurting.”
“Eleanor,” he sighed. “I know you mean well… but how’ll it look? People’ll say I had ulterior motives.”
“Did you?”
“Christ, no! It’s just… I was lonely. And being here—it’s warm.”
“Exactly. And I’m not afraid when you’re near. Understand? Dying’s terrifying when no one cares.”
The phone rang. Eleanor rose, lifted the receiver.
“Oliver? Love, it’s so good to hear you!” Her face softened, brightened.
Graham only caught her side, but the tone told him everything—obligatory, polite. Oliver asked after her health, prattled about work, the kids.
“Visiting soon?” Her voice wavered. “Christmas? No, I understand… Train fares, the children’s school…”
Five minutes later, Oliver rushed off—busy, always busy. Promised to call more.
Eleanor hung up, stood with her back to Graham. Her shoulders trembled faintly.
“He might come for Christmas,” she said. “Or might not.”
“He’ll come,” Graham murmured. “Course he will.”
“No, Graham. He won’t. We both know.”
She returned to her chair. Calm face, sorrowful eyes.
“Sometimes I think,” she said, “family isn’t always blood. Sometimes you meet them by chance—in a GP’s queue, say.”
Graham stayed silent. His chest ached with something heavy and warm.
“You’re more family than my son,” she admitted. “Hard to say, but true. Not because he’s bad. He’s a good lad—just lives in another world. You live in mine.”
“I can’t replace him,” Graham whispered. “I’m a stranger.”
“Stranger?” She shook her head. “You’re the closest person in my life now. And I’m leaving you the flat not out of gratitude. But because I know you won’t sell it. Won’t toss my things. Won’t forget me.”
Graham stood, moved to the window. Rain fell harder now, streaking the glass. Somewhere in this city, Eleanor’s son sat in a warm office, tending to his important life. Unaware his mother had just been handed a death sentence and feared dying alone.
“Should we call him?” Graham asked. “Tell him how things really are?”
“No,” Eleanor said firmly. “I won’t have him visit out of guilt. That’s worse than indifference.”
“But he’s your—”
“And what are you?” She joined him at the window. “What are you to me, Graham? Why do you come every day, askHe took her trembling hand in his and whispered, “I’m the one who stayed,” as the last of the afternoon light gilded the violets on the sill.
