**A Stranger, Yet the Closest**
“Victoria, you can’t be serious!” Malcolm’s voice trembled with shock. “I’m not even family!”
“And who is, then?” The woman straightened sharply, her fingers crumpling a medical slip. “My son, who rings twice a year from London? Or my granddaughter, who barely remembers her grandmother? But you—you’ve asked after me every single day for three years, bought my medicine when I couldn’t afford it!”
Malcolm shifted awkwardly in the hallway, his tall frame stooped, his kind, weary eyes shadowed by a salt-and-pepper beard. He’d come that morning, as always, to see if she needed groceries—only to be met with this.
“But the flat—you can’t just sign it over to me! What will people say? The neighbours will talk!” He twisted the brim of his worn cap in his hands.
“Let them!” Victoria marched into the sitting room and sank into her armchair by the window. “Sit down, Malcolm. Don’t just stand there like a lost lamb.”
He perched hesitantly on the edge of the sofa. Outside, an October drizzle blurred the glass, casting a muted cosiness over the room. On the windowsill, violets bloomed—brought by Malcolm last spring when he claimed they never thrived in his own flat but might bring her joy.
“Listen to me,” she said, pressing her hands to her knees. “I saw the doctor yesterday. My heart’s failing. He says any moment now, I could—well, you understand.”
“Don’t say that!” Malcolm’s voice cracked. “There’s still time—new medicines, treatments—”
“Malcolm.” His name, spoken softly, startled him. She rarely used it. “You know what I’m saying, don’t you? I’m terrified of dying alone. And with you here… it doesn’t feel so frightening.”
They’d met three years ago in a doctor’s waiting room. Victoria, clutching a referral to a cardiologist, had struggled to breathe. Malcolm, there for his own appointment, had offered her water from his flask. “Thank you, love,” she’d whispered. “You’re a good man.”
Turned out they lived streets apart. He’d started visiting—first weekly, then daily. She cooked for him; he fixed her leaky taps. Slowly, they’d become each other’s quiet comfort.
Malcolm had his own grief—his wife, lost to cancer five years prior, no children to soften the solitude. A retired mechanic, he lived on a modest pension, unnoticed by the world.
Victoria’s son, Edward, had left for London after university, built a life as a software engineer—a wife, children, a world that barely included his mother. Calls dwindled to birthday pleasantries. Visits? Always promised, never made.
“He’s so busy,” she’d excuse him to the neighbours. “High-pressure job. And the children, you know…”
Truth was, he’d simply forgotten her. Not out of malice—just the drift of life. His daughter, Emily, sent occasional photos in a messaging app. A bright girl, but a stranger.
“Did you never want children?” Victoria had asked once over tea and her homemade sponge cake.
“I did,” he admitted, stirring his cup. “But we couldn’t. My wife… she was ill for years. Told me to remarry, have kids with someone younger. But how could I? She was my only love.”
Victoria reached across the table, covering his hand with hers. “You’re a rare man, Malcolm.”
His cheeks flushed. “Just ordinary.”
“Not ordinary. Ordinary people look away. You? You carry the weight of everyone’s troubles.”
And he did. The neighbours knew—a burst pipe, a broken pram, even feeding an old woman’s cat while she was hospitalised—Malcolm was there.
“You act like you’re responsible for the whole world,” Victoria often chided. “It’ll wear you out.”
“How else can I be?” he’d reply, baffled. “People need help.”
Respected, yes—but mocked behind his back: *Too soft, that one*. Victoria understood—men like him were precious.
She’d been a librarian, sharp-minded, fiercely independent. Widowed young, she’d poured everything into her son—only for him to vanish into his polished life.
“You 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 like I’m some distant aunt.”
“Maybe he doesn’t know how to reach out,” Malcolm offered gently.
“No. He knows. He just won’t let me in. Ashamed, perhaps—a provincial mother with her books, while his in-laws are Oxford professors.”
“Then he’s a fool,” Malcolm snapped, uncharacteristically sharp. “To shame a mother like you.”
She’d stared, surprised. Malcolm never spoke ill of anyone.
“We’re from a different time,” she sighed. “Family meant more then.”
Now, back in her sitting room, she pressed on about the will. Malcolm twisted his cap, wrestling with guilt.
“Edward doesn’t need this flat,” she insisted. “He’d sell it, spend the money. But you’d live here, tend my violets, maybe even take in another lost soul. That’s who you are—you can’t walk past suffering.”
“Victoria, people will say I did this for the flat.”
“Did you?”
“God, no! It’s just… I was lonely. With you, it’s…” His throat tightened. “It’s warm.”
Her phone rang. Edward’s name flashed. Her face lit up—but the call was brief, polite. *New Year? No, too expensive. The children have school…*
She hung up, shoulders trembling. “He might visit. Maybe.”
“He will,” Malcolm lied.
She smiled sadly. “We both know he won’t.”
Settling back into her chair, she mused, “Funny, isn’t it? Family isn’t always blood. Sometimes it’s someone you meet in a waiting room.”
Malcolm’s chest ached.
“You’re more my son than he is,” she whispered. “Not because he’s bad—just because he lives in a different world. You’re in mine.”
“I can’t replace him.”
“Replace? You’re not a stranger, Malcolm. You’re the closest thing I have left. And I’m leaving you this flat not out of gratitude—but because I know you’ll keep it alive. You’ll remember me.”
He stood, staring out at the rain. Somewhere in London, her son sat in a glowing office, oblivious to his mother’s fear.
“Should we call him? Tell him the truth?”
“No,” she said firmly. “I won’t have him visit out of pity. That’s worse than indifference.”
She joined him at the window. “Why do you come every day, Malcolm? Why bring me flowers? Why sit up with me when my heart races at night?”
He had no answer. He just… couldn’t do otherwise.
“Because you’re good,” she answered for him. “Because we’re the same—lonely, but not bitter. Tired, but still caring.”
The rain eased. Sunlight broke through, glinting on the violets’ dewdrops—like quiet tears of joy.
“Say yes, Malcolm,” she pleaded softly. “Let me go peacefully, knowing you’ll stay. That someone will remember.”
He closed his eyes—saw their three years of shared meals, old films, her scolding him to wear a scarf. A family, not by blood, but by choice.
“Alright,” he murmured. “But promise me—don’t rush to leave. Stay. For me.”
For the first time that day, she smiled. “I’ll try, love. For you, I’ll try.”
