The Grandmother from Nowhere
Mila slept as though she had worked three shifts without rest when a sharp knock rattled the door.
“Bloody hell, who’s there? Have they lost their mind, this early?” she muttered, rolling onto her other side. But the knocking didn’t stop—insistent, impatient, as if someone outside was racing against time.
Grumbling, Mila threw on her dressing gown and peered through the peephole. Outside stood a crumpled old woman clutching an enormous, fluffy cat. Her face was pale, drained, as if life itself had seeped from her.
“Who is it?” Mila snapped, with no intention of opening. Stories swirled about such old women—not all of them kind. But then the woman gasped, sagged, and slid down the wall. The cat wriggled free and circled her feet, mewling pitifully.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Mila sighed and flung the door open.
“Gran, are you alright? I’ll call an ambulance, don’t worry, you’ll be fine,” she whispered, helping the woman inside. She dragged her to the sofa and dialed emergency.
The cat, unnervingly intelligent, perched nearby, watching Mila with sharp green eyes.
“What’s your name, Gran?”
“Agatha Whitmore… my papers are in there…” the old woman rasped, gesturing to a worn satchel.
Mila fetched the bag, rummaged through the documents, and was about to ask more when the woman whispered,
“Just—just don’t send me to hospital, love. My grandson’s waiting. I owe him money—if I don’t pay, he’ll toss me and the cat out…”
“The doctor will decide if you’re fit to go anywhere. Don’t worry about the cat—I’ll feed him. Why on earth are you paying *him* and not the other way around?”
“Don’t ask, love. Best you don’t know…” Agatha sighed, turning her face away.
Another knock came—paramedics. After a quick examination, they insisted: “Straight to St. Mary’s Hospital.”
“I’m not going!” Agatha protested.
“You must, Gran. I’ll visit, I promise. The cat and I will be just fine.”
The next morning, Mila woke early. One thought nagged: why, *why* did life keep dragging her into other people’s messes? But her heart whispered—this wasn’t random. There was something eerily familiar in Agatha’s frail frame.
Mila barely remembered her parents—gone at thirteen, their livers wrecked by cheap gin. After that, foster care. Only one kind soul, old Mrs. Higgins next door, had brightened her childhood. Then she, too, had died. Sixteen, alone, unwanted.
Now twenty-three, Mila was sharp, self-reliant—unafraid of hardship. Last night, she’d noted Agatha’s address in the papers. Now she headed there.
The flat on Mulberry Lane was unremarkable. Two elderly women gossiped on the bench outside. Ten minutes later, Mila knew Agatha’s whole history.
Years ago, she’d raised her grandson after his parents died in a car crash. He’d grown up rotten—thugs for mates, demanding money, threatening the cat if she refused. Rented out his parents’ flat, lived cushy with some girl. Police? Useless—*family matter*, they’d said.
Rage boiled in Mila’s chest. She marched upstairs, hammered on the door. A bleary-eyed lad, reeking of lager, answered.
“You *rotter*!” Mila shoved past him. “How dare you throw an old woman onto the streets? Where’s your shame?” Her fists clenched. “Pack your things. *Now*. Or I’ll make you regret it.”
The lad paled. Fifteen minutes later, he fled with a duffel bag. Mila stayed. Cleaned. Fed the cat. Then left for the hospital.
Agatha wept when she saw her.
“Here’s food, everything you need. And I kicked your grandson out. Don’t argue, Gran. No one should sleep rough at your age.”
“Thank you, love. Thought I’d die in some alley…”
“I need you. The cat does too. Rest. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
A week later, Mila brought Agatha home.
“So clean… so lovely… How can I ever repay you?”
“Can I call you Gran?”
“Of course, my dear. You’re family now…”
The cat purred at their feet, truly relaxed for the first time. The flat no longer held fear.
A year passed. Mila became the granddaughter Agatha never had. The grandson vanished. Mila moved in, rented out her old flat, gave every penny to Agatha.
“Gran, I’d feel rotten keeping it. Living here’s luxury enough.”
Soon, news came—the grandson was knifed in a pub brawl. His death brought Mila no joy, only bitterness: *He could’ve chosen kindness.*
Two years later, Mila fell in love. By chance. The new GP at the clinic—young, gentle, kind. Tom. The way he cared for Agatha melted Mila’s heart.
“Don’t let him slip away, my girl,” Agatha whispered.
When Tom proposed, Mila sobbed. A year later, their first child was born. Agatha, beaming, became a great-grandmother.
They had twelve more years together. At ninety-five, Agatha slipped away in her sleep. Sharp as a tack till the end—folding nappies, telling tales.
Mila grieved hard. But Tom and the children steadied her. The old cat was gone, replaced by a stray she’d rescued.
Eventually, it was time to clear the flat. The deed was still Agatha’s—Mila had never pressed to change it. Sorting papers, she found an envelope.
*”My darling girl. You gave me back my daughter, Emily. Without you, I’d not have lived half these years. Thank you. Please accept my gift—it’s in the sideboard, beneath the drawers. You’ve earned it, my beloved granddaughter.”*
Tears blurred Mila’s vision. *Beloved granddaughter.* The words pierced her heart.
Tom pulled out a bundle—the deed to the flat, now hers, and a thick envelope of cash.
*”The deed’s long settled—no arguing. The money’s every rent penny you ever gave me. Take it. You’ll know what to do.”*
Mila and Tom lived long, full lives. Surrounded by children, grandchildren, then great-grandchildren. And always, at the heart of their home, on the mantelpiece, sat a photo—Agatha’s gentle smile and beside her, a giant, fluffy cat.
