**A Grandmother for the Hour**
I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, mascara wand trembling in my hand. The last time I’d put this much effort into my makeup was seven years ago—right before that cursed office Christmas party where I’d met Daniel. He left a year after our son was born, nobly leaving us the flat.
My fingers reached for my usual lip gloss but suddenly grabbed the scarlet lipstick instead. It had sat untouched ever since I’d become just “Tom’s mum.”
The mobile buzzed on the sink’s edge before clattering to the floor. My hand jerked, leaving a black streak by my temple. Emily was calling for the third time in an hour.
“Are you even coming?” Her voice was sharp through the receiver. “You promised to pick me up ages ago!”
I bit my lip, watching Tom through the half-open door. My son sat cross-legged in front of the telly, surrounded by a ring of cornflakes. A lump rose in my throat.
“I need to find a new babysitter. Urgently.”
“What?!” Emily gasped. “You said everything was sorted!”
“She backed out last minute.”
The silence on the line thickened ominously. I knew exactly what Emily was thinking: *Here we go again—Rachel’s in over her head.* Five years alone with a child, and I still couldn’t anticipate these things.
“Mum!” Tom appeared in the doorway, trailing flakes behind him. “Is Dad coming today?”
The question hit like a punch to the gut. He asked every Friday, but my ex-husband hadn’t exactly been rushing to spend time with his son. Not that I’d pushed for it.
“No, love,” I straightened his collar. “But tonight, you’ll have the most wonderful babysitter in the world!”
My laptop spat out a dozen options for “emergency babysitter.” The banner for *Grandmother for the Hour*, complete with a beaming elderly woman, felt like a cruel joke. My own mother had lived in Brighton for three years. Our relationship was strained—I didn’t want to worry her with my problems, and she accused me of shutting her out.
I clicked the banner and hit *Call*.
At exactly 7:03 PM, the doorbell shattered the quiet of our flat.
The woman on the doorstep looked like she’d stepped out of a 1950s homemaking manual. Tall, straight-backed, in a stern grey suit and immaculate white blouse. The only unusual detail was an old-fashioned owl brooch pinned to her lapel.
“You ordered a babysitter?” Her voice was crisp, edged with the quiet authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed.
I stepped back automatically, letting her in. For the first time, I felt like a guest in my own home, muttering,
“Yes, but… I expected—”
“Who, exactly?” She turned sharply, the brooch glinting under the ceiling light. I had no answer. She bore no resemblance to the cheery granny from the advert.
Bare feet pattered behind me. Tom gaped at her stern outfit.
“Are you a real scary nanny? Like in the storybooks?”
“Tom!” I instinctively shielded him.
She chuckled, then crouched to meet his eyes with a warm grin.
“Observant lad. But tonight, I’m just Mrs. Winthrop. Your babysitter. For this evening.”
She shrugged off her jacket with the practiced ease of a surgeon removing gloves and hung it neatly. Her gaze swept the living room like a seasoned professional.
“Rules are simple. You leave. You may call, but only if essential. I’ll be engaging with your son, and your anxious interruptions won’t help.”
I chewed my lip as she ran a finger along the shelf, checking for dust.
“Do you have references?”
Mrs. Winthrop turned, and something flickered in her eyes—something eerily familiar.
“Thirty-five years as a nursery teacher. Raised generations of children. Your Tom is in safe hands.”
***
Rain lashed the café windows, blurring the city lights into smudges. I was twenty minutes late—the exact time it took to convince myself Tom would be fine.
“Rachel, finally!” Emily waved, her manicure flawless as ever—soft pink, not a chip in sight. “We ordered you green tea.”
Steven stood awkwardly, adjusting his glasses. We’d only been dating two months, set up by Emily—his school friend, freshly divorced.
“Sorry I’m late,” I hung my soaked coat. “Had to find a last-minute sitter.”
Emily narrowed her eyes—*that* look, the one I remembered from uni.
“What happened to Mrs. Higgins? You said you’d booked her for a month.”
I reached for the sugar, avoiding eye contact.
“She found a better offer and dropped us.”
Steven nudged the milk toward me—he’d noticed I always took it in tea.
“Is the new sitter reliable?” he asked carefully.
“Does it matter?” Emily cut in, waving her fork. “You won’t even let your mother-in-law near Tom, but some random woman—”
My phone buzzed. A voice note from Tom:
*”Mum, the scary nanny found your necklace in the box with Dad’s stuff. She says you hid it ’cause it hurts to look at.”*
My grip tightened. Daniel had given me that necklace on our anniversary. I *had* buried it with his things…
“Rachel?” Steven leaned in. “What’s wrong?”
Emily snatched my phone.
“What the—” she hissed. “Is this woman snooping through your things?!”
Another message:
*”And that your back hurts from being tired. Scary nanny promised to give you good ointment.”*
Steven shot up, knocking over his glass.
“I’ll take you home.”
“Wait,” Emily grabbed my arm. “Let’s handle this. You hired some—”
“It was a reputable site!” My voice cracked. A few diners turned. “But she *knows* things—things she *can’t* know. My back *does* hurt. And that box was buried in the back of the cupboard.”
Silence. Even Emily was speechless.
Steven broke it first.
“We’re going. All of us.”
***
The lift climbed agonisingly slowly. Emily fidgeted with her bag clasp, Steven stayed quiet, and I studied my reflection—smudged mascara, wild hair.
“Should we call the police?” Emily whispered.
“No. Let’s hear her out first.”
The door opened before I found my keys.
“Mum!” Tom barrelled into me, smelling of vanilla shampoo. “We made cake!”
The kitchen sparkled. A huge fruitcake sat on the table—just like my nan used to bake.
And Mrs. Winthrop…
She sat in my armchair, the necklace draped over her slender fingers.
“You’re early,” she noted calmly.
“You—” My voice wavered. “You went through my things?”
“No,” she set the necklace down. “But pain leaves traces.”
Emily stepped forward, glaring.
“Who *are* you?”
Mrs. Winthrop stroked her brooch.
“I taught nursery for twenty-eight years. The children called me ‘Grandma Val, the all-knowing.’ And…” She turned to me. “I was at your hospital. Brought you medicine when you had fever after the birth.”
I froze. She continued,
“You said, *‘Thank you, but I don’t need anyone.’*” A hint of reproach. “Do you need someone now?”
Emily gasped.
“You’re buying this rubbish?”
But I wasn’t listening. Because I *remembered*. That night. The woman in white who’d brought medicine, stroked my hair, murmured something. Her palms had been burning hot, as if she’d held them to a flame.
Steven gently took my elbow.
“Rachel, maybe—”
“Mum,” Tom tugged my sleeve, “scary nanny says you’re really tired. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Silence smothered the room.
Mrs. Winthrop walked to the window. Streetlight etched her profile like cut paper.
“You think asking for help is weakness.”
“I manage,” I said automatically.
“How?” She turned. “How do you manage work? Tom’s questions? The clubs? Not calling your mother for months?”
Emily gaped.
“You haven’t spoken to your mum?”
I clenched my fists.
“You’ve no right—”
“Right,” she interrupted, “belongs to those who face the truth. You refused child support. Turned away your parents. Even your best friend doesn’t know how hard it is. You’re afraid,” her voice softened, “that if you let people close, they’ll see you’re not the perfect mother. The perfect daughter.”
I shut my eyes. Something inside me snapped.
“I… I think I’m not coping. It’s *so* hard.”
Steven hugged me so suddenly I flinched.
“Idiot,” Emily whispered. “I’m *right here*. Why didn’t you say?”
Steven silently handed me his handkerchief.
Mrs. Winthrop nodded.
“Now we can beginAs the months passed, I learned to lean on others—my mother’s weekly visits, Emily’s relentless support, Steven’s steady presence—and realised that true strength wasn’t in standing alone, but in knowing who would stand with me when I stumbled.
