**A Fair Agreement**
Natalie was slipping away slowly, painfully. Her weary body, exhausted by endless rounds of chemotherapy, had stopped fighting. She longed for release from the agony that had plagued her these last months. The painkillers kept her in a drowsy haze—now and then she surfaced like a drowning woman, only to sink back into merciful, numbing sleep.
Little Ellie came home from school, stepping into the room thick with the scent of illness, studying her mother with wide, watchful eyes. This wasn’t the mum who used to laugh and tease. She lay motionless, eyes shut, and Ellie fixated on the faint rise and fall of the blanket—just to be sure she was still breathing.
“Mum. Mum, can you hear me?” she whispered.
Natalie’s eyelids fluttered, but she had no strength to open them. Then Gran would appear, gently guiding Ellie away.
“Come on, love. Let’s get you fed, then tackle your homework. Let your mum rest.”
“But she’s *always* asleep,” Ellie protested, voice quivering. “When’s she going to get better? I want things back like before.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Gran sighed, blinking back tears as she set down a steaming bowl of beef stew. “Sleep’s the best medicine for healing.”
*How cruel,* she thought, *that I’m the one left standing while my child wastes away. Prayers, church visits—none of it mattered. What did I do to deserve this?*
Natalie died just before dawn. At three, Mary rose to use the loo and checked on her. Still alive—she was sure of it. She tossed and turned, eventually drifting into a fitful sleep where little Natalie appeared, laughing, waving, running ahead. “Wait! Come back!” she called out in the dream—and jolted awake.
She rushed to her daughter’s room. The stillness told her everything.
Mary closed the door, boiled the kettle, fried up leftover pancakes for Ellie’s breakfast, then woke her. The girl ate, buttoned up her school blouse, and headed to say goodbye—like always.
“Don’t disturb her,” Mary called. “Here, take an apple for break.” She handed Ellie a shiny red one.
Walking to school, Mary barely registered Ellie’s chatter.
“You’re so quiet today,” the girl noted.
“Didn’t sleep well,” Mary murmured.
Back home, she called the ambulance.
“Time of death? Why’d you wait so long?” the doctor pressed.
“Had to see my granddaughter off to school. She didn’t need to see *this*.”
The hearse arrived quickly, thank God. Natalie was gone before Ellie returned. Mary still hadn’t figured out how to break the news. Then, distracted, she failed to stop Ellie from bursting into the empty room.
“Where’s Mum?” Ellie whirled around, eyes blazing.
Exhausted, Mary said the first thing that came to mind: “They took her to hospital.” She looked away.
Whether Ellie guessed or just resented the secrecy, she refused dinner, curling into the sofa corner to stare out the window. Mary hadn’t the strength to comfort her. Who’d comfort *her*? Locked in the bathroom, water running to muffle her sobs, she dialed Natalie’s ex, Oliver. She’d found his number in her daughter’s phone that morning.
“What do you want?” he snapped, thinking it was Natalie.
“It’s Mary. Natalie’s gone. Can you take Ellie for a few days? I told her her mum’s in hospital. There’s too much to handle—I can’t tell her yet.”
A pause. Then, calmer: “Right. I’ll come.”
Half an hour later, he knocked. Ellie brightened at the sight of him—anything to escape Gran’s gloom.
“How’s life?” He plopped beside her. “School treating you alright?”
“Yeah. Mum’s in hospital, but Gran won’t visit,” Ellie grumbled.
“Probably means no visitors yet.” He forced a grin. “Fancy the park? Ice cream? Maybe a film?”
“Really?” Ellie perked up.
Mary shoved a packed duffel at Oliver as they left.
The funeral arrangements drained her. By evening, her legs buckled; even weeping took effort. A crushing ache bloomed in her chest. *Hold it together. Don’t break.*
Oliver rang after the burial. “When should I bring Ellie back?”
“Had enough already?” Mary meant to snipe, but it came out pitiful.
“She misses home. We’ll come now. Need to talk.”
Dread coiled in her gut. *Now what?* She dragged herself up, brewed tea, laid out leftover sandwiches and vodka. Let the bastard toast.
Seeing Ellie, she wept. The girl clung to her.
“Come on, love. I made pancakes.”
At the table, Oliver grabbed the vodka, filled his glass to the brim. A toast died on his lips under Mary’s glare. He downed it in one.
Mary sent Ellie away, then shut the kitchen door.
“Well? Spit it out.”
“Don’t look at me like that.” Oliver refilled his glass. “Ellie’s young. You’re old. Social services catch wind, they’ll take her. I’m her dad—fit, healthy.”
“What’re you saying?” Her pulse hammered.
“I’ve got no place of my own. Flitting between mates’ sofas.”
“Like a stray,” Mary muttered.
“Watch it.” His voice sharpened. “Here’s the deal. We swap flats—Ellie stays with you, but legally, she’s mine. Or we live together. Safer.”
“You’re *blackmailing* me?”
“Call it what you want. But you *don’t* want her in care, do you?”
Mary staggered to the window, gulping air.
“You don’t love her,” she hissed. “You want the *flat*.”
“Suit yourself.” He stood, menace in his tone.
Mary caved. “I need time.”
“Three days.” He smirked, eyeing the empty bottle.
After he left, Ellie stormed in. “You didn’t tell me I’m going with *him*.”
Mary froze. “Tell you what?”
“That I’d live there!”
Mary’s knees gave way.
That night, sleep wouldn’t come. *Take him in, and he’ll bleed me dry. Swap the flat, and he’ll sell his share, then crawl back. Oh, Natalie, why didn’t you listen?*
Next morning, Mary detoured to old Mr. Peterson downstairs—ex-police. She spilled everything.
“Help me, Pete. Got no one else.”
He rubbed his chin. “Ring him. Say you’ve decided—invite him over. Buy vodka. I’ll ‘drop by.’ We’ll see.”
Relief trickled in. Pete had fixed worse.
Three days later, Oliver swaggered in, spotting the set table. *She’s folded,* he thought.
Then Pete knocked. “What’s the occasion?” He winked at the vodka.
“Celebrating the flat swap,” Mary said, slipping out.
Pete’s hidden recorder caught it all. Later, Mary clutched her chest listening:
“Once the flat’s mine, dump her in care if she misbehaves,” Oliver slurred. “Better yet, move in. She’s old—place’ll be mine soon.”
Pete nudged, “But what about *her*?”
Oliver leaned in. “Could arrange an ‘accident.’”
Mary gasped.
Next day, Pete grinned. “Dug up enough dirt to bury him. He’ll stay quiet—or it’s prison.”
Oliver never returned.
Years later, Ellie stood in her prom dress.
“You look just like your mum,” Mary murmured. “I can go in peace now.”
“Gran! What about my wedding? My kids? *Stay.*”
So Mary did.
Ellie brought every boyfriend home. First, to see if they’d accept caring for Gran. Second, because Gran had a knack for spotting rot. After Natalie’s mistake, Ellie trusted her judgment.
She married well.
And Mary? She found solace in church, lighting candles—for Ellie’s health, Natalie’s soul. Before the crucifix, she whispered fiercely:
“You took my daughter. But don’t take me yet. Let me help Ellie. I’m not bargaining—just asking for fairness.”
