**Diary Entry**
“Mum, maybe we should just let Gran wander off and get lost? It’d be better for everyone,” I said defiantly.
“Emily, don’t forget to lock the door,” Mum sighed, pushing herself up from the table.
“For God’s sake, must you remind me every single time?” I snapped back, irritation sharp in my voice.
“Not forever. Just while Gran lives with us. If she goes outside, she’ll get confused and—”
“And die under a hedge somewhere, and we’ll live with the guilt. Mum, maybe we should let it happen?”
“Let *what* happen?”
“Let her go. You said yourself you’re exhausted looking after her.”
“Emily, how can you? She’s my mother-in-law, not blood, but she’s *your* grandmother.”
“Grandmother?” I narrowed my eyes like I always did when anger boiled up. “Where was she when her precious son walked out on us? When she refused to babysit her own granddaughter? She never cared about you working yourself to the bone to scrape by. And who did she blame when Dad left?”
“Stop it! I never should’ve told you any of that.” Mum’s voice cracked. “I raised you wrong. No kindness, no mercy—what’s wrong with you? You used to be so tender-hearted. You’d bring home every stray kitten. But Gran’s not a kitten. She’s already suffered enough. Your father abandoned *her* too.”
“Mum, you’ll be late for work. I promise I’ll lock the door.” Guilt tugged at me, and I met her eyes.
“Fine. Before we say things we don’t mean.” But she didn’t move.
“Mum, I’m sorry, but it hurts to look at you. You’re skin and bone. You’re only forty, but you’re stooped like an old woman, dragging your feet. Always exhausted. Why are you staring at me? Who else will tell you the truth but your own daughter?” My voice rose again before I noticed.
“Thanks for that. Make sure she doesn’t touch the cooker or leave the tap running.”
“That’s what I mean! We’re chained to her. No life of our own. Mum, let’s put her in a care home. She’d be safe there—she doesn’t even understand—”
“Not this again.”
“It’d be better for *her* too!” I ploughed on, blind to Mum’s mounting frustration.
“Enough. She stays. However long she’s got left, she stays *home*.”
“She’ll outlive us both. Go to work. I won’t leave, and I’ll lock the door.” My voice was acid.
“I’m sorry. I’ve put so much on you—all your friends are out enjoying themselves, and you’re stuck here.”
We weren’t whispering. Gran’s door was ajar—she’d heard everything. But she wouldn’t remember anyway.
After Mum left, I went into what used to be my room, now Gran’s.
“Gran, do you need anything?” I asked.
Her vacant stare gave no answer.
“Come on, I’ll give you a sweet.” I helped her up and led her to the kitchen.
“Who are you?” She blinked at me like I was a stranger.
“Drink your tea.” I sighed and set a chocolate in front of her.
Gran had always loved sweets. Mum and I used to hide them, rationing one per cup of tea. I watched her fumble with the wrapper. Through her thinning grey hair, patches of pale scalp showed. I looked away.
Once, she’d dyed and teased her hair into glamorous waves. Painted lips, arched brows, the lingering scent of rose perfume—men used to turn their heads. Now, the illness had stolen it all.
I didn’t know what I felt—pity? Resentment? A knock at the door snapped me from my thoughts.
“Mum must’ve forgotten something.”
But it was Oliver, my sixth-form mate. Mum didn’t approve, so he only came when she was out.
“Hey. You’re early—Mum just left.”
“I know. She didn’t see me.”
“Margaret!” Gran called from the kitchen.
“Who’s Margaret?” Oliver frowned.
“That’s what she calls Mum—thinks she’s her daughter. Wait in the loo. She’s having one of her ‘lucid’ days.” I shoved him toward the bathroom.
“There’s no one there.” I stepped into the kitchen—empty cup, crumpled wrapper.
“I want tea,” Gran said.
“But you just—” I gave up.
She forgot things instantly, clinging instead to old memories—often jumbled, mistaking us for ghosts from her past. Sometimes, though, the fog lifted. Just for moments.
Was she playing me for another chocolate? Or had she really forgotten? No way to tell. I poured fresh tea, set out another sweet.
When she’d finished, I led her back to bed.
“Sleep now,” I said firmly, shutting the door.
Oliver peered out. “Coast clear?”
“Yeah. Kitchen.” I checked the lock before following.
We sat close, sharing earbuds, music drowning everything out. Eyes closed, swaying—I never saw Gran slip past.
When I walked Oliver out, the front door stood open.
I ran to her room—empty.
“I didn’t lock it… She’s gone. Mum’ll think I did it on purpose!” I choked out.
“Why would she—?”
“You don’t get it. Today, I *said* we should let her disappear. She’ll think I *wanted* this!”
“Get your coat. We’ll find her—she couldn’t have gone far.”
Gran’s quilted jacket still hung on the peg. Her boots, too.
“She went out in *slippers* and a *dressing gown*?”
“Neighbours?” Oliver suggested. “Or got confused on the landing? I’ll check outside—you knock on doors.”
No one answered. I gave up and sprinted into the street. Oliver was searching bushes, the playground—nothing.
“Try the next block. You go left, I’ll go right. Meet back here.” He dashed off.
I checked the bus stop. Nothing. How long had she been gone? Half an hour? Where could she be in *slippers*?
“We should call the police,” I said when we regrouped.
“Wait—think. Where did she always talk about? Her old haunts?”
I shook my head. Blank.
“Widen the search. You go toward the school, I’ll head the other way.”
Streetlights flickered, shadows thick between them. Every rustling hedge set my pulse racing. Then it hit me—Gran’s old story about sneaking back into school for homework, climbing out a window, nearly breaking her leg.
Not her school, but she *always* mentioned it passing by. The gates were unlocked. I crept through. The building loomed—a square of windows. Rounding the corner, I saw them: lads circling something.
Gran stood in the middle, blue dressing gown flapping, as one dangled an empty sweet wrapper. When she reached for it, he yanked it away, his mates roaring.
“She doesn’t understand! Look at her—escape from the nuthouse?” He waved the wrapper again.
“Leave her *alone*!” I screamed.
They turned.
“Oi, another one!”
“Her granddaughter?”
“You bolt from the loony bin too?”
The leader swaggered toward me. The others fanned out, cutting me off from Gran. I backed up, hit the fence. No way out.
Then hands grabbed me—pinning me, laughing—their breath sour, fingers digging—
“Back off! *Now!*” Oliver’s voice cracked like a whip.
Two stepped away. The third held firm. A scuffle—Oliver against them. I kicked my captor’s shin. He swore, released me. I snatched a broken plank, swung—not high enough, just grazing his back.
“Run!” A couple from the street shouted, phones raised. “We’ve called the police!”
The lads scattered.
Oliver was on the ground, bleeding. We helped Gran up—she cringed, mistaking us for attackers.
“Gran, it’s me. Emily. Let’s go home.”
“Who’s Emily? I’m waiting for George—school’s out soon.”
“George left school *decades* ago.”
Then, clear as anything: “I heard everything.”
My stomach dropped. “Heard *what*?”
“Margaret wants me in a home. Don’t let her.” A tear slid down her cheek.
“We won’t. Come on—you’ll catch cold.”
“No hospitals…”
We got her home. Changed her, fed her tea and chocolate, tucked her in.
“Your face…” I grimaced atAs we sat at the kitchen table, Mum and I laughing through tears, the weight of the day lifted—just a little—and I realized love wasn’t about understanding everything, but standing together through the mess of it all.
