The Cranky Old Lady
Emma stepped out of the cab and waited as little Lily clambered out after her.
“Cheers,” Emma thanked the driver, taking her daughter’s hand before heading towards the block of flats. On the low front step, two elderly women sat chatting.
“Afternoon,” Emma greeted them.
“Afternoon,” one replied, eyeing them curiously. “And who might these lovely ladies be visiting?”
Emma just smiled. She punched in the code, and the door clicked open. The moment they disappeared inside, one of the women huffed loudly.
“Saw two lads lugging boxes in here half an hour ago,” she announced. “New tenants moving into the flat above yours, Martha. Frasers have finally let it. Brace yourself—sleepless nights ahead.”
“Not on my watch,” Martha sniffed. “Let ’em so much as sneeze too loud, and I’ll have social services round before they can blink.”
Emma didn’t stick around to hear more. The lift was waiting on the ground floor, so she and Lily rode up to the fifth.
The flat door was slightly ajar. Inside, two men were nursing mugs of tea in the kitchen.
“Oh, Emma’s here! We just put the kettle on. Hope you don’t mind us making ourselves at home,” one said sheepishly.
Emma reached for her purse.
“Don’t be daft, Ollie,” the other man, James, waved her off. “Just helping a mate out. Maybe you were too hasty leaving Simon? Could’ve patched things up. How’re you gonna manage with no job?” He winked at Lily, who giggled.
“We’ll manage. I’m filing for divorce—child support, maternity pay. I’m not crawling back to Simon. You can tell him that.”
“Suit yourself. But if you need anything, give us a shout,” James said, standing. “Right, we’ll leave you to it.”
Once they’d gone, Emma eyed the boxes stacked in the middle of the room and sighed.
“Fancy helping Mummy unpack?”
“No. Wanna play,” Lily declared.
“Alright. Just no shouting, or we’ll get evicted.”
Lily nodded solemnly before digging into a box of toys, triumphantly pulling out a teddy bear. Emma, meanwhile, began emptying bags into the wardrobe.
The flat was small—just one bedroom—but it would do. The furniture was decent, the place clean. If they budgeted carefully, they’d manage.
Later, Emma boiled some pasta and heated up sausages they’d brought from the old place. After tidying up and tucking Lily into the fold-out sofa, her own eyes grew heavy. But Lily demanded a bedtime story. By the time the girl finally drifted off, Emma’s head barely touched the pillow before Simon’s words echoed in her mind:
*”You’ll come crawling back, begging me to take you in. And I’ll think about whether you’re even worth it.”*
Tears pricked her eyes, banishing sleep. Slipping out to the kitchen, she stood by the window, staring into the deepening dusk.
***
She’d met Simon at a bus stop. He’d asked which bus went to Chestnut Lane, and when she’d answered, he’d grinned and admitted he just wanted an excuse to talk to her.
Her heart had been free, and Simon—charming, quick to laugh—soon won it. Back then, she’d shared a flat with her uni friend, Chloe. But Simon had his own place. He’d persuaded her to move in. Her mum, strict and old-fashioned, had drilled into her that children needed married parents, so Emma lied, claiming she still lived with Chloe.
Two years passed. No proposal. No mention of kids. Then she fell pregnant.
“We’ll need a bigger flat,” she’d said one evening.
“Why?” Simon had frowned.
“Because there’s three of us now.”
His face had darkened. *”You’re pregnant? And you’re only telling me now?”*
“I’m telling you now! I wasn’t sure before—”
*”I thought you were on the pill!”*
“So we could ‘live a little’ first? I’m keeping this baby, Simon. With or without you.”
They’d made up, vowing to save for a mortgage deposit. Then, one evening, Emma had spotted Simon stepping out of a shiny new car.
“It’s ours! Well, mine. But you’ll benefit too,” he’d beamed.
“With *our* savings? Without even asking me?!”
“You didn’t ask *me* before deciding to keep the baby.”
Their first real fight. They’d reconciled, even married in a quick registry office ceremony. But the car changed things. Simon started coming home late—always some excuse. *”Just helping mates. Earning extra.”*
When her contractions started, he was nowhere to be found. *”Call an ambulance. I’m stuck out of town.”*
He’d shown up at the hospital, at least. The flat had a second-hand crib and pram waiting. Emma hadn’t complained—money was tight. But Simon’s absences continued. Lily, sensing her mum’s stress, grew fussy. Simon would stumble in at dawn, snarling about cold dinners and messy homes.
*”Look at you—when’s the last time you made an effort? No wonder I’m looking elsewhere.”*
The final straw came when he’d vanished for days, then strutted in as she packed.
“Running back to Mummy? You’ll beg to come home eventually.”
She’d left that same day.
***
Dawn streaked the sky before Emma realised she hadn’t slept. Determined, she marched to the nearest nursery.
“Parents register the *moment* the child’s born,” the manager said briskly. “We’re short-staffed. I’ll take Lily if you work here as a teaching assistant.”
Emma agreed instantly—Lily would be close, safe.
The only thorn in her side was the downstairs neighbour, Mrs. Wilkins. Every thump, every giggle earned a furious ceiling-bang or a hissed lecture in the courtyard. *”That child’s a menace! I’ll report you!”*
Emma bit her tongue. Better a crabby pensioner than the shouting, boozy neighbours of the old flat.
Winter arrived. Lily caught every nursery bug. Then Emma woke one morning, her throat on fire, her head swimming.
“Mummy hot!” Lily recoaled.
39.6°C. Emma gulped Lily’s leftover medicine, too weak to pharmacy. The doorbell’s buzz felt miles away.
“Drunk, are you?” Mrs. Wilkins’ voice cut through the fog. Then—nothing.
She woke in a hospital bed, panic rising. *”Lily?!”*
“Calm down. I’ve got her,” a familiar voice said. Mrs. Wilkins?
Two days later, clarity returned. An orange sat on her bedside table.
“Your mum brought it. Came with the little one,” the woman next to her said.
The doctor refused her discharge. *”You nearly died. A week’s bedrest, minimum.”*
Weak but determined, Emma finally staggered home. No keys. She knocked on Mrs. Wilkins’ door.
“Escaped, have you? Still look half-dead,” the old woman grunted.
Lily barrelled into her, giggling. Neat pigtails, clean clothes.
“Thank you,” Emma choked out.
“Oh, stop blubbering. Nearly got yourself killed, you daft girl.”
Over stew—*just like Mum’s*—Mrs. Wilkins talked. The move to London. The husband who’d drank himself to death. The miscarriages.
“You need help, you ask. I’ll mind the girl.”
Friendship bloomed.
“Where’ve you been?” Mrs. Wilkins’ bench-mate asked weeks later.
“Busy. Got a granddaughter now.”
“Whose kid? She paying you?”
“She calls me *Grandma*. Not ‘old bat,’ not ‘misery.’ *Grandma.* First time I’ve mattered to anyone in thirty years.” She turned to leave. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Lily wants apple crumble, and I’m out of flour.”
The bench sat empty.
*All want long life, yet none wish to grow old.*
True enough. Age frightens us—until love makes it bearable.
