**Visiting Mum.**
We went to visit my mum. As we stepped into the building, we found a five-year-old boy weeping buckets on the stairs.
“Why are you crying?” I asked.
He sniffled, “I came to see my nan. I went to play in the garden, and when I got back, she wouldnt open the door.”
I patted his shoulder. “Dont worry, she probably just popped to the shops. Shell be back soon.”
But the poor lad kept sobbing.
“Whats your name?”
“Ja-a-ck”
“Which flats yours?”
“Nu-number ei-i-ght”
The folks in flat eight were newI hadnt met them yet. I rang the bell, but no answer. Couldnt just leave him there.
“Come on, Jack, youre my guest now. Ill leave a note for your nan.”
Back at ours, my husband entertained Jack while I scribbled, “Jacks in flat 28,” and stuck it on the door downstairs.
By the time I returned, Jack was already racing toy cars with my son. Crisis averted.
I wiped his tear-streaked face. “Fancy some vegetable soup?”
“Yeah.”
He polished off a bowl in seconds.
“How about some meatballs next?”
“Yeah.”
The boy had the appetite of a growing Labrador. Two meatballs vanished in one go.
“Jam tart or juice?”
“Tea.”
Blimey. At five, Id have chosen jam tart over tea any day.
We sipped tea and nibbled on custard creams while Jack and my husband debated crucial matterslike which car brand was fastest.
Mum arrived. I explained our tiny guest.
“Thats odd,” she said. “Flat eights got a woman about your age.”
I shrugged. “A forty-year-old nan isnt that strange.”
Mum conceded and joined the fun, digging out an old toy box. The living room turned into a playground.
An hour later, the doorbell rang.
A woman my age stood there. “Afternoon. Just got home from work and found this note. Must be a mix-up with the flats?”
Odd. Work? And Jacks name didnt ring a bell?
“Did you, er, lose a grandson?”
“Dont have any grandchildren,” she said.
Hmm.
Back in the lounge, chaos reigned: Mum stacked blocks into a toy lorry, my husband tied a string to a toy, and Jackforeman of the operationbarked orders.
I crouched beside Jack. “Where exactly did you come from to visit your nan?”
“Manchester.”
“Know your home address?”
He rattled off the street and flat number.
“And your nans?”
He named the roadand suddenly, it clicked.
During playtime, hed wandered from one garden to another. When the other kids left, he thought he should too. The buildings looked identical. Instead of his nans, hed ended up in ours.
Knocked, panicked, and burst into tears.
I gifted him a toy car, scooped him up, and off we went to find his nanwho was surely frantic.
In the next garden, a voice called, “Jack! Jaaaack!”
We sprinted toward it and found a woman my age, wild-eyed with worry.
“Your grandson?”
“Yes!”
She hugged us like wed returned a lost treasure.
We explained. Everyone laughedthough Nans laughter wobbled with relief.
For Jack, it was all grand. New toy, new adventure.
As she thanked us profusely, we made a swift exit before the waterworks started.
Halfway home, we heard:
“Jack! Lunchtimeyou must be starving!”
“Already ate,” he called, zooming his car along the path.
“He did,” I confirmed. “Soup, meatballs, and tea.”
“Really?” She blinked. “He never eats. We can barely get him to finish a bowl of soup.”
I raised an eyebrow, remembering his vacuum-like appetite. Jack waved his car and yelled,
“See you tomorrow! Ill be back!”
