Dear Diary,
I sat on the edge of the sofa where Michael had just been a moment ago. Now only a black mourning handkerchief lay there, having slipped from my grasp. My husband collapsed at work, his heart giving out; the ambulance never reached him in time.
We never had children, our dream of parenthood remained just that a dream. I was left alone in a threebedroom flat in Manchester. We also owned a second flat, an investment wed made for a quiet retirement, which wed let to young doctors for a few years. When they bought their own place the flat sat empty.
A knock at the door announced my mothers arrival. Her face was troubled, but in her eyes I saw not only the grief of losing a soninlaw but also a restless anxiety. We embraced in silence.
Nat, love, Margaret began, sitting beside me and taking my hand. How are you holding up? Michael was a good man. May he rest in peace.
I nodded, clutching the handkerchief. My tears had already been shed; only a hollow remained.
Youre all alone now, Margaret continued, rubbing my back. No kitten, no child its a heavy load. But remember, youve got us.
She paused, choosing her words carefully.
You own two flats now, all to you. Why would you keep them both? One is yours, where you live. The other perhaps you could give it to Anne? She has two little ones, cramped with her motherinlaw, and no money for her own home. We cant live there either; its only a single room for us.
She went on, Youre wellpaid, and Michael left a modest estate. He even owned a car thats worth a fair amount.
I recoiled. The buzz in my ears grew louder. Give?not help buy, but give. The flat we had chosen together, renovated together, poured with both effort and money.
This is our flat, Michaels and mine. Its ours together, I said.
Now its not together, Margaret snapped, waving her hand, irritation flashing. Michaels gone! And Anne is suffering! Youre the older sister, always the one who could help. Yet you never did. Shes the younger, weaker, her husband unlucky
I thought back to my childhood: my grades were praised as well done, but dont get cocky, while Annes were dismissed as poor thing, she tried. My first paycheck came with a note: Give a share to your sister. Annes first salary? Spend it yourself, youve earned it.
Our parents always seemed to favour Anne, the unlucky one. Even our prom dresses reflected itmy gown was simple, my sisters a custommade masterpiece because she was a princess.
Michael had been my shield from that constant comparison, my excuse to be happy outside the script.
I rose, feeling a lump tighten in my throat, not from grief any longer but from anger. Anne and her husband are adults, thirty years old. Let them learn to earn, save, get a mortgage like everyone else. Im not obligated to hand over a flat bought with Michaels money! Its unfair.
Margaret leapt up, her face flushing, eyes narrowing. Unfair? Youre the selfish one! Greedy! You have everything while your sister scrapes by with her kids! How dare you turn her away after all we did for you?
She snatched her coat, flinging it over her shoulder. Remember, youll never find happiness with those flats! Youll end up with nothing! We dont know you any morenot me, not Anne! Youre no longer our daughter or sister! Live as you will!
The door slammed so hard the crystal chandeliers rattled. I stood trembling in the living roomnot from fear, but from the deafening injustice that had just been hurled at me. My mother, instead of comforting me, had tried to strip away a piece of my past with Michaelfor Annes sake. Always for Anne.
***
I fled to HydePark, the autumn turning the trees crimson and gold, the air crisp and clean. I wandered the paths, trying not to think of Michael, my mother, Anne, the flat. The world felt like a barren desertlonely beyond measure.
On a bench by the pond sat an elderly lady in a tidy grey beret and a wellworn coat. She gazed at the ducks, her eyes vacant. Something about her hunchbacked, vulnerable posture struck a chord in me. I took the opposite end of the bench. She startled, as if awakened.
Its cold today, I said softly, breaking the heavy silence.
She turned, her pale, gaunt face framed by eyes as bright and sad as faded linen.
Yes, cold, she replied, voice hoarse. And my heart feels the same. Im frozen inside
We sat in silence. I didnt know what to say. She sighed.
Forgive me, dear, I shouldnt have spoken, she whispered. Its hard. My son, Samuel he died a year ago from a heart attack. He was still young. I transferred my flat to him so he wouldnt be tangled in probate after my death. Turns out, just before he passed, he gifted that flat to his wife. She never told me. Now she lives there, and Im just a burden on them. I hide food because I dont want to be a nuisance. My pension is a pittance. Im an old, unwanted weight I even brought a man here once, scared to speak.
She shivered. Theres nowhere to go. I fear theyll throw me out at any moment. I made a horrible mistake signing that deed over to him. No one knew hed die
Tears streamed down her wrinkled cheeks, unbidden. I felt a sudden pressure in my chest, as if my own breath had been stolen. Her pain was foreign yet oddly familiar, magnifying my own sense of injustice.
Whats your name? I asked.
Dorothy Clarke, love.
Im Natalie. I paused, eyes on her trembling hands. Words spilled before I could shape them.
Dorothy I have a flat, empty now. The tenants moved out. Its quiet, bright, cosy. You could live there, free of charge.
Dorothys eyes widened with a mixture of astonishment and hope.
My dear, I dont even know you I cant
You can, I said firmly. For the first time in ages, something other than pain flickered inside meperhaps pity, perhaps the desire to do something right in a world that felt upside down.
I live alone in the next house. The flat is vacant, and it would ease my mind to have a good person there. Come, have a cup of tea, warm up.
She extended a trembling hand, which I took. Her grip was icecold.
***
Dorothy moved into the empty flat. Small belongings appeared: an old suitcase, embroidered handkerchiefs on the nightstand, books, a modest crucifix in the corner. The air filled with the scent of herbal infusions and fresh scones she baked to thank me.
Her daughterinlaw was relieved when she heard her mother was leaving and helped搬 the things.
We talked oftenabout Samuel, about my lost Michael, about the ache that never truly fades but can be learned to live with. I brought groceries, medicine. Dorothy chided me for working too much, for not eating enough, and would set a pot of hearty stew on the table like I used to make for Samuel.
We didnt become mother and daughter straight away. We became neighbours bound by misfortune, then friends. Dorothys quiet wisdom, her listening without judgment, her simple, sincere care became the little island of warmth I so desperately needed.
She healed me not with words but with presencewarm tea served at the right moment, a silent, understanding glance when I trudged home exhausted and despondent. She never asked about my mother or sister, yet in her eyes I read, I know, love, I understand.
Two years passed. Contrary to Margarets grim prophecy, life kept moving. I met Andrew, a steady mannot the whirlwind Michael had been, but calm and dependable. He knew my story and was already acquainted with Dorothy.
We married and decided to keep my flat as our home, renting out his. He had no close family; his previous marriage had dissolved. He was caring, loving, and my heart thawed at last. Life does not stand still; happiness can still find you.
When I, voice shaking, told him about the two lines on the pregnancy test, the first person I asked to call was Dorothy.
Grandma Tom, Andrew said, hugging me, she should be the first to know.
The birth was tough. When the midwives finally released me, weary yet radiant, holding a tiny bundle, Andrew and Dorothy were there. Dorothys eyes shone like a childs.
Goodness, what a beautiful little thing! she whispered, cradling the baby. Hello, my sunshine
We named him Ethan. And Dorothy became Grandmum Tom, the very person who rocked him when colic struck, sang old lullabies once sung to Samuel, and watched over him with a pure, unselfish love.
She knitted tiny booties, read stories, sat by his cot while Andrew and I rested. Dorothys flat became a second home for Ethan, and she herself an indispensable part of our small, but solid family.
***
News of my grandsons arrival eventually reached Margaret through mutual acquaintances. One afternoon the phone rang while I was rocking Ethan.
Nat? Its me, my mothers voice crackled.
Hello, Mum, I replied.
Congratulations, she said, her tone flat, then a venomous edge slipped in: A boy, they say? And you gave your second flat to some stranger? Is that true?
I pressed Ethan close, feeling the familiar chill of injustice crawl up my spine, but now I was not alone.
Yes, its true. Dorothy lives there. Shes not a stranger; shes my sons grandmother.
A harsh laugh erupted on the other end. Grandmother? Have you lost your mind? You handed a flat to a random old woman, while your own sister and nieces got nothing! And now this woman is a grandmother to your child? Youre a heartless brute! Your soul is black! A stranger is now closer to you than your own mother and sister?
I looked at Ethans innocent face, felt his warm body against mine, recalled Dorothys gentle hands cradling him. Tears of joy welled up, mingling with the memory of my own grief.
Mother, a stranger has become my closest person. Closer and dearer because she gave me what you never didunconditional love, no demands, no strings. She became my family by choice, by heart. Youre just blood, nothing more.
Silence answered her. She hung up.
I walked to the window. Across the little garden, Dorothy sat on a bench, basking in the sunlight, a bag of buns in her lap. She waved, then handed the bag to me. I waved back, pressing Ethans soft cheek to my own. Warmth filled my chest, steady and calm.
And so we live. In one flatNatalie, Andrew, and Ethanhis laughter now fills rooms once heavy with loss. In the otherDorothy, Grandmum Tomher heart, once shriveled by sorrow, has blossomed anew.
The flat that once sparked bitter dispute between blood relatives has become two homes. One for an elderly lady who turned out to be the most beloved person in my life, the other for a young family who finally feels whole.
What of Margaret and Anne? They exist somewhere in a parallel track. Occasionally I hear whispers that Anne still lives with her motherinlaw, complaining about money and her husband. Margaret is ill. I no longer call.
It isnt spite that keeps me silent. Its the knowledge that a single drop of poison can taint a whole well of fresh spring water. I chose a family built not on debt, reproach, or manipulation, but on mutual respect, gratitude, and the simple, quiet love that needs no proof of blood.
Family isnt a name on a birth certificate. Its a warm hand offered at the right moment, patience heard, tears of joy for anothers happiness, and a readiness to be there not when you need something, but when you simply feel low.
Sometimes a strangers outstretched hand becomes closer, dearer, and more valuable than those who bear the proud title family yet bring only coldness, resentment, and endless guilt for not being the person they want you to be. Family is who warms your soul. The soul doesnt discriminate between blood or not; it feels warmth and returns it.
