Keep an Eye on Gran, It’s No Trouble for You

Look after my mother, it isnt that hard, is it?

Emily, you understand, said Margaret Harper, her voice edged with worry. My mum isnt the same as she used to be. Age, a bit of dementia, her memorys slipping. The doctors have said she needs someone watching over her. Id do it myself, but work, bills And youre homebased, right? Youve got the remote job. It cant be too much trouble?

Emily pressed her lips together. She did work from her flat, translating documents and occasionally doing online consultations. Her schedule was flexible, but that didnt mean she had endless spare hours.

Margaret, Im not sure what to do, Emily began cautiously. Ive never dealt with something like this. Maybe we should hire a livein carer? Or put her in a residential home where professionals can look after her

Margarets eyes flashed with indignation.

A residential home?! How could you say that! Thats my mum! Ill never hand her over to some institution where strangers are in charge. Were family, not a charity.

Emily glanced at James, hoping for support, but he didnt even look up from his phone.

Emily, its not a huge ask, James finally said, still scrolling. Just pop in in the morning, pop in in the evening. Feed her, help a bit. Nothing really difficult. Youll manage.

Emily sighed. Arguing was pointless. Besides, they were all living in Margarets house shed generously let the young couple stay after their wedding while they saved for their own place. Turning her down now would feel ungrateful.

Fine, Emily said quietly. Ill give it a go.

Margarets face lit up. She rose, walked around the kitchen table and gave her daughterinlaw a tight hug.

Thank you, love. You have no idea how much this helps me. Ill give you the keys and write down the address. Mums flat is just a fifteenminute walk away. Only, Em, she can be a bit you know, a touch irritable. If she says something odd, just ignore it, alright?

Emily nodded, thinking she could handle looking after an elderly lady without too much hassle.

The next morning she discovered just how wrong that assumption was.

Ethel Morgans flat was in a rundown block of flats, with peeling wallpaper and creaky staircases. Emily climbed to the third floor, knocked on the door and waited. Inside there was a thump, then shuffling footsteps, and finally the click of a lock.

The door swung open to reveal a stooped old woman in a threadbare dressing gown, her eyes clouded.

What do you want? she rasped.

Good morning, Mrs Morgan. Im Emily, Jamess wife. Margaret Harper asked me to look after you. May I come in?

The old woman snorted, then stepped aside. Emily entered the hallway and nearly gagged on the smell a mixture of dampness, medicine and something sour. The flat was a mess: magazines, wornout slippers, and a pile of pill bottles on the small table by the mirror. From the kitchen wafted the scent of something burnt.

What would you like for breakfast? I can make something, Emily said, turning to the woman.

Ethel snapped back:

I dont want anything! Who sent you? Val? Some spy again!

Emily blinked. Spy?

I just want to help

Help! the old lady parroted. All of you pretend to be caring, but youre only waiting for me to die so you can get the flat!

Emily stood frozen. Ethels words were so sharp she could barely form a reply. She slipped into the kitchen, switched on the kettle and started rummaging for food. In the fridge she found a few eggs, a slice of ham and some stale bread. Nothing fancy, but enough for an omelette.

While she cooked, Ethel plonked herself onto a stool by the door and began a relentless tirade.

Youre always late. Yesterday Val promised to come and never showed. Liar. And you, youre the same. Youll eat me out of house and then pretend theres nothing left.

Emily kept flipping the eggs, trying not to react to the barrage.

When the omelette was ready, Emily placed the plate before Ethel. The old woman stared at it, took a bite, grimaced and pushed it away.

Its disgusting. Way too salty. Cant you cook?

Emily bit her lip. She tasted the omelette herself the seasoning was spoton.

Mrs Morgan, you need to eat. Otherwise you cant take your medication.

Dont tell me what to do! I know when Im hungry!

Ethel shuffled away, slamming the door behind her. Emily was left staring at the untouched plate, frustration bubbling beneath the surface, but she swallowed it down. The day had just begun.

That evening, when Emily returned, the scene repeated. Ethel refused dinner, swore she didnt want her pills, and accused Emily of trying to rob her. Emily pleaded, explained, but it was all for naught. By nightfall her head throbbed.

James met her at the kitchen doorway.

Hows it going? he asked casually.

Exhausting, Emily admitted, dropping into a chair. Your mum shes a nightmare. She screams, shes rude, she wont eat anything.

James shrugged.

Age, love. Mum warned you. Hang in there, Em. It wont be forever.

Emily wanted to ask what forever meant, but said nothing. James retreated to his room, closing the door with a soft click.

A week passed, then another. Emily visited Ethel twice a day, cooking, tidying, trying to keep some semblance of order. Her translation work slipped into the evenings, often stretching until midnight, only to rise again at dawn for another round of caregiving.

Ethel never softened. In fact, she grew more petty each day: Your foods too cold, Your soups too hot, You speak too loudly, Youre too quiet. She hurled objects, shouted, called Emily a freeloader and a moocher. Emily clenched her fists, stayed silent, but patience does have limits.

A month later Ethels condition worsened. She stopped getting out of bed, ate barely anything, and complained of constant pain. Emily called a doctor, who examined her, prescribed new medication and warned that her health was serious.

That evening Emily collapsed onto the sofa at home, utterly spent, tears refusing to come. She just stared at the wall.

The next day Margaret checked in.

Emily, hows mum?

Shes poorly, Emily replied, weary. The doctor says she needs constant care. I cant keep doing this, Margaret. Im exhausted. I have a job, I need rest. Im at my limit.

Margarets tone turned icy.

So youre refusing?

Im not refusing, Im asking for help. Lets hire a carer or

Hire a carer! Margaret interrupted. And what, Im made of money? Besides, its your duty, Emily. We gave you a roof, a place to stay. Show a little gratitude, would you?

Emilys hands curled into fists.

Margaret, Ive spent a month looking after your mother. Ive cooked, cleaned, endured her rants. Ive worked nights to keep everything afloat. I cant do this any longer.

Cant? Then get out. Pack your things and go. James, you hearing this?

James stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

Emily, Mums right, he said evenly. You must help the family. Youre a woman, you know your place. Were grateful for the roof.

Emily rose, the breath leaving her lungs feeling lighter.

Fine, I understand. Everything, absolutely everything.

Margaret gasped, and James blinked, as if he hadnt heard a word.

Emily, where are you going? he asked, bewildered.

Emily was already heading to the bedroom. She grabbed her bag and began packing. It held only a few clothes, some documents, her laptop the rest stayed with the parents when she moved in with James.

James followed, watching her gather her things, his face shifting from confusion to irritation.

Emily, stop. You cant just leave.

I can, she replied, zipping her bag. Im going back to my parents. Then Ill find a flat, get a divorce. This flat isnt ours anyway.

James opened his mouth, but no words came. Emily slipped past him, out the front door where Margaret stood, pale and bewildered.

Emily, where are you off to?

Im leaving. Thank you for the hospitality.

She stepped out, inhaled deeply and smiled as relief washed over her like a tide.

The divorce was processed quickly; James didnt even attend the hearing. Emily received the decree, tucked it away in a drawer and never thought of him again.

She moved into a small onebedroom flat of her own and began living for herself peacefully, at her own pace, without shouting, rudeness or perpetual tension.

A year slipped by unnoticed.

One afternoon Emily met her friend Lucy at a café. They chatted about work, summer plans, and then Lucy dropped a bombshell.

By the way, did you hear what happened to your exinlaws mother?

Emily lifted her teacup.

No, what?

She passed three months ago. Margaret made a scene all over the neighbourhood. Turns out the old lady had left the flat to a distant relative a niece, I think. Margaret tried to fight it, claimed the woman was unsound, but the will had been drawn up five years earlier when Ethel was still sharp.

Emily froze.

She left the flat to a distant relative?

Lucy nodded.

Yeah. Margaret was hoping to inherit the place herself, which is why she kept pushing for her mum to stay at home instead of a care home. She wanted to appear the caring daughter and keep the property out of anyones hands. In the end, she got nothing.

Emily leaned back, a warm, oddly satisfying feeling settling in her chest. All that time Margaret had used her as a freeofcharge carer just to line up a claim on the inheritance. The plan had backfired.

Emily, why are you smiling? Lucy asked, puzzled.

Nothing. Just justice, I guess.

Lucy snorted.

Yeah, Margarets still living with James, barely scraping by. Moneys always tight. Lifes never really gone her way.

Emily finished her tea and stood.

Lucy, fancy another café? I feel like treating myself to a slice of cake, a glass of bubbly, and a proper coffee.

Celebrating something? Lucy chuckled.

Just celebrating the fact that life can be delightfully unpredictable.

Later they left the café, strolling down the high street. Emily walked lightheartedly, almost gliding. Maybe shed been a bit too pleased at someone elses misfortune, but Margaret had tried to drain her, use her up and dump her. The universe had repaid the favour. The flat went to someone else, James stayed put, and neither of them found happiness. And that, dear reader, is the whole story.