Living on Hope
Lydia’s flat was overrun by her daughter’s so-called *friends*. The fridge was mostly empty, and whatever money she had vanished into her daughter’s pockets. The only time her daughter, Lucy, showed any warmth was on pension day:
*Mum, look—your pension’s come in! Hand it over. I’ll pop to the shops for some treats.*
The *treats*, of course, were liquid and came in bottles. Within minutes, the flat was full of laughter, clinking glasses, and chaos. Lydia had long settled into her own routine—park benches or bus stops. The telly at home didn’t work, not that she could’ve watched it anyway with all the racket.
Then she noticed the new neighbours moving in downstairs—a young couple, always giggling, always chatting. They’d spotted her too, the quiet old woman with the tired eyes, always sitting alone. One day, the girl—Emily—couldn’t resist. She dashed out to toss the rubbish, then stopped on her way back.
*»Hello! I’m Emily. What’s your name?»*
*»Just Granny Lydia,»* she sighed.
*»Come up for a cuppa!»* Emily blurted. *»You’re always out here—I see you every day. Don’t worry, my husband Tom’s home—he won’t bite.»*
For some reason, Lydia agreed. The flat was small but cosy, and soon the kettle was whistling.
*»Tom, we’ve got company!»* Emily called. He emerged, grinning. *»This is Granny Lydia, our neighbour.»*
*»Pleasure,»* he said. *»Tom—this one’s better half.»* He winked. *»Seen you about. Always wondered why you looked so glum.»*
That afternoon was the first time in years Lydia felt truly warm. Later, Emily confessed:
*»Mum passed last year—cancer. Tom’s an orphan, grew up in care. We’ve no family, really. You remind me of her—not looks, just… the way you feel like home.»*
From then on, Lydia was a regular guest. Winter nights were spent in their tiny flat, sharing tea and stories. Come spring, she didn’t want to overstay her welcome—they had jobs, lives, dates at the cinema. So she returned to her bench, invisible again in the summer heat.
Then one sweltering day, she collapsed at the bus stop. A blur of sirens, then—yellow hospital walls.
*»Alive, then,»* she thought weakly.
Hospital camaraderie being what it is, her roommates soon had her spilling her life story—the neglectful daughter, the kind neighbours who had no idea where she’d gone.
*»Don’t fret,»* chirped Shirley from the next bed. *»My lad’s coming later—give him their address, he’ll fetch ’em.»*
Sure enough, Emily came rushing in that evening.
*»We’ve been worried sick! Tried asking your Lucy, but—»* She waved a hand dismissively.
They visited daily. When discharge day came, they bundled her straight to theirs.
*»You’re staying with us. No arguments. Your place is a madhouse—music, strangers, no peace. Here, you’ll rest.»*
Two days later—smoke. A crash from downstairs. The flat across from Lydia’s was ablaze. The fire brigade pulled Lucy out too late—asleep with a fag in hand, the sofa had gone up in flames.
Funeral whispers followed: *»Awful to bury a child… but God works in strange ways. Poor Lydia’s free now.»*
She stayed with Emily and Tom as a *temporary* arrangement—or so she told herself. But soon, it was clear they needed each other. Breakfast waiting when they woke, supper ready when they returned. Lydia, for the first time, felt like family.
They fixed up her fire-damaged flat—fresh paint, new wallpaper, bargain furniture. Oddly, Lydia struggled to recall a single happy memory of Lucy.
On the day the repairs finished, Lydia and Emily cooked a feast. Tom even cracked open bubbly.
*»My dears,»* Lydia said, raising her glass, *»you’re more family to me than blood. Let’s swap flats. You’ll need the space soon—I’ve seen the way Emily’s hiding her bump.»*
Tom choked. Emily squealed. *»YES! And you’ll be a great-granny! No wonder we call you Gran.»*
*»Oh, my stars,»* Lydia laughed, eyes wet. *»I’d be honoured. Let’s get you settled—every baby needs a proper nest.»*
Now, Emily, Tom, and little Alfie thrive in the bigger flat, while Lydia proudly pushes her great-grandson’s pram. All those years of hoping? Worth every second.
