Margaret Thompson had not had an easy life. She was widowed young. When her husband died, their little son Victor was barely eight. Like many men, he had never thought much about his health. He smoked heavily and later started drinking regularly. Still, he brought money home. Victor hardly remembered his father, and that was hardly surprising.
Most of the time the man spent at work. By day he worked on construction sites, by night he guarded a warehouse. Weekends were for catching up on sleep, not for the child.
Margaret forgave her husband’s drinking. After all, he was a hard worker, not like her friends’ husbands who came home and collapsed on the sofa while the women juggled two or three jobs and still managed the housework.
The tragedy came without warning. He had never complained about feeling unwell. Then, suddenly, right at work, he had a massive heart attack. People whispered that the night watchman hadn’t been alone that night—he’d been with a young woman. She was the one who called the ambulance. Those rumours hurt the widow deeply, but what could she do? You don’t speak ill of the dead.
Left alone with a small child, Margaret didn’t know which way to turn. She owned a fairly spacious three-bedroom apartment that had come to her from her parents. Paying the bills for such a place was a burden. She thought about exchanging it for a two-bedroom flat and even taking some extra money, but then changed her mind. Soon her son would grow up, get married—two bedrooms would feel cramped.
Relatives and kind-hearted neighbours kept trying to set her up with someone. Men responded eagerly; a spacious apartment is a powerful attraction for suitors. Margaret brushed them all off. She didn’t need anyone.
So she lived alone. It was hard, but she managed. Her son grew up good and clever. He finished university, found a decent job, and then one day brought home a sweet, modest girl.
— Mum, I’d like you to meet Emily—she’s going to be my wife.
Margaret was delighted with her future daughter-in-law. A nice, respectable girl, studying at teacher training college. She would soon get her diploma and start teaching in school.
After the wedding, Margaret moved into the smallest room—the one that had been Victor’s nursery. The bedroom and the large living room went to the young couple. Every morning they left for work, and Margaret took over the household chores. Cleaning, laundry, cooking—all day long. But constant chores were no burden to her. Better that than sitting with the old ladies on the bench outside the building.
Then little Samuel was born. After two years of maternity leave, the young mother went back to her teaching job, and Grandma looked after the child. Of course there was more work. You couldn’t take your eyes off the lively little boy for a second! Margaret was tired, but she never complained. The young couple needed help, after all.
Emily proved herself at work and was soon promoted to deputy headteacher. That wasn’t the end of it either. The elderly headmistress, who was planning to retire in a few years, was grooming her as a successor.
No wonder the strict teacher began to get above herself. At school she gave orders to the pupils, and at home she gave them to her ageing mother-in-law. The soup wasn’t right, the sheets weren’t ironed properly. Margaret tried not to argue.
“Emily’s worn out at school, obviously. The naughty children get on her nerves, so she snaps,” she would excuse her daughter-in-law, sigh, and go back to her chores.
But age was gradually taking its toll. She felt weak, dizzy spells came, her memory often failed her. She no longer had the strength for all the housework. She needed to lie down and rest, but little Samuel was tugging at her to go for a walk, and then it would be time to make dinner.
One day the mischievous boy was racing around the courtyard with his friends. Margaret sat watching. When Samuel finally tired himself out, Grandma took him home. Right at the door she suddenly remembered:
— Oh no, I left my bag on the bench! My keys, purse, phone—everything’s in it!
She rushed back downstairs, but the bag had vanished. What can you expect—people are like that. At least there hadn’t been much money, and the phone was old and cheap. She decided to wait outside until Emily came home.
“I’ll get an earful from her,” Margaret thought, and then remembered the bank card that had been in her purse.
What now? She had to phone her son straight away. He was young—he’d sort it out. She couldn’t block the card herself.
An anxious Victor arrived twenty minutes later. He immediately rang the bank and discovered the money had already been withdrawn. Margaret wailed loudly, and Samuel burst into tears beside her. Victor sighed and said calmly:
— All right, that’s enough. Nothing terrible has happened. We’ll buy a new phone, change the lock, get the card reissued. Let’s go upstairs, you’ll have some valerian drops and lie down. I need to get back to work.
That same evening Victor and Emily were having an animated discussion in the kitchen. Margaret went to the door and listened.
— I do understand—she’s your mother. But you have to face facts. We can’t trust Samuel with her any more. Today she forgot her bag, tomorrow she’ll lose the child somewhere. And it’s not safe to leave her alone in the flat. Who knows what might happen—she could flood the neighbours or leave the gas on. We have to do something.
— Emily, come on! It happens to everyone. Have you never lost your keys? And what about the brand-new phone I gave you—didn’t you leave that on the bus? And didn’t Samuel once run off from you in the supermarket? All right, we can put him in nursery. But do you really think a nursery teacher will look after him better than his own grandmother? — Victor said indignantly.
— I know people at the nursery—we’ll get him into a good group. It’s time Samuel spent more time with children his own age. And I have another idea… — Emily lowered her voice so much that the rest was inaudible.
Saddened, Margaret went back to the living room and sank heavily onto the sofa. Samuel was pottering beside her. Seeing that Grandma looked upset, the little boy ran over and asked seriously:
— Grandma, are you going away?
— Going away? Whatever do you mean, darling? — the woman exclaimed in surprise.
— Mummy said we’re going to exchange the apartment and you’ll leave. I didn’t understand what “exchange” means.
Margaret’s heart skipped a beat, but she didn’t show it. No point upsetting the child.
— Don’t worry, sweetheart, don’t worry!
— Grandma, please don’t leave us, — the anxious little boy climbed onto the sofa and hugged her tightly.
At that very moment shouting erupted from the kitchen. Emily, now hysterical, was screaming that she couldn’t go on living like this. Her husband didn’t love her and never took her side.
“Good heavens,” Margaret whispered in fright. “I must really be in her way. Perhaps she’s right—we should exchange the apartment. I’ll live out my days alone, and they can come and visit.”
An elderly person no longer needed in the family is nothing unusual. Yet for some reason Margaret hadn’t believed it would happen to her. She went to her room, cried for a long time, and suddenly felt dizzy. When she came round she was on a stretcher. She heard the ominous word “stroke” and lost consciousness again.
Weeks of torment in hospital followed. Victor was wonderful—he visited his mother often. The only trouble was that she couldn’t speak to him; the stroke had affected her speech. In answer to her anxious mumbling, her perceptive son would say:
— Everything’s fine with Samuel, don’t worry. He’s settled in nursery. He misses you terribly.
Fortunately, intensive treatment worked. In time the woman recovered. She began to walk a little, and just before discharge she spoke clearly. She told Victor she would agree to the apartment exchange. But her son said firmly:
— No way, Mum. I’m not leaving you on your own.
Margaret breathed a sigh of relief. “So Emily’s changed her mind about us all living together?” Then a dreadful thought struck her: “Or perhaps Emily thinks I haven’t long left. That’s why she doesn’t want to exchange the apartment—she’ll end up with the whole three-bedroom place.”
Now it wasn’t Grandma looking after Samuel, but Samuel looking after Grandma. The attentive little boy followed her everywhere. He reminded her to lock the door. He knew where she kept her glasses. Outside he carefully watched her bag, purse and phone. But he never said anything to his parents. It was their secret.
“What a grandson I have—serious and independent,” Margaret thought proudly.
One day, passing the kitchen, she caught fragments of conversation:
— You can see for yourself—your mother’s getting worse and worse.
— So?
— So? We need to put her somewhere where she’ll be looked after.
Suddenly a clear little voice rang out from behind the door:
— I won’t let you send Grandma away—nowhere, do you hear!
The door flew open, and Samuel shot out of the kitchen and flung his arms around Margaret.
— Grandma, I’m with you. Don’t be afraid—no one will hurt you.
The old woman burst into loud sobs, and Victor felt ashamed.
Another year passed. My neighbour Margaret Thompson quietly passed away in her little room. I wanted to go and pay my respects, but Victor asked me to look after Samuel so the child wouldn’t have to attend the funeral. Probably that was for the best.
— Well, Samuel, off to first grade soon? — I asked the subdued little boy.
He nodded silently and went on playing with his big colourful robot. Then suddenly he began to cry.
— Tell me—Grandma isn’t coming back, is she?
— If you remember Grandma, she’ll always be with you.
— Really? I’ll never, never forget her, — the loving grandson said with certainty, and my heart felt lighter.
I hope that when he grows up, Samuel will keep his kind heart. That he’ll be an attentive husband, a caring father, and will not abandon his parents in their hour of need. Old people are not easy, of course. That’s why many people can’t cope. It’s very sad that life turns out this way.
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