**Light in the Night**
I woke with a start when the doorbell rang, sharp and insistent, cutting through the silence like a knife. Bloody hell, who could be knocking at this hour? I rolled over, hoping they’d leave, but the ringing only grew more impatient.
“What do you want?” I snapped, throwing on my old dressing gown and stomping to the door. Peering through the peephole, I saw a hunched old woman clutching a massive tabby cat to her chest.
“Who’s there?” I demanded, not planning to open up—I’d heard enough horror stories. But then the old woman groaned, sagging against the wall. The cat wriggled free and darted around her feet, mewing pitifully.
“For crying out loud,” I muttered, unbolting the door. “Are you alright? Let me call an ambulance—hold on!” I helped her to the sofa, then grabbed my phone. The cat watched me with wide amber eyes, tail flicking.
“The medics are coming,” I said, trying to sound calm. “What’s your name?”
“Margaret Whitmore,” she wheezed. “My papers… in the bag.”
I fetched her worn handbag and pulled out her ID.
“Love, I can’t go to the hospital,” she whispered. “My grandson’s waiting—I’ve got to give him money or he’ll toss me out. And my cat—where would he go?”
“The doctor will decide if you can leave,” I said firmly. “And I’ll look after your cat. But why are you the one bringing *him* money?”
She shook her head. “Best you don’t ask.”
The doorbell chimed again. I let in the paramedics, who checked Margaret over.
“We’re taking her to St. Mary’s,” one said. “Drop off some essentials tomorrow—a mug, pyjamas, that sort of thing.”
“I’m not going!” Margaret protested weakly.
“Go on,” I urged. “I’ll visit. And your cat’ll be fine—I’m fond of them.”
The next morning, I groaned. “Why do I always get tangled in other people’s messes?” But then I remembered Margaret’s kind eyes and smiled. Maybe we’d be friends.
I’d had a rough childhood—parents more interested in the bottle than in me. The only warmth came from elderly neighbours: a pat on the head here, a slice of cake there. When I was thirteen, my parents drank themselves to death. After that, it was just Mrs. Thompson from next door who kept me sane. But by sixteen, I lost her too. I’d been on my own ever since.
By twenty-three, I was tough—foster care had seen to that. So when I decided to track down Margaret’s grandson, I wasn’t scared. I’d memorised her address from her ID.
The house was in an ageing part of Leeds, on Sycamore Lane. Two old ladies sat gossiping on a bench outside. I joined them, and within minutes, I’d heard the whole story.
Margaret had raised her grandson alone after her daughter and son-in-law died. The boy was five when they passed. But by eighteen, he’d fallen in with a bad lot. Now he bullied her for money, threatened her cat, and rented out his own flat while living off her. The police didn’t interfere—just called it a “domestic matter.”
I saw red.
I marched upstairs and hammered on the door. A bleary-eyed lad with bloodshot eyes answered.
“You little rat!” I shoved past him. “How *dare* you treat your own gran like that? Pack your things and get out—now!”
He gaped, then nodded.
“Touch her again, and I’ll make sure you regret it,” I spat. “And don’t test me.”
“Who the hell *are* you?” he muttered.
“Doesn’t matter. Cross me, and I’ll have you nicked for possession—got it?”
Fifteen minutes later, he slunk out withMargaret and I spent the next decade as family, proving that kindness and courage can rewrite even the loneliest of stories.
