Victor Stephens and Margaret Nicholson had regretted a thousand times over listening to their son and selling their house back in Yorkshire. Life there had been difficult, but it was *theirs*. They were masters of their own home. Here? They barely dared leave their room, terrified of provoking the wrath of their daughter-in-law, Catherine. Everything about them grated on her nerves—the way they shuffled in slippers, the way they sipped tea, even the way they ate.
The only person in that flat who cared for them was their grandson, James. A handsome young man, fiercely devoted to his grandparents. If Catherine raised her voice in front of him, he fired back without hesitation. Their own son, Edward? He never stood up for them—whether out of fear or indifference, they didn’t know.
James was rarely home, living in student digs near his internship, visiting only on weekends. Those days were like holidays for the old couple. And now, with New Year’s Eve approaching, James had dropped by early in the morning, just to wish them well. He’d brought gifts—thick woolly socks and mittens, knowing how the cold bit into their bones. Plain ones for his granddad, embroidered for his gran. Margaret pressed the mittens to her face and wept.
“What’s wrong, Granny? Don’t you like them?”
“How could I not? They’re perfect. The most precious things I’ve ever had.”
She hugged him, and he kissed her hands—something he’d done since childhood. They always smelled of something warm—apples, fresh bread, but most of all, love.
“Listen, I’ve got plans with mates for a few days. But I’ll be back.”
“Go on, love,” said Margaret. “We’ll wait.”
James left, and the old couple retreated to their room. An hour later, Catherine’s shrill voice sliced through the flat—guests were coming. How *dare* the old people be in the way? It was *embarrassing*—where would they *put* everyone? Edward muttered something feeble, but Catherine wasn’t listening. The old couple sat still as mice, too afraid to even step into the kitchen for tea. Victor dug out some biscuits from his secret stash, and they nibbled in silence by the window, afraid to speak. Margaret’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears—how cruel it was to live long enough to be unwanted.
As dusk fell, Edward entered.
“There’s… well, guests are coming. You’ll have to go somewhere.”
“Where, son? We’ve got nowhere,” Margaret whispered.
“How should I know? That neighbour of yours in Bridlington—go there.”
“The last bus has gone, we don’t even know where the station is—”
“Catherine says you’ve got an hour.”
He left. The old couple looked at each other, swallowing back sobs. They packed, pulling on the gifts James had given them. Outside, the biting wind cut through them. People rushed past, wrapped in their own lives. Margaret clung to Victor as they limped toward the park. A tiny café offered refuge—tea, sandwiches, the first food they’d touched all day.
An hour later, the cold chased them out. Snow swirled in the lamplight, frost gnawing at their bones. A gazebo in the park became their shelter—at least it had a roof. Huddled together, Margaret traced the embroidery on her mittens.
“At least James has a good heart,” Victor muttered, “unlike his stone-cold parents.”
“And yet we couldn’t keep our promise to wait for him,” Margaret whispered.
Houses glowed with Christmas lights, families gathered inside. Then—a whimper. A spaniel nosed at Margaret’s knees, whining. A woman’s voice called through the dark.
“Lord! Where are you, boy? Come here!”
The dog barked. Footsteps crunched in the snow.
“Lord! Oh—” The young woman, Emily, stopped short. “I’m so sorry, he’s harmless. But… have you been out here long?”
Margaret nodded. The dog wagged his tail furiously.
“You can’t stay here. It’s freezing, and it’s nearly midnight.”
Silence.
“You’ve nowhere to go, have you?”
Victor shook his head.
“Well, that settles it,” Emily said firmly. “You’re coming with me.”
They protested, but she wouldn’t hear it. Her flat was warm, smelling of roasting potatoes. A glittering tree stood in the corner. She bustled about, setting the table. Victor played with Lord, while Margaret helped with supper. At midnight, they clinked glasses—grateful, all of them, not to be alone.
The next morning, Emily refused to let them leave. “Stay the week. We’ll figure it out.”
When James returned, he found his grandparents gone.
“Mum, where are they?”
“How should I know? They left.”
“*Left? When?*”
“New Year’s Eve. Guests were coming—what, were we supposed to celebrate with *them*?”
“You’re *disgusting*,” James spat.
He ran into the streets, desperate. Two hours passed. Then—a flash of embroidery. A woman wearing mittens identical to his grandmother’s.
“Where did you get those?”
“Why?”
“I gave my gran a pair just like them. I can’t find her—or my granddad.”
“You must be James.”
She led him home. His grandparents clung to him, weeping. Over tea and pancakes, they talked. Emily insisted they stay. James visited daily.
The flat, once quiet, now brimmed with life—laughter, cooking smells, Lord flopping onto whoever’s lap pleased him most.
As for James and Emily? Well. That’s another story.
Kindness, after all, has a way of coming back.
Sometimes all it takes is a smile.
A simple question.
One good deed.
It always returns.