Freya got pregnant young, and her parents threw her out of the house. Fifteen years later, they showed up to see their daughter and grandson. What they saw left them staggered…

I’ll explain when I get there, Freya said, wiping her nose on her sleeve. Please, just… can I come? Course you can, Eleanor replied, firm and no-nonsense. Get yourself here safe.

I’ll put the kettle on. Freya hung up, the promise of shelter steadying her just enough to move. She glanced back at the house one last time, the warm light spilling from the windows, the silhouette of her mom still at the table, and then turned toward the bus stop at the end of the street.

The winter wind howling at her back. Freya stepped off the Greyhound bus in Springfield just past midnight, her sneakers crunching on the frost-dusted pavement of the station lot. The two-hour ride had been a blur of headlights and half-formed regrets, her bag a heavy anchor on her lap.

She trudged the three blocks to Eleanor’s street, the cold biting deeper with every step until the little brick house came into view, its sagging porch lit by a single yellow bulb, the garden a tangle of winter roses peeking through the snow. The front door swung open before she could even knock, and there stood Grandma Eleanor, bundled in a faded quilted robe, her silver hair pulled into a loose bun. Eleanor’s sharp grey eyes flicked over Freya’s tear-streaked face, the dark circles under her eyes, the way her shoulders slumped like she was carrying the world.

She didn’t say a word about it, just stepped forward and pulled Freya into a hug, her arms sturdy and warm despite the frail look of her. Come on in, dear, she said, her voice rough but soft, like gravel smoothed by a river. There’s always a place for you here, you know that.

Freya nodded against her grandmother’s shoulder, the lump in her throat too big to speak around. Eleanor didn’t press, didn’t pry, just ushered her inside, the door creaking shut behind them. The house smelled of old wood and chamomile tea, a faint trace of cinnamon from the oven lingering in the air.

It was small, cluttered with decades of life, a sagging plaid couch, a shelf of chipped teacups, a radio humming low with some late night jazz station. Eleanor nudged her toward the living room. Sit, warm up, I’ll fix us something hot.

Freya sank into the couch, the springs groaning under her, and clutched her duffle like a lifeline. Eleanor shuffled back minutes later with two mugs of tea and a plate of leftover meatloaf sandwiches, crusty bread, a smear of ketchup, the kind of comfort food Freya hadn’t realised she’d missed. They ate in silence at first, the clink of forks against plates the only sound, but the weight of it all, the fight, the fear, the future, pressed too hard and Freya’s resolve cracked.

Grandma, she started setting her mug down with a shaky clatter, I messed up everything. The words tumbled out, raw and jagged. Mum and Dad, they kicked me out.

Mum said I’ve disgraced them, that I’m not their daughter anymore, and I’m… She swallowed hard, tears spilling over. I’m pregnant, I don’t know what to do. I’m so scared.

Eleanor set her own mug down, slow and deliberate, her weathered hand resting on the armrest. She let out a long, heavy sigh, the kind that carried years of her own battles, and leaned forward, fixing Freya with a steady gaze. Oh, child, she said, reaching out to pat Freya’s shoulder, her touch firm but gentle.

People say all kinds of things when they’re hurt or mad, Lord knows I’ve heard worse. But listen to me, a child’s no disgrace, it’s a blessing every time, even when it’s hard. Freya sniffled, wiping her nose on her sleeve.

They don’t see it that way, Dad told me to get out like I’m some stranger, and Owen, he’s gone, doesn’t even know. How am I supposed to do this alone? You’re not alone, Eleanor said sharply, her tone cutting through Freya’s spiral. You’ve got me, don’t you? I raised your Daddy through worse than this, and I’ll help you through it too.

We’ll manage, together. But what if I can’t? Freya whispered, her voice trembling. What if I’m not strong enough? Eleanor chuckled, a low, raspy sound, and squeezed her shoulder.

Strong enough? Girl, you walked out of that house and made it here, didn’t you? That’s more guts than most have at twice your age. You’ll figure it out, one step at a time. Now finish that sandwich before it gets cold.

Freya managed a watery smile, the first crack of light in the dark she’d been drowning in. She picked up the sandwich, the warmth of the bread seeping into her fingers, and took a bite. Eleanor leaned back in her chair, sipping her tea, the jazz crooning softly between them.

For the first time in weeks, Freya felt a flicker of warmth seep into her soul within the walls of Eleanor’s little brick house. The chill of rejection, the sting of Owen’s absence, the bite of that January night. It all started to thaw under her grandmother’s steady presence.

Eleanor didn’t just give her a roof, she gave her a lifeline, a foothold to claw her way towards something new. Freya spent the next months settling in, helping Eleanor tend the winter roses, curling up on the plaid couch with cups of chamomile tea, and letting the quiet hum of the old radio stitch her frayed edges back together. It wasn’t easy.

Her belly grew, her fears gnawed, but Eleanor’s gruff assurances kept her grounded. We’ll manage, kid. We always do.

When the time came, it was mid-August, the air thick with heat, and the promise of change. Freya’s water broke on a muggy Tuesday morning, right as she was rinsing dishes in Eleanor’s cramped kitchen. Grandma, she gasped, clutching the sink, suds dripping onto the linoleum.

Eleanor was there in a heartbeat, tossing a dish towel aside and grabbing the car keys. Let’s go, girl. Time to meet this little one.

They made it to Springfield Mercy, a small maternity hospital just off the highway, its beige walls and buzzing fluorescents a blur as Freya gripped Eleanor’s arm through the first waves of pain. Eleanor never left her side, through the paperwork, the sterile gown, the hours of contractions that left Freya breathless and swearing under her breath. You’re doing fine, honey, Eleanor murmured, her voice a steady anchor, wiping Freya’s forehead with a cool cloth.

Just keep breathing. He’s almost here. And then, after a final push that tore a cry from her throat, he was.

A tiny boy, slick and squalling, with a shock of dark, fluffy hair that glistened under the hospital lights. The nurse laid him on Freya’s chest and time seemed to stop. She stared down at him, his scrunched up face, his impossibly small fists, and her heart cracked open, flooding with a joy so fierce it stole her breath…