SOFIE
The fact that they lived in the same town—the old, drizzly town of York—did nothing to ease the ache. Sofie never called or wrote, only occasionally replying with curt texts to the messages Lydia Margaret sent with ritual precision—every fourth morning. Not more often. God forbid she come across as pushy.
Scraps of news about her granddaughter’s life reached her through winding, indirect paths: Sofie had spent summer at a cottage near Leeds, Sofie had taken up competitive dancing, Sofie now owned a poodle. All these morsels came not from the girl herself but from her mother—a woman hardened and bitter after the divorce, who despised her ex-husband with relish and detested his mother with an extra sting.
*”Hello, Sofie! Today in the park, I saw squirrels fighting with acorns. Then a little dog chased them up a tree. How are you? Love and miss you. Grandma.”*
*”I’m fine.”*
Had her granddaughter caught the same indifference? Or had her mother deliberately infected her with coldness, like poison? Who knew? But for two years now, these short, clipped texts were the only thread still holding Lydia and Sofie together: one-sided pleas for love and a life in a half-empty house where the only living things left were the photos. Her son had left for Germany right after the divorce, sinking into quiet relief, forgetting both his daughter and his mother.
*”Hello, Sofie! I bought you a doll. She sings lullabies! Hope you’ll come visit—I’d love to give her to you. Grandma.”*
*”I don’t like dolls.”*
Once, while on the phone with Sofie’s mother, Lydia heard a small voice in the background: *”No! I don’t want her to come! I don’t!*” She dropped the phone. The room blurred. She just stood there, staring at the peeling wallpaper and the crack in the ceiling.
*”Sweet Sofie, I’ve got a toy dinosaur now. He’s funny and wiggles his ears. Love you. Grandma.”*
*”I don’t want it.”*
Then one June evening, on her way back from an early shift through the overgrown park, she spotted a hedgehog. Majestic, scruffy (or so it seemed), and oddly resembling their new headmaster—just missing the briefcase. It vanished into the bushes, but Lydia walked on, thinking about how Sofie hadn’t replied to the last ten messages.
But today was the fourth morning. She picked up the phone.
*”Sofie, guess what? I’ve got a hedgehog now! Named him… Bertie.”* She glanced at the TV, where *”Love Actually”* was playing.
*”He’s Bertie, he’s Bertram,*” she added aloud with a crooked smile.
*”Bertie can smile! Can you believe it? Sending hugs. Grandma.”*
Then—*ping!* The phone chimed. Lydia jumped. Must be spam… but no.
*”Whut else can he do?”*
She nearly dropped it. At first, she wanted to invent everything—violin, dancing, chess—but then thought better of it.
*”He puffs up his quills when he’s cross. I’ll tell you more tomorrow, alright?”*
No reply came, but a little ice in her chest had melted. That night, she woke in a panic: *What if it was all a dream?* She grabbed the phone—
*”Whut else can he do?”*
A real message. *Real!*
*”Sofie, today he tried reading. I gave him a book—he turned the pages with his nose.”*
Silence. A chill crept over her. What if Sofie’s mother mocked it? *”Silly old woman,”* that’s what she’d call her. Lydia could already hear the voice.
*Buzz!*
*”Whut book?”*
*”‘The Secret Garden,’ by Frances Hodgson Burnett. Read it?”*
A long pause. Then—
*”No. Is it gud? Whut does Bertie eat?”*
From that day on, the hedgehog became her lifeline. He lived. He grew. He fetched slippers. He adored custard. He was an artist, a philosopher. He learned to read. He argued with her—especially about his bowl and litter box. But most importantly, he was the thread. Between two hearts.
A month passed. Then—a call:
*”Sofie wants to visit. For three days.”*
A blow. Sofie would come—and see there was no Bertie. She’d know her grandmother had lied. That none of it was real. That she couldn’t trust her. And Sofie would leave. For good.
That same day, Lydia took sick leave. High blood pressure, dizziness, chest pain. But it wasn’t her heart.
That night, she poured a shot of gin, downed it—not for the taste, but the ritual. To steady herself.
She needed a hedgehog.
She ran to the circus. Saw a poster—*TRAINED HEDGEHOGS!* Begged the manager—*”Just for three days! Any price!”*
*”You off your rocker?”* His laugh faded behind her.
Then she scoured adverts. One *”breeder”* turned out to be a horror show—stench, cages, a drunk man, half-dead creatures.
Finally, at the flea market, an old woman with kind eyes and a gold tooth sold her one. The hedgehog was listless, wary. Ignored custard. Snubbed crisps. Slept under the radiator.
At dawn, she took him to the park and set him free. He wobbled… wobbled… then tipped over. Dead.
She wept. Long and hard. The tears washed it all out—the dreams, the stories, the hope. Everything that had kept her alive these two years.
Then—a thought. She snatched up the body, dashed home. Revive him? No. Bury him? No.
Just… give him an ending.
When Sofie arrived, Lydia opened the door in tears:
*”Sofie… Bertie died.”*
Shock, hurt, pity flickered across her granddaughter’s face—then she hugged her.
They buried Bertie in the park. Made a little marker. Planted daisies.
And then… for three days, Lydia told her everything—about Bertie’s antics, his secret life, his love of books.
*”‘The Secret Garden’ is lovely, Grandma. Now I see why he liked it.”*
On the last day, Sofie hugged her tight, like she used to.
*”You’ll come again, Sofie?”*
*”‘Course I will, Grandma. Don’t be daft.”*
Even as the car drove off, Lydia smiled. Bertie may have been imaginary—but he gave her back what she’d lost.
She adjusted the marker, straightened her crumpled hat, sighed—and walked into the park. Where leaves rustled, where life hummed, and where, someday, someone new might appear.
But Bertie would always be—the cleverest, best hedgehog there ever was.