—Tom, maybe skip this haul? I’ve got a bad feeling… Honestly, ask someone to cover for you, — murmured Emily, trying to steady her voice.
—It’s good money, love. The baby’s due soon, and every penny counts, — replied Thomas, holding her close and kissing the heads of their cheeky twin girls, Sophie and Charlotte.
Emily nodded silently. Her heart ached, but sense agreed with him—their budget was stretched thin. Wiping her tears, she watched him go and whispered, hugging him tight, —Come back soon… We’ll be waiting.
The door closed behind Thomas. Emily pulled herself together—fed the girls, took them for a walk. The day passed oddly quiet. No tantrums, no fuss—as if even the children sensed something.
Every evening at ten, they’d ring each other, just as promised. Emily would chatter about the girls missing him, how she was sewing bits for orders. Thomas would laugh down the line and vow, —Be home tomorrow, kitten.
But home he never came.
On the way back, his lorry smashed into a truck that swerved into his lane. No time to react. No chance to dodge. Thomas died on impact.
That night, the phone rang. Emily answered, barely awake—and her world shattered.
Stumbling, she reached Mrs. Thompson next door. Asked her to watch the girls. Then collapsed right on the step. Doctors barely made it—emergency C-section, touch and go.
The boy was weak, premature. Lacking his father’s strength, and Emily lacking a husband’s support.
She named him after Thomas. Leaving hospital, she counted their savings. Enough for a few months. After that—who knew?
Life became survival. Mrs. Thompson helped where she could. No family nearby. Emily sewed again—first for neighbours, then word spread.
The girls started Year Two. Little Tommy, nursery. They were her hope, her anchor. But…
She loved them more. And her son? Not hate—just pain. He looked more like Thomas each day. Every glance at him whispered: *You didn’t stop him. You couldn’t save him.*
Tommy was quiet, kind, thoughtful. Read books, helped out, never complained.
The girls got new dresses, doll clothes. Tommy got hand-me-downs.
—Poor lad… Orphan with a living mother, — Mrs. Thompson often sighed, watching him wash dishes or tidy his sisters’ toys.
Time flew. The girls grew up, married, moved away. Only Tommy stayed.
He finished college, became an engineer at the local biscuit factory in Cheltenham. Emily’s sight faded—sleepless nights, frayed nerves, years alone took their toll.
Tommy cared for her as best he could. Cooked, cleaned, guided her through the park. She’d whisper often, —Forgive me, son… I don’t deserve your love. Live your life, you’re still young—
He’d just smile. —Plenty of time, Mum. Wife, kids—you’ll hold your grandkids yet.
Then one day, she arrived. Shy, quiet Lucy.
—Mum, Lucy’s staying with us. She’s got no one. Orphaned, — Tommy said softly.
Three months later, they married. The girls came, grandkids, sons-in-law—whole family together. Emily smiled through the pain.
The diagnosis was grim—cancer. Time was short, and she knew it.
But fate granted one last joy—she held her first grandson.
She left peacefully, a smile on her lips, holding the hand of the one she’d once struggled to love.
The youngest son… the only one… the dearest.
