Helen’s daughter was a beauty, though she came late into the world, born when Helen was nearly forty. Before that, Helen had been widowed and left alone, for she and her husband had never been blessed with children.
Then she traveled to visit her cousin in London, stayed for two weeks, and returned—only to give birth to her daughter, Lillian, nine months later.
The village women whispered, of course, but Helen never revealed who Lillian’s father was or why he never visited.
Not even her closest neighbor, her confidant, ever uncovered the secret. Yet Lillian grew up to be the envy of everyone—lovely, bright-eyed, and strong.
And how Helen doted on her! Dressed her in fine things, taught her wisdom, and trained her in household duties. Lillian blossomed—tall, graceful, and kind. After school, she completed a business course in the county town and returned to the village as an accountant at the poultry farm.
She met Stephen almost immediately. He was new to the village, a recently arrived agronomist—educated, not like the local farmhands. They took to each other at once. Within a month, Stephen confessed his love, and soon they were married. Lillian was twenty-one, he twenty-five. The wedding was the talk of the village.
But after the wedding, Stephen began to disappear—gone for days, then back without explanation. One summer evening, as they sat in the garden sipping tea, a car pulled up. A woman stepped out with a young boy.
“Here,” she said, “your son is staying for the holidays.”
It turned out Stephen had a first wife—and a child—he’d never mentioned. His visits had always been to his son. Lillian couldn’t forgive the deceit. She packed her things and moved back to her mother’s.
How Helen wept, scolding her daughter: “You can’t just leave a man like that!”
“What does it matter if he had a family before? He loves you now. Accept the boy—it’s only for the holidays.”
But Lillian refused. Headstrong, she divorced Stephen and left for the city to seek her fortune. She visited Helen often but had little to boast of—no steady job, no home, no husband.
By twenty-eight, Helen fell ill, wasting away. Lillian abandoned everything to return and care for her. Stephen had already remarried, with two children, and his wife feared Lillian might try to reclaim him—after all, she’d returned from the city looking finer than ever.
But Lillian paid no mind to anyone. She never left the yard, devoting herself entirely to her mother, watching over her, nursing her as best she could.
For two long years, she carried the burden alone—though the doctors had given Helen less than one. And then she was gone.
Lillian never returned to the city. The bustling life there had never suited her. Stephen’s wife remained uneasy, while he grew somber and stern. Yet he was the first to help at Helen’s wake. Lillian thanked him, but gave him no further thought.
And beautiful as ever—one would never guess she was near thirty! A striking woman, while Stephen’s temples had already silvered.
Then the unexpected happened. The village buzzed anew! The Peterson boy, Arthur, had returned from military service. Twenty years old and tall as a pine, broad-shouldered, his arms and legs corded with muscle.
Every village girl fancied him, waiting to see whom he might fancy in return. But Arthur paid them no mind—until one day, walking by the river, he saw Lillian swimming, her hair floating like a mermaid’s in the sunlight.
He stood transfixed, his heart thundering. He waited on the bank until she emerged—then swept her into his arms, laughing as she struggled in his grip. Smitten from that moment, he proposed within weeks.
His father was furious. His mother wept: “Have you lost your wits? She’s been married, lived in the city! What sort of wife is she for a lad like you?”
The village was scandalized. Lillian endured sidelong glances. What could she say? She’d only spent two evenings with Arthur by the river at sunset. And love—who could command the heart?
Arthur’s parents came to plead with her—to leave their son in peace. She wasn’t right for him. So Lillian packed her bags and left again. No happiness awaited her here, not with Arthur’s love and the village’s scorn.
…Seven years passed.
Life in the city brought Lillian no joy either. She worked in a shop, rented a flat. Then she met a decent man, married him, and bore a son.
Her husband was kind, well-off; they lived in a spacious, sunlit flat and raised their boy together. He often spoke of visiting her village to sort out the old house. But Lillian felt no pull to return—not even when she visited her mother’s grave, avoiding the village entirely.
Bad memories lingered—losing Helen, the villagers’ cruelty. But the house needed tending. It had stood empty for years. Before they could arrange the trip, her husband fell ill.
At fifty, Lillian was a widow. Grief weighed heavy, her son now fifteen, still needing guidance. And the village house gnawed at her. Best to sell it, if anyone would buy.
That summer, she and her son traveled back—to tidy her mother’s grave, and to be seen again.
Lillian, elegant in a black dress and pearls, a hat shading her face, walked the road home with her tall son beside her. Villagers emerged from their gates, greeting her—though she hardly recognized them all.
The house had fared poorly—peeling shutters, a sagging porch—but the bones were sound.
Neighbors soon arrived, prying into her life. She shared her tale—her city years, her loss. Word spread fast.
Late that night, a knock came. Her son slept; Lillian sat flipping through an old album.
She opened the door—and gasped.
Arthur stood on the threshold.
Life had weathered him too. After Lillian left, he’d remained unmarried for years. Then he’d chosen Olivia from the next village—to spare anyone’s feelings. Moved in with her. But they’d had no children.
“No luck in life, Lilly,” he finished heavily. Olivia stepped out now and then—shameful gossip.
“Could never forget you. One love, only realized too late. Listened to my parents, lost my chance. You’re as beautiful as ever.”
Tears burned down Lillian’s cheeks as she studied him—the receding hairline at forty, the stubble, the work-roughened hands of a farm mechanic. They talked till midnight before she sent him away.
“Give me your city address? Might visit someday. If you don’t mind?”
She gave it, doubting he’d come. What was the point? Their time was lost. The house remained unsold; she and her son returned home.
Within a year, Arthur arrived. She opened the door to find him tall, clean-shaven, well-dressed—eyes full of longing.
She let him in, warmth surging as old memories stirred. His love, his proposal, her flight. Could life really circle back after twenty years?
It did. Arthur divorced Olivia and begged Lillian to accept him. He bonded with her son—a young man now. And when Lillian finally saw this as her belated fate, she agreed.
They married quietly, no fanfare. Arthur moved in with her and her son, and at last, they became the family they might have been—twenty years too late.
Regret for lost time lingered, but the best was yet to come.
