Helen’s daughter was a beauty. Though she came late in life, when Helen was nearly forty, and not without hardship. Before that, Helen had been widowed, left alone, for she and her husband had never been blessed with children.
Then, she visited her cousin in Manchester, stayed for a fortnight, and nine months after returning, gave birth to a daughter—Lily.
The village women whispered, of course, but Helen never shared who the father was or why he never visited. Not even her closest neighbour could pry the secret loose. But Lily grew to be the envy of all—bright-eyed, strong, and lovely.
Helen doted on her—dressing her well, teaching her sense, and raising her to help around the house. Lily grew tall, graceful, and kind. After school, she took a course at the local college and returned to the village as an accountant at the poultry farm.
Soon, she met Stephen. He was new to the village, a recently arrived agricultural adviser—educated, nothing like the local farmhands. They took to each other at once. Within a month, Stephen confessed his love, and they married. Lily was twenty-one; he, twenty-five. They threw a wedding that had the whole village talking.
But after the vows, he began vanishing—gone for days, then reappearing without explanation. One summer evening, as they sat in the garden gazebo drinking tea, a car pulled up. A woman and a young boy stepped out.
“Here you are, Dad—we’ve come for the holidays.”
Turns out, it was his first wife, of whom he’d never spoken. The boy was his son, the reason for his absences. Lily could not forgive the deceit. She packed her things and moved back with her mother.
Helen wept rivers, scolding her daughter—how could she just abandon her husband?
“So what if he had a family before? He loves you now. Accept the boy—it’s only for the summer.”
But Lily refused. Young and stubborn, she divorced Stephen and left for the city to seek her fortune. She visited her mother often but had little to boast of—no proper job, no home, no husband.
At twenty-eight, Helen fell ill, wasting away. Lily dropped everything and returned. Stephen had remarried, fathered two more children, and his new wife feared Lily—city-polished and striking—might try to steal him back.
But Lily paid no mind. She never left the house, dedicating herself to Helen, caring for her as best she could.
Two years she carried the burden, though doctors had given her mother less than one. Then, Helen was gone.
Lily didn’t return to the city. The bustle had never suited her. Stephen’s wife remained uneasy—he’d grown sombre, hardened. Yet at Helen’s wake, he was the first to help. Lily was grateful, but offered him no attention.
Still beautiful—as if time had spared her—she didn’t look a day over thirty, while Stephen’s temples had silvered.
Then, the unexpected happened. The village buzzed anew! The Wilsons’ son, Thomas, had returned from service. Twenty, towering, broad-shouldered—the girls sighed, waiting to catch his eye. But Thomas noticed no one.
Until one day, by the river, he saw Lily swimming, hair floating like a mermaid’s. Struck by her beauty, he waited on the bank. When she emerged, he swept her into his arms.
She laughed, struggling, but he wouldn’t let go. Smitten at first sight, he proposed within a fortnight.
His parents were horrified.
“Have you lost your mind? She’s been married, lived in the city—what kind of wife is she for a lad like you?”
The village murmured. Eyes turned cold on Lily. She had spent only two evenings with Thomas by the river at sunset. But could she command her heart?
His parents came, pleading for her to leave him be. She was no match for their son. So Lily left, returning to the city. Happiness had no place for her here—not with Thomas’s love, nor the villagers’ scorn.
Seven years passed.
Life in the city had not been kind. Lily worked in a shop, rented a flat, then married a decent man—a good provider—and bore a son. They lived in a bright, spacious flat, raising their boy. Her husband often spoke of visiting her village, sorting out the old house.
But Lily felt no pull. Even when visiting her mother’s grave, she avoided the village.
Memories lingered—of loss, of harsh words. Yet the house stood, locked for years. Before they could act, her husband fell ill.
At fifty, Lily was a widow. Grief weighed heavy—her son just fifteen, still needing guidance. The house gnawed at her. Perhaps a villager would buy it?
That summer, she and her son returned—to tidy the grave, to face the past.
Lily was elegant in a black dress with pearls, a hat perched just so. Beside her, her tall son. Villagers watched from doorways. She greeted them all, though names escaped her.
The house had aged—peeling shutters, a sagging porch—but stood sturdy.
Neighbours came, curious. Lily shared her city life, her loss. Word spread quickly.
Late that night, a knock came. Her son slept; Lily paged through an old album.
She opened the door—and gasped.
Thomas stood there. Life had weathered him.
After she’d left, he’d waited years to marry—finally choosing Olive from the next village, to spare feelings. But they’d had no children.
“No luck in life, Lily,” he said, voice rough. “Olive strays—shame burns me. Could never forget you. One love—just realised too late. Listened to my parents, lost you. Still as beautiful.”
Tears streaked her cheeks. Thomas had aged—thinning hair, rough hands. A mechanic now, tending tractors. They talked until midnight.
“Your city address?” he asked at the door. “Might visit. Unless you mind?”
She gave it, doubting he’d come. Why now? Their time was lost. The house remained unsold. They returned home.
Within a year, Thomas arrived. At her door—clean-shaven, well-dressed, eyes shadowed with longing.
She let him in. Warmth stirred old memories—his love, his proposal, her flight. Could time really circle back after twenty years?
It did. He divorced Olive, begged her to take him. Her son liked him. And when Lily saw this was her belated fate, she agreed.
They married quietly, no fuss. Thomas moved in with her son. At last, they were happy—though twenty years late.
Regret lingered for lost time, but the best was yet to come.
