Eileen in Oleni was a beauty. Though she came to motherhood late, nearly at forty, after years of longing. Before that, she had been widowed, left alone, for she and her husband had never been blessed with children.
Then she visited her cousin in the city, stayed two weeks, and upon returning home, nine months later, gave birth to a daughter—Lottie.
The village women whispered, of course, but Eileen never shared who the father was or why he never visited. Not even her neighbour and closest friend could pry the secret from her.
Yet Lottie grew up the envy of all—a bright-eyed, strong girl, lovely in every way. And how Eileen doted on her! Dressed her well, taught her sense, raised her to be helpful. By the time Lottie finished school, she had grown tall, graceful, and kind. After training as an accountant, she returned to the village to work at the poultry farm.
There she met Stephen. He was new to the village, a young agronomist, educated—nothing like the local farmhands. They took to each other at once. Within a month, Stephen confessed his love, and they married. Lottie was twenty-one, he twenty-five. Their wedding was the talk of the village.
But after the ceremony, Stephen started disappearing—gone for days, then back as if nothing happened. One summer evening, as they sat sipping tea in the garden, a car pulled up—and out stepped a woman with a little boy.
“Here’s your son for the holidays, Daddy,” she said.
It turned out Stephen had a first wife—and a child—he’d never mentioned. Those disappearances? Visits to his boy. Lottie couldn’t forgive the lie. She packed her things and moved back with her mother.
Eileen wept, scolding her: “You can’t just throw away a marriage! So what if he had a family before? He loves you now. Accept the boy—he’s only here for summers!”
But Lottie refused. Headstrong, she left for the city, searching for happiness. She visited Eileen often but had little to show—no stable job, no home, no husband.
At twenty-eight, her mother fell ill—wasted away. Lottie dropped everything and returned. Stephen had since remarried, had two more children, and his new wife feared Lottie—this glamorous city girl—might steal him back.
But Lottie paid no mind. She stayed by Eileen’s side, caring for her day and night. Two long years she carried the burden—though doctors had given Eileen less than one. And then, she was gone.
Lottie never returned to the city. The bustle had never suited her. Stephen’s wife stayed wary, though he himself grew quieter, sterner. At Eileen’s funeral, he was the first to help—yet Lottie, though grateful, gave him no notice.
And she? Still beautiful. You’d never guess she was past thirty. Stephen’s temples, though, had turned silver.
Then—unexpected! The village buzzed anew. Young Arthur, the Petridges’ son, was back from service—twenty, tall as a doorframe, shoulders broad, muscles lean.
Every girl in the village swooned, waiting to catch his eye. But Arthur noticed none—until, one day, by the river, he saw Lottie bathing, hair floating like a mermaid’s in the sun.
His heart leapt. He waited on the bank till she emerged—then swept her up in his arms, laughing as she squirmed. Smitten from that first glance, he proposed within weeks.
His parents were aghast. “Have you lost your mind? She’s been married, lived in the city—you’re barely a man! Think, boy!”
The village murmured. Lottie faced sideways glances. But what could she do? She’d spent two evenings with Arthur by the water. If his heart was set—who could command it?
His parents begged her to leave him be. “You’re no match!” So Lottie left for the city again. There’d be no happiness here—not with Arthur’s love on one side and the village’s scorn on the other.
…Seven years passed.
City life brought Lottie little joy. She worked in a shop, rented rooms. Then she met a decent man, married him, had a son. He was kind, comfortable—they lived well. He often spoke of visiting the village, sorting the old house.
But Lottie couldn’t bear it. Even visiting her mother’s grave, she avoided the village.
Too many bitter memories—losing Eileen, the villagers’ scorn. Still, the house needed tending. Years untouched. But before they could go, her husband fell ill.
At fifty, Lottie was a widow. Grief weighed heavy—her son just fifteen, still to raise. And the village house nagged at her. Sell it, she thought. Maybe a local would buy?
That summer, she and her son went back—to tidy Eileen’s grave, show their faces. Lottie, elegant in black with pearls, a hat shading her face, walked the road home, her tall son beside her. Villagers watched from gates. She greeted them all, though half she barely knew.
The house had aged—shutters sagged, the porch leaned. But it stood sturdy still.
Neighbours came, curious. Lottie spoke of city life, her loss. Word spread fast.
That night—a knock. Her son slept; Lottie paged through an old album. She opened the door—and gasped.
Arthur stood there.
Life hadn’t been kind. After Lottie left, he’d waited years to wed—finally choosing Olive from the next village, moving there to spare feelings. But no children came.
“No luck in life, Lottie,” he said, voice rough.
Olive strayed often—shamed him.
“Could never forget you. One love—realised too late. Listened to my parents, lost my chance. And you—still as beautiful.”
Tears spilled down her cheeks. Arthur had aged—forty now, thinning hair, stubble, hands calloused from mechanic’s work. They talked past midnight. At the door, he asked—
“Your city address? Might I visit?”
She gave it, doubting he’d come. Why now? Time lost couldn’t be reclaimed. She left the house unsold—no buyers—and returned home.
Within a year, he arrived. She opened the door to a tall, clean-shaven man—well-dressed, eyes full of longing.
She let him in. Warmth stirred old memories—his love, his proposal, her flight. Could twenty lost years really return?
They did. Arthur left Olive, begged Lottie to take his love. He bonded with her son, now grown. And when she finally saw this as fate’s late gift, she said yes.
They married quietly—no fanfare. Arthur moved in with his son. At last, they were a family—twenty years too late.
Yet if time had been lost, the best was still ahead.
