Forgive me for staying away so long…
Thomas had not been home in years. During his first two terms at university in another city, he still visited for the holidays. His mother, of course, would feed him until he was fit to burst, cooking all his favourite dishes. But after three or four days of indulgence, he’d grow restless. All his old friends had moved away, and there was little to do.
The town was small, familiar down to every tree—you could walk its length in a few hours. After a week of sleeping in and idling about, he’d start itching to leave. His mother would plead with him to stay, just another week, but Thomas would invent urgent reasons to return, departing with a light heart. The bustling city called to him. That was where life happened, where excitement was. He’d made new friends there. What was there for him at home? Just stale, aching boredom.
By his third year, he’d found work at a fast-food café, evening shifts until closing—just when the place was brimming with young people. He loved the rhythm of it. The extra money didn’t hurt, either. His scholarship barely covered essentials, and he refused his mother’s help out of pride. She still rang, begging him to come home for Christmas. He promised, though he knew it was the busiest time at work.
The holidays passed, lectures resumed, and Thomas postponed his visit until summer. But with summer came full-time hours. Life in the big city rushed by. Before he knew it, he had his degree. He celebrated with his course mates for days—who knew when they’d meet again? Then a mate suggested working abroad in Spain.
“Come with me. You’re perfect for it. Decide now—we’ve got paperwork to sort. The bloke I was going with just bailed. His girlfriend’s expecting, so he’s gone and got hitched. It’s a year’s contract. You know enough Spanish to get by.”
See the world while we’re young, he’d said. Before jobs and mortgages and wives and kids and holidays once every three years. Thomas agreed. A flurry of doctor’s visits and paperwork followed. The night before his flight, he rang his mother, promising guiltily to return in a year.
“But a whole year, son? Won’t you come home just for a day? I’m starting to forget your face.”
“Sorry, Mum. Flight’s tomorrow. Can’t let the lads down. Love you, I’ll call…”
In Spain, they lived on-site at the hotel, ate there too. Some rented flats, but Thomas saved. They worked every job you could imagine—one slip, and they’d dock your pay. Still, he loved it.
Three years later, he returned. Straightaway, he bought a flat on a mortgage and landed a decent job. He rang his mother but always in passing. He’d come soon, he swore—just as soon as work eased. But one task bled into another.
One weekend, he and a mate hit the clubs. They drank, danced, lost themselves in the noise. Thomas woke in bed with a girl. A dark curl lay across her face—too delicate to brush aside. He couldn’t recall her name or how she’d ended up in his flat.
Quietly, he slipped from the sheets and padded to the kitchen. He drank tap water, then stood under the shower, wrestling with how to politely usher her out. By the time he emerged, cleaner and clearer-headed, she was already in the kitchen. Thank God she was beautiful—wearing nothing but his shirt, her legs bare and distracting. The scent of coffee filled the air, thin slices of cheese arranged prettily on a plate.
“Sorry, your fridge was empty,” she said, smiling.
After coffee, they returned to bed…
She called herself Lola. Thomas doubted it was her real name but didn’t press. What did it matter? She was free-spirited, uncomplicated. Lola stayed a month.
He liked her—physically, at least. What more did a young man need? She was easy, fun. She couldn’t cook, so they ordered in or dined out.
That month, Thomas never slept properly. Lola didn’t work—just “finding herself,” she said. He’d leave for the office while she slept, and by evening, she’d drag him back to the clubs. The late nights piled up. Fatigue gnawed at him. His boss eyed him with suspicion.
And Lola? She lived off blokes willing to pay for her beauty. It was time to end it before he lost his job. But he couldn’t just turf her out. Money was vanishing. So he fled home for the weekend, hoping she’d take the hint. He bought his mother gifts, then rang Lola from the station.
“Gone home. Don’t know when I’m back.”
“And what about me?” she drawled, wounded.
Thomas pictured her on the sofa, legs stretched, phone in hand. The image didn’t stir him.
“Do what you want,” he said, hanging up.
The drive home, he imagined pressing the doorbell, hearing the muffled chime, footsteps. His mother would fling the door open, gasp, arms wide…
Guilt pricked him. He rarely called, never visited. She had every right to be cross. His father had died when Thomas was fifteen. His mother was still young—what if she’d moved on? What if a new man sat at her table? He shook off the thought.
Climbing the stairs, he forced himself not to leap them two at a time, like he had as a boy. How long ago that was. He paused at the door, listening. Silence. No—that was nonsense. His mother was healthy. He pressed the bell.
A soft chime echoed inside. No footsteps. The lock clicked, and the door cracked open. A little girl, maybe seven, peered up at him, clutching a teddy bear.
“Who are you here for?” she asked matter-of-factly.
“Hi. Are any grown-ups home?”
The girl frowned—clearly offended.
“Who d’you want?”
“Doesn’t your mum tell you not to open the door to strangers?” he countered.
“I thought you were Granny,” she explained.
“Granny? You mean Gran Margaret?”
“She’s *Grandma*,” the girl corrected, tugging the door shut.
“Wait—this is *my* house,” Thomas blurted before it closed.
“No, it’s Grandma Margaret’s house. And me and Mummy’s.”
A gasp sounded behind him. Something clattered down the steps. Thomas turned. His mother stood frozen, apples scattered at her feet from a dropped bag.
“Mum!” He rushed to her, hugged her tight, breathed in her familiar scent—lilies of the valley, as always.
“Tommy…” Her voice was a whisper against his chest. He hadn’t realised how small she’d become.
“Don’t cry, Mum. I’m here. Forgive me for staying away so long.”
She pulled back, eyes scanning his face. “Look at you. Why are we standing? Come inside.”
Thomas gathered the apples. At the door, the girl watched, curious. His mother shooed her inside, out of the draught.
“Who’s that, Mum?” Thomas asked, shrugging off his coat.
His mother gave him an odd look. “Let’s talk in the kitchen. You must be starving.”
“Is there shepherd’s pie?” The thought made his mouth water.
“Of course. Made it yesterday.”
She bustled between the fridge and the oven. Soon, a steaming plate sat before him.
“So good,” Thomas mumbled through bites.
“You never visited. No ring—not married, then. That’s good.”
“Who’s that girl? Why does she call you Grandma?” He pushed the empty plate away.
“Because I *am* her grandmother.”
“You’re too young to be a gran.” He almost added that he had no children, so how could she? But he bit his tongue.
“Age has nothing to do with it. Think—who were you with last time you visited?”
“Nobody,” Thomas said—then froze.
His last visit was after his second year. None of his mates were around. He’d run into Emily Dawson, a quiet girl from school. Back then, he’d barely noticed her—timid, plain. But he’d been bored.
He remembered then: Emily’s mother had died. She lived with her father, who drank. She never spoke much, kept to herself. That week, he’d talked at her about uni, the city, himself. Asked, as an afterthought, where she studied. Their town had two colleges—teaching and hairdressing. He couldn’t recall which she’d picked.
The next day, he took her to the cinema. They walked, talked—then, somehow, she’d confessed she’d fancied him at school. He’d felt sorry for her. No friends, a drunk for a father… She’d pressed close, whispered—
No other girl had melted into him like that. He’d felt no guilt. She’d wanted it. He’d walked herHe returned the next weekend with a ring in his pocket, determined to make things right, and when Emily opened the door, her eyes filled with cautious hope, he knew he was finally home.
