Tom hadn’t been home in years. The first two at university in another city, he’d still visit for holidays. His mum, of course, would feed him to bursting, cooking all his favourites. After stuffing himself for three or four days, boredom would creep in. His old mates had all scattered—nothing to do.
The town was small, familiar down to every tree—you could walk the whole place in hours. After a week of sleeping in and aimless mooching, he’d be itching to leave. His mum would beg him to stay another week, but Tom would invent urgent excuses and head back with a light heart. The big, noisy city pulled him in—no chance of dying from boredom there. He’d made new friends, too. What was there to do back home? Dull as dishwater.
By his third year, he’d taken a job at a fast-food joint, working evenings till closing—prime time for the youth crowd. He loved it. The extra cash didn’t hurt either. Student loans wouldn’t cover much. Pridefully, he refused his mum’s offers to help. She’d ring, begging him to visit at least for Christmas. He’d promise, though work was manic over the holidays.
After New Year’s, lectures started again. A trip home got postponed till summer. But when summer came, he switched to full-time hours. Life in the city was a whirlwind—time vanished. Before he knew it, he had his degree. Celebrations with his course mates lasted days—when would they all meet again? Then a mate proposed a job in Spain.
“Come with me. You’re perfect for it. But you’ve got to decide now—paperwork’s tight. Bloke I was going with bailed. His girlfriend’s pregnant, wedding plans and all. So, what d’you say? Year-long contract. Your English is decent, pick up some Spanish.
See the world while we’re young. Once we’re tied to jobs, marriages, kids, it’s one week abroad every three years. Dance while you’re young, lad,” his mate sang off-key.
Tom agreed. Chaos followed—doctor’s notes, forms, last-minute jitters. The night before the flight, he rang his mum. Guiltily, he promised he’d be back in a year, swore he’d visit.
“How can you leave for a whole year? Just come for a day! I’m starting to forget your face,” she pleaded.
“Sorry. Flying tomorrow, tickets in hand. Can’t let the lads down. Love you, Mum. I’ll call…”
In Spain, they lived at the hotel, ate there—no expenses. Some rented flats, but they saved. They worked every job under the sun, no slacking—fines for slip-ups. Tom loved it.
He returned three years later. Bought a flat on a mortgage, landed a job. Rang his mum, always rushed. Promised to visit once things calmed. But one thing bled into another.
One weekend, out clubbing with a mate—drinks, dancing, the lot. Woke up with a girl in his bed. Couldn’t tell if she was pretty—a thick dark curl hid her face. Didn’t dare move it, lest she wake. He couldn’t recall her name or how she’d ended up in his flat.
He slipped from under the duvet, padded to the kitchen. Drank tap water, then showered. Stood under the spray, plotting how to politely boot her out.
Stepping out, towel-round-hips, the girl was already in the kitchen. Thank God—she *was* pretty. Wearing just his shirt, legs bare, she looked knockout sexy. Any thought of kicking her out evaporated. The smell of coffee filled the air, a plate of neatly arranged cheese slices on the table.
“Sorry, but your fridge is a wasteland,” she smiled.
After coffee, they wound up back in bed…
Her name was Lola. He doubted it was real but didn’t ask. Did it matter? No hang-ups, no fuss—that’s what he wanted. Lola stayed a month.
He fancied her, purely physically. What more did a bloke need? Easy, fun. She hated cooking—takeaways or cafés kept them fed.
That month, Tom never slept properly. Lola didn’t work—”finding herself.” He’d leave for work; she’d still be asleep. Evenings, she’d drag him back to clubs—drinks, late nights.
Fatigue piled up. His boss eyed him sideways. And Lola? No illusions there—she lived off lads smitten by her looks. Time to quit the revelry before he got sacked. Money bled away. But he couldn’t just chuck her out.
The solution? Bolt home for the weekend—clear his head, hope Lola got the hint. Bought his mum gifts, rang Lola from the station: “Gone home. Don’t know when I’m back.”
“What about *me*?” she whined, elongating each word.
He pictured her: sprawled on the sofa, legs endless in a tiny robe, phone in hand. But the image didn’t stir him like before.
“Do what you want,” he said, hanging up.
All journey, he imagined pressing the buzzer, hearing the muffled chime, footsteps. His mum gasping, arms wide…
Guilt gnawed—rare calls, never visiting. She had every right to be cross. Dad died when Tom was fifteen. His mum was still young—could’ve moved on. What if she had? What if a new man sat at the table? He shook it off.
Climbing the stairs, he fought the urge to take them two at a time, like schoolboy days. Long ago. Paused at the door, listening. Quiet. What if—? No. She wasn’t old. Nothing could’ve happened. He pressed the buzzer.
A soft chime inside. No footsteps. The lock clicked, the door cracked open. A little girl, about seven, big-eyed, blonde plaits, clutching a teddy.
“Hello. Can I help you?” she asked, businesslike.
“Hi. Are the grown-ups home?”
The girl looked baffled. Tom realized his blunder—she obviously thought *she* was grown enough.
“Who’re *you* looking for?” she hedged.
“Did no one teach you not to open doors to strangers?” he countered.
“I thought it was Granny,” she explained.
“Granny? You mean Nana Elaine?”
“She’s *Gran*, not *Nana*.” The girl tugged the door, about to shut it.
“Oi, I’m not a stranger. This is my house,” Tom blurted before it slammed.
“No, it’s *not*. It’s Gran Elaine’s and mine and Mummy’s.”
A gasp behind him. Something clattered down the steps. Turning, he saw his mum at the landing’s edge, a spilled bag, apples rolling.
“Mum!” Tom rushed her, hugged tight, inhaled her scent—still that lily-of-the-valley perfume.
“Tom…” she whispered into his chest.
Had she always been this small? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d held her.
“Mum, don’t cry. I’m here. Sorry it’s been so long…”
“Tommy…” She pulled back, studying him. “Look at you. Don’t just stand there—come in!”
Tom gathered apples. Climbing the stairs, he saw the girl still in the doorway, watching curiously.
His mum shooed her inside—”Don’t catch a chill!”—before she vanished.
“Who’s that, Mum?” Tom asked, shrugging off his coat.
His mum gave him an odd look. “Kitchen. You must be starving.”
“Any of your roast?” he asked, mouth watering at the memory.
“Course. Made it yesterday, like I *knew*.”
She bustled between fridge, cupboards, microwave. Soon, a plate of steaming roast beef appeared.
“God, this is good,” Tom mumbled between mouthfuls.
“Why’d you stay away so long? No ring—not married then. Good.”
“Who’s that girl? Why’s she call you Gran?” he asked, pushing the empty plate aside.
“Because I *am*.”
“You’re not old enough. You’re—” He almost said, *I’ve no kids, so how?* but stopped.
“It’s not about age. Gran’s a title, not a number. Think—who’d you last bring home?”
“I didn’t bring anyone,” Tom said—then froze.
His last visit was after second year. No mates left in town. He’d bumped into Emma Smith, a quiet girl from school. Back then, he’d barely noticed her—mousy, shy. But loneliness made her company welcome.
He remembered—Emma’s mum had died; she lived with her drunk dad. Never shared much. Always silent, studious, no boyfriends. Tom had prattled about uni, city life. Asked where *she* studied—their town had just a nursing college andTom looked at Emma, now glowing with confidence, and little Grace between them, realizing this—this was the life he’d been running from all along.
