“Sorry it’s been so long…”
James hadn’t been home in years. The first two, while studying at uni in another city, he’d still come back for holidays. His mum, of course, would stuff him full of his favourite dishes—roast dinners, Yorkshire puddings, the works. After three or four days of feasting, though, he’d start to get restless. His old mates had all moved away, and there was nothing to do.
The town was small, familiar down to every last cobblestone—you could walk the whole place in an afternoon. After sleeping in and moping about for a week, he’d be itching to leave.
His mum always begged him to stay just a bit longer, but James would invent excuses—coursework, meetings—and leave with a clear conscience. The big city called to him. That’s where life happened, where you wouldn’t die of boredom. He’d made new mates there. What was there to do here? Flat as a pancake, dull as ditchwater.
By his third year, he’d picked up a part-time job at a fast-food place, working evenings when the place was packed with students. He liked the hustle. The extra cash didn’t hurt either—you couldn’t live off student loans. Proudly, he refused his mum’s help. She’d call, begging him to come home at least for Christmas. He’d promise, even though the holidays were the busiest time at work.
New Year’s came and went, lectures started again, and James put off going home till summer. But when summer rolled around, he switched to full-time hours. Life in the city was a whirlwind, time slipping through his fingers. Before he knew it, he had his degree in hand. He and his mates celebrated for days—who knew when they’d all be together again?
Then his mate Tom made an offer.
“Come with me to Spain. You’re perfect for it. Just decide now—the paperwork’s a nightmare. The bloke I was going with bailed. His girlfriend’s pregnant, wedding bells and all that. So, what do you say? Year-long contract. Your Spanish is rubbish, but you’ll pick it up.”
See the world while you’re young. Once you’re tied down with jobs, mortgages, kids, you’ll only get a week abroad every three years. Dance while the music’s playing, lad,” Tom half-sang, off-key.
James agreed. The next few weeks were chaos—doctor’s visits for medical certificates, visa applications. The night before his flight, he called his mum. Guiltily, he promised he’d be back in a year, definitely visit then.
“How can you go for a whole year? Just come home for a day! I’m forgetting what you look like,” she pleaded.
“Sorry, Mum. Flight’s tomorrow, tickets in hand. Can’t let Tom or the company down. Love you, I’ll call—”
In Spain, they lived on-site at the hotel. If you fancied privacy, you could rent a place, but most saved their euros. They did every job under the sun—slack off, and you were fined. But James loved it.
Three years later, he returned. Bought a flat on a mortgage, landed a job. He called his mum, but always in passing. Promised to visit—just had to sort a few things first. But one thing led to another.
One weekend, he and Tom hit a club. Drank, danced, carried on. James woke up with a girl in his bed. Pretty? Hard to tell—a thick dark curl had fallen over her face. He didn’t dare move it, didn’t want to wake her. He couldn’t remember her name or how she’d ended up at his place.
He slid out from under the duvet, padded to the kitchen. Drank water straight from the tap, then showered, standing under the spray, wondering how to politely kick her out.
By the time he stepped out, the scent of shower gel clinging to him, sobering up, she was already in the kitchen. Thank God she was fit. Wearing only his shirt, the hem barely covering her thighs, she looked knockout gorgeous. All thoughts of asking her to leave vanished. The smell of coffee filled the air, a plate of crisps and cheese neatly arranged on the counter.
“Sorry, your fridge is a wasteland,” she said with a smile.
After coffee, they ended up back in bed.
Her name was Lola. He doubted it was real, but didn’t ask. Did it matter? She was easygoing, no strings. Lola stayed a month.
He liked her—purely physically. What more did a bloke need? She was fun, low-maintenance. Couldn’t cook to save her life—they lived on takeaways or ate out.
That month, James never caught up on sleep. Lola didn’t work. “Finding myself,” she’d say. He’d leave for the office while she snoozed. Evenings, she’d drag him back to the club, drinking till late.
Exhaustion set in. Irritability. His boss eyed him suspiciously. And Lola? He wasn’t daft—she leeched off men happy to pay for her looks. Time to end it before he lost his job. Money was vanishing. But he couldn’t just chuck her out.
So he fled. Went home for the weekend to clear his head, hoping Lola would take the hint. Bought his mum gifts, called Lola from the station.
“I’ve gone home. Don’t know when I’ll be back.”
“And what about me?” Lola drawled, offended.
He pictured her lounging on the sofa, legs stretched out, in that tiny robe, phone in hand. The image didn’t stir him like before.
“Do whatever,” he said, and hung up.
The whole journey, he imagined pressing the doorbell, hearing the muffled chime, footsteps—his mum swinging the door open, arms wide.
Shame prickled at him for not calling, not visiting. She had every right to be cross. His dad had died when James was fifteen. His mum was still young—she could’ve moved on. What if she had? He’d walk in to find some bloke at the table. He shoved the thought away.
Climbing the stairs, he nearly sprinted two at a time like a schoolboy. How long ago that felt. He paused at the door, listening. Silence. What if—? No, stupid thought. She was fine. He pressed the bell.
A faint chime echoed inside. No footsteps. The lock clicked, the door cracked open. A little girl peered up at him, maybe seven, with fine blonde plaits, a teddy clutched to her chest.
“Can I help you?” she asked, businesslike.
“Hi. Are the grown-ups home?”
She blinked, and James realised his mistake—she clearly thought herself quite grown.
“Who are you looking for?” she asked cautiously.
“Shouldn’t you ask who’s there before opening the door?” he countered.
“I thought it was Granny,” she said.
“Granny? You mean Nan?”
“She’s *Granny*,” the girl corrected, starting to shut the door.
“Hey, I’m not a stranger. This is my house,” James said quickly.
“No, it’s Granny’s. And mine and Mum’s.”
Behind him, a gasp, the clatter of something hitting the steps. He turned. His mum stood frozen, groceries spilled at her feet—apples rolling.
“Mum!” He rushed to her, hugged her tight, breathing in her familiar lily-of-the-valley perfume.
“James…” she whispered into his chest.
When had she gotten so small? Had he ever hugged her like this before?
“Mum, don’t cry. I’m home. Sorry it’s been so long.”
“Jamie…” She pulled back to look at him. “You’re so grown. Come inside—”
He gathered the apples. As he climbed the steps, he spotted the girl still watching from the doorway.
His mum shooed her inside, scolding about drafts, and the girl vanished.
“Who’s that, Mum?” James asked, shrugging off his coat.
She gave him a strange look. “Kitchen. You must be starving.”
“Got any roast?” The thought of her Sunday roast made his mouth water.
“Course. Made it yesterday, like I knew you’d come.”
She bustled between the fridge and microwave. Soon, a steaming plate of roast beef, crispy potatoes, and gravy appeared.
“So good,” James mumbled between bites.
“Why’d you stay away so long? Ringless—so not married. Good.”
“Who’s the girl? Why’s she calling you Granny?”
“Because I am.”
“You’re not old enough. I don’t even have kids—” He stopped.
Last time he’d visited—after second year—none of his mates were around. He’d bumped into an old classmate, Emily Carter. Back in school, he’d barely noticed the quiet, mousy girl. But that summer, he’d been bored.
TJames glanced at Emily now—radiant, confident, nothing like the timid girl he’d left behind—and realized the life he’d been running from was the one he’d always wanted.
