Joyful Transformations

**A Turn of Fortune**

Eleanor Winslow stepped out of her flat and paused, squinting slightly at the sky to gauge the chance of rain before nodding at the neighbours perched on the bench. She strode on, chin lifted. The women, who had fallen quiet at her approach, stirred again, exchanging whispered words and sharp glances in her wake.

No one knew Eleanor’s exact age. Retired now, she carried herself with enviable poise—her silvered hair stylishly cut, her figure trim without being gaunt. Some guessed her to be in her late fifties; others swore she was past seventy but blessed with good genes or discreet cosmetic help.

*”Must be nice,”* muttered one of the women. *”Decent ex-husband—left without a fuss. Only son’s no trouble either. No grandkids, no pets. No worries at all. If my Alf weren’t such a drunk, maybe I’d swan about like royalty too.”*

*”You? Royalty?”* The other cackled, nudging her. *”Pull the other one, Doris.”*

*”Oi, what’s wrong with Eleanor, then?”* piped up old Mrs. Higgins.

*”Nothing. Just jealous old hens, aren’t we?”* chuckled Albert from the hedgerows, snipping away. He’d always had a soft spot for Eleanor.

She didn’t need to hear the whispers to know they talked. She’d lived through enough: a handsome husband who’d left for a younger woman, years of solitude for her son’s sake, and a quiet resolve to never let another man close.

Her son, Daniel, was nearly thirty and still unmarried—a fact that gnawed at her. Oh, he’d had girlfriends. None made it to the altar. One nearly did—a sweet lass named Lucy—until he met her parents. A drunken father, a mother battered into poor health. *”Mum, what do I do?”* he’d asked. She’d shrugged. *”If you can stomach that baggage, marry her.”* To her relief, they’d split.

One evening, Daniel returned late—and not alone. *”Mum, this is Emily.”* The girl was lovely, with dimples and lake-blue eyes. The kind men marry. Eleanor’s stomach dropped. *”You might’ve warned me. I’d have cooked proper.”*

*”Everything you make’s proper,”* Daniel grinned, nuzzling her shoulder.

She knew that look. *”Out with it.”*

*”We’re hiking this weekend. Em’s coming. Could you… watch her daughter, Lily? She’s six—no trouble.”*

Her heart clenched. *”Whose child?”* She already knew.

*”Mine,”* Emily said calmly.

Eleanor’s mind raced. *Pierced noses, drunk fathers, now a child? And she’s barely twenty-five!* But the girl held her gaze—no shame, no defiance.

She caved, of course.

The next morning, Lily arrived—same blue eyes, clutching a doll. Eleanor’s resolve crumbled. By afternoon, they were reading old storybooks, the girl stumbling sweetly through syllables.

At the park, gawping neighbours asked, *”Guests, Eleanor?”* She barely nodded. Lily darted off to play.

*”Aunt Ellie,”* Lily piped later, *”I want a cart like that girl’s—for leaves.”*

So they marched to Albert—who nearly tripped over himself to oblige. *”For you, Eleanor? I’d build Buckingham Palace.”*

When Daniel and Emily returned, Eleanor blurted, *”Keep her till morning?”* But Emily refused—work called. Once alone, Daniel confessed: *”Lily’s her sister. Their mum died in childbirth. The father bolted. Em raised her.”*

Eleanor’s breath caught. *”And you’re serious?”*

*”We’re getting married. We’ll visit often. And when we have our own, Lily’ll need you more.”*

Bitterness pricked her—*planned it all, didn’t he?*—but the empty flat felt hollow without Lily’s laughter. Soon, weekends revolved around their visits, the table set for four.

One day, Lily called her *”Gran.”* The word warmed her in ways *”Aunt Ellie”* never had.

As for Albert? Well, he still lurked by the hedges, grinning like a schoolboy. Stranger things had happened.

Funny how life twists—a child who wasn’t hers by blood now held her heart. And Eleanor, once so solitary, found herself richer for it.

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Joyful Transformations