So, it was you who set all this up, Gran? asked Julia, staring at the portrait.
After a blazing row with her husband, Julia hadn’t slept a wink. She’d always sensed something was off in their marriage, but when he’d come home that evening and said he’d fallen for someone else, it still hit her like a ton of bricks. He walked out, and she spent the night sobbing, drowning in self-pity.
One minute, she wanted him back—but taking him back meant forgiving his betrayal. And Julia wasn’t sure she’d ever trust him again.
The next, she wanted revenge—to make him hurt just as much. But love doesn’t vanish overnight, even when you’ve been betrayed. So she shelved that idea for later and started wondering how to move on.
Just before dawn, for some reason, she remembered those childhood summers spent at her gran’s little cottage in the Cotswolds. She’d been so happy there. If only she could go back, return to the past, be that carefree little girl again…
But Gran had passed three years ago. Julia couldn’t recall her parents selling the place—maybe some distant relative still lived there? She’d ask Mum. With that happy thought, she finally drifted off.
That night, she dreamt of the park near Gran’s house. Gran sat on a bench in her old-fashioned cream coat and straw hat, watching little Julia play with a puppy and some boy. *I knew you’d come. I’ve been waiting,* Gran suddenly said, looking straight at her—not the little girl in the dream, but the grown-up Julia.
That gaze jolted her awake. The dream felt so real, she couldn’t shake the sense Gran was still there.
The more Julia thought about it, the clearer it became—it was a sign. If Gran said she’d been waiting, then Julia had to go.
“Mum, what happened to Gran’s place after she died? You didn’t sell it, did you? No relatives moved in?” she asked that evening.
“’Course not. Where’d you get that idea? Gran had no one but us. She left a letter saying the place was yours.”
“So I can live there?” Julia brightened.
“Wait—what? You want to move to the Cotswolds? And do what exactly? What’s got into you?” Mum huffed.
“Mum, I can’t stay here. We’re just in each other’s way. I need to clear my head, figure things out…”
The flat she’d shared with her ex had been a gift from *his* parents. Staying there was impossible, so she’d moved back in with Mum. Two years of independence had spoiled her—she couldn’t stand the endless lectures about how “he’ll come crawling back” and “you won’t find another man like him.”
“But that old cottage is falling apart. It’s hardly better than here. Go to Spain if you need a change!”
Normally, Julia would’ve jumped at that. But the dream wouldn’t leave her alone.
“Do you still have the keys?”
“Keys? Somewhere…” Mum rummaged in a drawer. “Here. Think these are them.” She handed over two rusted keys. “Your dad handled all this before he passed. I’d forgotten about the place. Should’ve sold it ages ago.”
“I’ll check it out first, then we’ll decide. Okay?” Julia clenched the keys.
“You’re seriously considering this? What about your job?”
“I’ll take leave. Don’t try to stop me—I *need* this.”
Next day, Julia went to her boss, sniffing dramatically, and handed in her leave request. The woman, sympathetic, muttered something about men being pigs and signed it off.
That night, Julia packed a bag. By morning, she was on a train, feeling like her life was about to restart. Five hours later, a cab dropped her outside a crumbling brick terrace. She hesitated on the second-floor landing, staring at the peeling brown door.
Doubt crept in. You can’t turn back time. Gran’s gone. You can’t run from yourself. But exhaustion won—she was too tired to turn back now. Hoping Mum hadn’t mixed up the keys, she slid one into the lock. To her surprise, it turned smoothly.
The musty air inside was thick with memories. Without Gran, everything felt foreign. She flung open the windows, changed, and set to work—dusting, scrubbing, hauling down yellowed curtains. By the time she collapsed onto the sofa, she was too drained to even shower. Too drained, thankfully, to wallow over her ex.
When she finally dragged herself to the bathroom, a raspy doorbell screeched through her frayed nerves.
On the doorstep stood a plump, curly-haired woman in her fifties, beaming. “Hello! New tenant? Wondered who was making all that noise!”
“No. I’m Antonia’s granddaughter. Just visiting—”
“Julia? Oh, I’m Lorraine—call me Lori! Remember me? You played with my Ethan when you visited! Such a shame about your gran, lovely woman…”
For ten solid minutes, Lori chattered nonstop while Julia stood dumbstruck.
“You never visited! My Ethan’s getting married soon. We’d buy this place off you—perfect for him, right next door! Shame you’re back. I mean, I’m *glad,* but… Oh, listen to me! If you *do* sell, come to us first!” Finally, she paused.
“Right, I’m waffling. Need anything, just knock—we’re right next door!”
Julia’s head throbbed. After Lori left, she showered, drank tea, then bought new curtains—the old ones were beyond saving.
Next morning, she ached all over. But June sunlight streamed through the fresh curtains, lifting her spirits.
The bathroom tap dripped stubbornly, staining the sink. No matter how she twisted it, nothing worked. *Great. So much for a relaxing break.*
Remembering Lori’s offer, Julia knocked next door for help. Lori’s husband, Graham—a lanky contrast to his round wife—grabbed his tools.
“Easy fix. Replace these washers, and it’ll last decades,” he reassured.
Once done, Julia offered tea. Graham had just sat down when that wretched doorbell shrieked again.
Lori bustled in, mid-story: “Forgot my keys, Graham’s off sick, but he’s not answering—oh!” She froze at the sight of two cups.
“Who’s this for?” she demanded, then gasped. “You old fox! Graham, get out here!” She tore through the flat, flinging open cupboards.
Julia joined the search, baffled—Graham had vanished. He hadn’t jumped off the balcony (too high), and he wasn’t under the bed.
“Where *is* he?” Lori planted herself in front of Julia.
“I asked him to fix the tap. Maybe… he crawled home through the pipes?” Julia blurted.
Lori gaped, speechless for once, then bolted.
“Graham, coast’s clear,” Julia called.
He emerged from behind the curtains. “Tell her I went for cigarettes.” He slithered out the door.
Julia burst out laughing. *What a pair.* No more favors from Graham.
Lori’s shouts next door went on forever. When they grated too much, Julia escaped outside.
The village was lush and sunlit, birds chirping. For the first time in ages, she felt light. After a long walk, she stopped at the shops.
Distracted on the way home, she jaywalked—brakes screeched, her bag burst, groceries flew.
“*Oi!* Trying to get yourself killed?” A bloke leaned out of his car.
Julia blinked at the mess. He hopped out, repacked her things, then insisted on driving her back.
“You live *here*?” he asked, pulling up at the terrace.
“Jules? *That* you?” he exclaimed at her door. “Mum said you were back, but—”
Ethan. The scrawny boy she’d played with was now a towering man. They talked for hours, lost in nostalgia—until that *bloody* doorbell interrupted.
Lori stood there. “Saw Ethan’s car, heard voices…”
Spotting Ethan, she rounded on Julia. “First my husband, now my son? You’ve only been back five minutes!”
Ethan, well-versed in Lori’s dramatics, simply steered her home. This time, no shouting followed.
Julia’s mood lifted. Without lifting a finger, she’d had her revenge—two men, no less. Never mind that nothing happened. Lori’s gossip would do the rest.
She flopped onto the sofa and studied Gran’s framed photo (she’d removed the black ribbon days ago). Gran wasn’t just smiling—she seemed to wink. Or was that Julia’s imagination?
“So, you planned all this, didn’t you, Gran?”
Next day, Ethan replaced the doorbell. Julia no longer jumped at the sound.With a quiet laugh, Julia traced the edge of the photo frame, knowing Gran had guided her exactly where she needed to be.
