“So it was you who arranged all this, Gran?” asked Emily, gazing at the portrait.
After the row with her husband, Emily had lain awake the whole night. She’d always sensed something was off in their marriage, but when he came home that evening and confessed he loved another woman, she still hadn’t been ready. He walked out, leaving her to weep alone, drowning in self-pity.
One moment, she longed to take him back—but forgiving infidelity was another matter. Could she ever trust James again after this?
The next, she burned for revenge, to make him suffer as she did. But love doesn’t vanish overnight, not even when betrayed. So she set the thought aside and wondered instead how to carry on.
Just before dawn, her mind drifted to childhood summers spent in a quiet Cotswolds village with her grandmother—days of simple happiness. If only she could return, become that carefree little girl again…
But Gran had passed three years ago. Emily didn’t recall her parents selling the cottage. Perhaps distant relatives lived there now? She’d ask her mother. Comforted by the thought, she finally slept.
In her dream, she wandered the park near Gran’s house. There sat Gran in her cream trench coat and straw hat, watching as a younger Emily played with a puppy and a boy. “I knew you’d come, dear. I waited,” Gran said suddenly, her eyes locking not with the child in the dream, but with the grown Emily.
The intensity of that gaze startled her awake. The dream clung to her, leaving the unsettling sense that Gran’s presence lingered.
The more Emily dwelled on it, the clearer the sign seemed. If Gran had been waiting, she had to go.
“Mum,” she asked that evening, “what became of Gran’s cottage after she died? Did you sell it? Is anyone else living there?”
“Goodness, no. Whatever gave you that idea? Gran had no family but us. She left a letter saying the cottage was yours.”
“So I could live there?” Emily brightened.
“Why on earth would you? It’s a crumbling old place. If you need a change, why not holiday in Cornwall?”
But Emily couldn’t shake the dream. “Do you still have the keys?”
Her mother rummaged through a drawer. “Here. Your father handled it all before he passed. Truthfully, I’d forgotten about the place. Should’ve sold it years ago.” She tossed Emily two rusted keys.
“I’ll go for a look, then decide.” Emily clutched them tight.
“You’re serious? What about work?”
“I’ll take leave. Please, Mum—I need to get away.”
The next day, Emily sniffled her way through a request for time off. Her manager, sympathetic to the plight of “men being absolute swine,” signed the form without question.
That evening, she packed a bag. By morning, she was on a train, certain her life was turning a page. Five hours later, a cab dropped her outside a weathered brick terrace. On the second floor, she hesitated before a brown-painted door.
Doubt gripped her. You can’t return to the past. Gran was gone, and running from yourself never works. But exhaustion won out. Hoping the key still fit, she turned it—once, twice. The lock clicked open.
Inside, familiar childhood relics greeted her, stale air thick with silence. Without Gran, the place felt foreign. She flung open windows, paced the rooms, then set to scrubbing floors and dust-choked curtains until her arms ached.
Collapsed on the sofa, she hadn’t the energy to even shower—nor to wallow over James.
When she finally dragged herself up, the shrill doorbell scraped her nerves.
A plump, curly-haired woman in her fifties beamed on the doorstep. “Hello, love! New tenant? I heard the ruckus.”
“No, I’m Emily—Antonia’s granddaughter.”
“Emily! I’m Linda. Remember me? You played with my Billy when you visited! Such a shame about Antonia, lovely woman…” She prattled for ten minutes straight, oblivious to Emily’s silence. “Shame you’ve come, really—we’d have bought this place. Billy’s getting married; it’d be perfect next door…”
Linda finally left, leaving Emily with a throbbing headache. A shower, tea, and a trip for new curtains (the old ones were beyond saving) restored some calm.
Next morning, she woke stiff but cheered by June sunlight through fresh drapes.
The dripping tap in the bathroom refused to budge, leaving a rust stain. Frustration mounted—had she come here to play handyman?
Remembering Linda’s mention of a handy husband, she knocked next door. A lanky man, Linda’s opposite, answered. “Geoffrey. I’ll take a look.” He replaced the washers with ease. “Good for decades now.”
Emily offered tea—only polite. As they sat, the doorbell screeched again.
Linda burst in, mid-explanation about forgetting her keys, then froze at the two cups. “Geoffrey, you old dog—where are you?!” She tore through the flat while Emily checked the balcony (hardly a hiding spot).
“Gone off through the pipes, maybe?” Emily quipped.
Linda gaped, speechless for once, then dashed home.
“Best go,” Geoffrey whispered, emerging from behind a curtain. “Tell her I popped out for fags.” He slipped out.
Emily dissolved into laughter. What a pair! No more favors from Geoffrey, then. Through the wall, Linda’s tirade raged until Emily escaped outside.
The village, lush and flower-filled, soothed her. She wandered streets, savoring freedom, until a near-miss at a crossing scattered her groceries.
A man leapt from his car, gathering her purchases. “Trying to get yourself killed?” He drove her home, staring as they reached the terrace. “Emily? Bloody hell—Mum mentioned you’d come, but her stories are impossible to follow.”
She studied him—no trace remained of the scrawny boy she’d known. They talked for hours, until the wretched doorbell cut in.
Linda, spotting his car, accused Emily of seducing both her men. Geoffrey wisely led her away.
Emily grinned. Without lifting a finger, she’d had her revenge—Linda’s gossip would see to that.
That night, she studied Gran’s photo, the black mourning ribbon long removed. Gran’s smile seemed to twinkle, one eye slyly narrowed—as if winking.
“You planned this, didn’t you, Gran?”
The next day, Billy replaced the doorbell himself. Over evenings of walks and films, he admitted his “fiancée” was fiction—his mother’s invention to nag him into marriage.
When Emily’s leave ended, her mother shared news: James had called, desperate to reconcile. “Men make mistakes, darling. He’s got a flat in Kensington—you won’t do better.”
But Emily’s heart belonged elsewhere. She quit her job, returned to the village, and sold the cottage.
Linda arrived with cake, gushing about God sending Emily to fulfill her dreams—until the young couple bought a home well beyond her meddling reach.
In their new place, Emily placed Gran’s photo on the shelf.
“Thank you, Gran.”
And from the frame, Gran’s knowing smile held a whisper of mischief—almost a wink.
