“Thanks, Mum, for the Gift”
Emily steps out of her terraced house and pauses to admire the transformed street. Overnight, snow has blanketed everything. Fluffy flakes drift soundlessly onto the few remaining yellow leaves clinging to the trees, onto the pavement and parked cars.
She holds out her palm. A few snowflakes land and melt instantly. Taking a few steps, she listens to the soft crunch beneath her feet, a reminder that Christmas is near—the scent of clementines, the twinkling lights on the tree, and, of course, that quiet hope for something magical.
Emily pops into the corner shop for clementines, milk, and biscuits for tea. At the till, her phone rings—Mum.
“Love, can you come over today?”
“Course, Mum. Everything alright?”
“Fine. There’s someone I’d like you to meet. Lunchtime?” There’s a spark in her mother’s voice Emily hasn’t heard in ages.
“Not another one of your ‘nice young men’ trying to escape their mums’ apron strings?” she asks, a touch sourly.
“It’s a surprise. You’ll see,” Mum says mysteriously before hanging up.
Interesting. Mum hasn’t sounded this lively since before Andrew left. Back then, Emily had sobbed on her shoulder, and Mum had comforted her—until she ruined it by saying, “I warned you.” She wasn’t wrong, but it didn’t help. They’d rowed, and Emily stopped visiting, only calling occasionally, nursing her heartache alone.
At the bakery counter, Emily picks up a small Victoria sponge. Can’t turn up empty-handed.
At home, she wonders about Mum’s surprise. Just in case, she washes her hair, curls the ends slightly, applies a bit of mascara and lipstick, and slips into a charcoal skirt and a peach knit jumper. She smiles at her reflection. Whatever Mum’s planning, she’ll face it looking put together.
“Andrew’s the one who’ll regret it,” she thinks, pulling on her boots and coat.
Mum opens the door, and Emily freezes. Her mother’s eyes are bright, her cheeks flushed, and—most startling—a chic new haircut shaves years off her age.
“You look amazing,” Emily says, handing over the cake.
“Ta, love.” Mum smiles shyly. “Come in, make yourself at home.” She disappears into the kitchen.
“Definitely has company,” Emily mutters. She adjusts her curls in the hallway mirror and walks into the lounge. A sturdy man in his fifties rises from the sofa—dark trousers, navy jumper, receding hairline, a strong nose. Crow’s feet fan from his eyes, the kind from either laughter or squinting into the sun. He studies her with equal curiosity. She greets him warily.
“Emily, this is Robert, an old friend from my hometown,” Mum says, slipping an arm around her waist, eyes pleading.
“Right. From the village,” Emily says flatly, shooting Mum a look.
“Lunch is ready,” Mum says abruptly, heading to the kitchen.
Emily sits in her usual spot—back to the fridge by the window. “Is he taking Dad’s place?” she wonders. Robert sits opposite. Mum settles between them, facing the stove. Just like when Dad was alive.
“So, this is the big introduction? Didn’t expect this from you. Explains the makeover,” Emily says tartly.
“Why must you be like this?” Mum sighs.
“Missed being knocked about, did you? Dad wasn’t enough? Where’s the whiskey, then? Didn’t bring any?” She glares at Robert.
“Robert doesn’t drink. He’s—” Mum falters, glancing at him guiltily.
Robert covers Mum’s hand with his rough, work-worn one. “Leave it, Annie.”
“Playing the teetotaller now, but just wait till you move in. Mum, are you *marrying* him? Is this my surprise? Robert, did your wife kick you out, so you’re mooching off my mum?”
The words pour out uncontrollably. Mum’s lips tremble; tears well up. Robert stares at his cooling soup.
“Finished?” Mum snaps, sharper than Emily’s ever heard. “What’ve I had in life? Your dad’s fists and the bottle. You’d flee to Mrs. Next-Door when he came home pissed. We’d wander the streets till he passed out. I’d pinch money from his pockets while he slept, told him he’d been robbed. Bought your shoes, your dresses with it. You’ve no idea—” She breaks off, sobbing.
Emily’s never seen her like this—always meek, cowed. She remembers Dad sneering, “You’re only good for wiping boots on.” Now she’s defending this stranger?
“Should’ve told you years ago. Thirty I’ve kept quiet.” Mum takes a shaky breath. “He’s your father. Robert Wilson. Your real dad.”
*What?* Emily recoils, back hitting the fridge. She stares between them.
It spills out: childhood sweethearts, Robert’s Army stint, Mum’s pregnancy. Her gran’s fury, the hastily arranged marriage to a man from the next village—Dad. The move to the city, the lie. Robert never knew. Mum avoided home, ashamed. Last summer, visiting her brother, she ran into Robert. He’d sought her out, forgiven her.
“I’m moving to his village. The flat’s yours. Done with rentals. I’m only forty-nine—I want my life back.”
Emily can’t process it. Dad was awful, but he *was* her dad. This? She bolts to the hallway.
“Emily!” Mum calls.
“Let her be,” Robert murmurs.
*Oh, now he’s the voice of reason*, she thinks, slamming the door.
Snow falls steadily as she walks home, memories surfacing. One winter night, fleeing Dad’s rage, they’d passed houses glowing with warmth. She’d ached for that quiet, that safety.
*Mum gave up years ago—frumpy clothes, that awful bun. A life of misery. Maybe Robert does love her. And I tore into them like a shrew. Just like when Andrew suggested moving in—did I listen to Mum? No. And he still left me.*
For days, Emily stews. She knows she’s wrong. She’ll apologise properly.
Mum answers the door, beaming. They hug. Suitcases sit in the hall.
“Packing. Off to Robert’s village,” Mum says happily.
“What about your job?”
“There’s a post office, a dairy nearby. We’ll manage,” Robert says, smiling.
“Visit us. Robert’s got a proper farmhouse—garden, bees, the lot. Used to worry what folks’d say. Now? Let them gossip,” Mum says, leaning into him.
Emily helps Mum move, then settles into the flat—no more waiting for Andrew. At Christmas, she visits. The house is cosy, the tree fragrant. Mum’s radiant. Just like Emily once dreamed.
Then, one spring morning, Robert calls. Mum’s gone. A blood clot—heart defect she’d hidden.
*Why did you go? Why the hard work?*
Emily takes the next bus to the village. The coffin rests in the parlour. She barely recognises Mum. Whirling on Robert, she snarls, “This is your fault!”
Auntie Val steps in. “Robert never let her lift a finger. She was happy—worked at the post office. He gave her what your dad never did.”
“Dad, the car’s here,” a tall young man says, nodding at Emily.
“My son, James,” Robert says.
They carry the coffin out, lay it on the lorry lined with fir branches. The procession winds to the churchyard. Neighbours watch from doorways, crossing themselves.
“She wanted to rest here,” Robert says. “Near her parents.”
After the wake, Robert asks, “Staying? James can drive you back.”
“No. I’ll go.” Being with this near-stranger feels wrong.
The drive is quiet until James speaks. Robert raised him after his mum ran off. He returned as a teen, works at the rail yard, bought a flat. Robert refused to leave the village.
“Only stayed away lately—didn’t want to intrude. He always loved your mum. Never remarried.”
At her door, James insists on carrying her bag.
“What’s in it?”
“Spuds, jam, pickles. Dad’s doing.” Inside, Emily collapses on the sofa. James drapes a blanket over her. She wakes to find him dozing awkwardly in the armchair.
“You’re sort of my brother now. Fancy a cuppa? Or does the wife mind?”
“Not married. Brothers, friends—your call.” His gaze lingers.
Flustered, she makes tea. They talk easily, flipping through an old album. She finds a photo of young Robert in uniform.
“You look like your mum,” James says, pointing to another.
“That *is* me,” she laughsAs the first snowflakes of winter began to fall outside, Emily reached for James’s hand and smiled, realising that sometimes, life’s greatest gifts come wrapped in the most unexpected ways.
