The rain drummed against the roof of the cottage when Margaret heard a timid knock at the door. She set aside her knitting, listening intently. The knocking came again—hesitant, almost apologetic.
“Who’s there?” she called, rising from her chair.
A faint voice replied, “Please, could you let me in? I’ve lost my way…”
Margaret opened the door a crack, the chain still fastened. On the step stood a young woman of about twenty-five, drenched to the bone. Her dark hair clung to her face, and her light coat was soaked through. She clutched a small handbag tightly.
“Good heavens, you’re soaked!” Margaret unfastened the chain and swung the door wide. “Come in before you catch your death!”
“Thank you ever so much,” the girl murmured, stepping inside and leaving wet footprints on the mat. “I’m Emily. I was walking along the footpath, and it led me into the woods. My phone died, and now I haven’t a clue where I am…”
“Off with that wet coat this instant!” Margaret fussed, helping her out of the sodden garment. “You’re dripping all over the floor! What on earth were you doing out in this weather alone?”
Emily lowered her eyes.
“I had a row with… with my boyfriend. He made me get out of the car and told me to find my own way. I hadn’t realised how far it was to town…”
“That scoundrel!” Margaret exclaimed. “Leaving a young girl alone in the woods! Into the kitchen with you—I’ll put the kettle on. You’re trembling like a leaf.”
Emily followed her into the small but cosy kitchen. Margaret filled the electric kettle and fetched a thick dressing gown from the cupboard.
“Here, change into this for now. We’ll hang your clothes by the radiator—they’ll be dry by morning.” As she bustled about, she asked, “Where are you from?”
“Oh, just from the countryside,” Emily said vaguely, gratefully wrapping herself in the robe. “I work in town, in an office.”
“Youth these days,” Margaret sighed, shaking her head. “In my day, men had a scrap of decency—they’d never treat a woman so poorly. Nowadays, anything goes. Sit down at the table; I’ll fix you something to eat.”
Margaret worked quickly at the stove, frying eggs in butter and laying out bread and homemade chutney.
“Eat up, don’t be shy,” she said, setting the plate before Emily. “You must be starved. When did you last have a proper meal?”
“A scrap of toast this morning,” Emily admitted, tucking in hungrily. “We were driving all day, arguing…”
“What was the row about, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Emily chewed thoughtfully before answering.
“He wanted us to… to move in together. But I’ve my work, my own plans. I’m not ready yet. He got angry, said awful things…”
“Quite right not to rush,” Margaret nodded approvingly. “I was your age when I hurried into marriage, thinking love would see us through. It didn’t. He left me with a baby boy and ran off with another woman.”
“You have a son?” Emily asked.
“Had,” Margaret said darkly. “He’s grown now, with his own family. But we… don’t see eye to eye. He hardly ever visits.”
She poured herself tea, stirring sugar into the cup absently.
“Do you live here alone?” Emily ventured.
“Just me. This cottage was built by my second husband—a good man, though he passed too soon. I only come here in summer now, and even that’s grown rare. I’ve a flat in town where I winter.”
Emily nodded, finishing her eggs. The rain had eased, but dusk was settling outside.
“Listen, dear,” Margaret said, “stay the night. In the morning, I’ll walk you to the bus stop. You can’t go wandering off in this weather now.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to impose…”
“Nonsense! It’s a pleasure. The sofa in the parlour’s quite comfortable, and I’ve fresh linen. Make yourself at home.”
They talked late into the evening. Emily spoke of her job at a trading firm, the struggle of renting in town. Margaret shared memories of her youth, lamenting her solitude.
“All my friends have passed or moved away to be near their children,” she sighed. “The neighbours here are elderly too, always ill. It’s lonely without company…”
“Why don’t you and your son get on?” Emily asked carefully.
Margaret’s face darkened.
“His wife can’t abide me. Says I meddle in their affairs. But haven’t I a right to know how my grandchildren are? Now they don’t even invite me for holidays…”
The next morning dawned clear. Margaret packed Emily a lunch and walked her to the bus stop.
“Thank you ever so much,” Emily said earnestly. “You’ve been so kind!”
“Think nothing of it! Come back anytime. Here—take the address.”
Emily noted it in her phone and waved from the bus window.
Weeks passed, and Margaret had nearly forgotten her unexpected guest when the familiar knock came again.
“Emily!” she cried, opening the door. “How lovely! Come in!”
“Might I stay just a night or two?” Emily asked shyly. “They’re doing repairs on my flat, and the landlady said I ought to stay with family—only I haven’t any…”
“Of course, stay as long as you need! The company will do me good.”
Emily settled into the little upstairs room. She helped with chores, cooked, kept the place tidy. Margaret was delighted.
“Better than a daughter,” she told her neighbour Mrs. Clayton. “She cooks beautifully, even does needlework. If only my son had married such a girl…”
The days passed quietly. Emily left for work each morning, returning in the evenings. They dined together, watched telly, shared stories.
“You know, Emily,” Margaret said one evening, “I’ve been thinking of my will. The flat will go to my son, but this cottage… perhaps to you? It’s no use to him, and you’ve been happy here.”
Emily flushed.
“Oh, Margaret, it’s too soon to think of such things! And it isn’t right. You’ve a son, grandchildren…”
“A son who’s a stranger now. You’re like my own.”
Time wore on. Emily made the cottage her home. Margaret bloomed under the care and companionship, her loneliness forgotten.
Then everything changed.
Margaret was hospitalised after a heart attack. Emily visited daily, bringing fresh pyjamas and reading aloud.
“The doctor says you’ll be discharged soon,” Emily told her one evening. “You’ll recover better at home.”
“Emily dear,” Margaret whispered weakly, “there’s something I must tell you. In the bedside cabinet, the farthest drawer—there’s an envelope with important papers. If anything should happen to me…”
“Don’t say such things!” Emily interrupted. “You’ll be fine!”
But Margaret worsened. The doctors spoke gravely of surgery.
Returning from the hospital, Emily went to the bedside drawer. Among the papers lay the will—the cottage was indeed left to her.
She sat holding the documents a long while. Then she took out her phone.
“Mr. Thompson? It’s Emily. We’ve met before… Yes, that’s right. Your mother’s in hospital. It’s serious—you should come.”
The next day, a man near fifty arrived with his wife and two surly teens. Margaret’s son had her same grey eyes, the same stubborn jaw.
“Where’s Mother?” he demanded upon entering.
“In hospital. They’re operating,” Emily said.
“And who are you?” his wife cut in, eyeing her suspiciously.
“I… I’ve been staying here. Margaret invited me.”
“Of course she did,” the wife sneered. “Another stray.”
Mr. Thompson prowled the cottage, inspecting the rooms.
“Place has changed,” he muttered. “Mother come into money? New telly, fridge…”
“We bought them together,” Emily said softly. “I helped.”
“Helped?” the wife mocked. “How generous! Or perhaps you’ve an eye on the inheritance?”
Emily paled but said nothing.
At the hospital, Margaret brightened at the sight of her son.
“Michael! You’ve come!” she rasped, reaching for him.
He gave her fingers an awkward squeeze.
“How are you, Mother? What do the doctors say?”
“There’s to be an operation. I’m frightened, Michael. What if I don’t wake up?”
“Rubbish! You’re tough as old boots,” he said gruffly.
His wife lingered near the door, examining her nails. The children fidgeted impatiently.
“Mum, when are we leaving?” the younger whined. “It stinks in here.”
Back at the cottage, the wife rifled through Margaret’s things.
“Michael, where does your mother keep her papers?” she asked when Emily stepped out.
“How should IShe never knew that the letter left unopened in Emily’s drawer held the truth—both of betrayal and of love.
