Emily gave the cottage one last glance. Everything seemed in order, the girls’ bows tied neatly, Tommy’s face freshly washed. Edith sat prim on the settee, her best shawl on. James had called yesterday, said he’d be home today—alone, he promised, but with a surprise.
Ain’t like she could walk far in Willowbrook; the old village phone booth was the only one left. She’d sprinted home, heart racing. It’d been two months since James left for the city after insisting he had to find work in London. He’d been so sure, so determined to start over, but now the silence in the cottage felt heavier with every passing week.
Lucy had cried that first night:
“James, how can this be a proper family? You’re in London while we’re stuck here, just the two of us.”
“Darling, you’re dramatizing. You know the roof needs fixing, and the girls start school this year. There’s no jobs here—”
“But it feels wrong, James. Maybe we should’ve gone with you.”
He’d pulled away, stern. “Emily, you sound mad. It’s cheaper here, and if we moved, we’d spend everything on rent in London. Trust me.”
She did. Always had. He’d had to chase work out there, but she could stay, keep the cottage, manage the garden. Sore hearts and all, she’d let him go.
The first wire transfer came after a month. She’d dressed for the post office like it was a Christmas morning, wearing her floral dress to show off the envelope. Rumors were flying—village tongues clucking about James abandoning them for a “city life” and a fancy new wife. Not today. She’d taken the queue to the letter counter as half the village shuffled in for their pensions, and let the “Good day”s of the staff prick their ears.
She saw the hushes, the sidelong glances. Hmm, maybe it was sorted. But now James had called again—what was this surprise? It didn’t matter, really. He was coming home.
Emily had fluffed the bathhouse fire, readying the plum wine and scones. The kids were tucked in. Edith hovered, scowling. “You look like a nervous goat, you do. What’s this brat business?”
“Edith, James is your son. He’s trying, you know.”
“Oh, *trying*? The poor fool’s probably working himself to the grave, I shouldn’t be surprised if he’s got a hernia!”
She sighed. Edith had a point. Men in the village scraped by, but James? He’d been a part-time storehand, waking up for the odd morning shift. Yet, he’d come back changed—more sure, less *worn*.
“Mum! Dad’s here!”
Emily smoothed her skirt in the hall mirror. Neighbors had lingered at the gate, curious as ever. She stepped out and froze.
There he was—James, and a woman. Tall, auburn hair, heels that clicked too loudly on the cobbled path. Emily’s insides dropped.
“Hello, Em.”
Jaw tight. “James.”
“This is Claire. We’re… you know.”
*We’re what?* “Where’s the children, James?”
“We can talk inside,” he mumbled, looking past her.
Edith’s voice cut through. “I’ve no son who treats a wife like dirt. Out, both of you!”
The scuttlebutt began: “Told you, no good a London life for that Thompson boy!”
James looked barely held together. Claire tugged at his sleeve. “Couldn’t you sell the house, James? I thought it was yours?”
Emily’s breath hitched. The cottage—*his* inheritance from his father, as a wedding gift—now sold?
Her knees buckled. The kids dragged her in, whispering reassurances. Life collapsed, then rebuilt.
Weeks later, a black car appeared. Two men—city types, one sharp in a suit, the other young and flustered.
“Ivanova? You need to vacate the property. The new owners are arriving tomorrow.”
The village swarmed. An estate agent? James’s betrayal? Noise, then boots on the cobbled path.
Sheriff arrived, calm as ever. Papers were papers. They could fight it, but by dawn, everything was packed, trundled into another’s empty house.
“Come stay with me,” offered Agnes Abernathy, her quiet neighbor no one even knew was there. “The place is *yours* now. I don’t use half of it.”
A year later.
“Em, look at the kids! Christ, they’ve grown.”
Emily laughed, clutching the armful of report cards she’d just fetched from Lucy and Grace’s school. Edith and Agnes sat at the kitchen table, swapping the deeds of the garden and the kettle, like real mums.
That day, when Edith had fallen to her knees, she’d wept. “I raised a devil, I did. Forgive me, Emily. I’ll leave if you say so.”
“Don’t be so silly. You’re family. You always have been.”
Emily hadn’t stepped near the old cottage since. New owners used it as a holiday spot. Not her concern.
Then Tom, breathless:
“Mum! Dad’s here!”
She stiffened. Could she handle this again? James stood at the gate, suitcase in hand, hopeful.
“Em, I didn’t mean for it to—what’s the phrase, ‘a reap what you sow’?”
“James. You look a wreck.”
He smiled weakly. “You barely know your own father, don’t you?”
She smirked, descending the steps, not to hug but to grip the garden fork.
The village gathered as Tom dodged, laughing, while Emily *tapped* the fork on the cobblestones.
“Where’s the presents, James? Gifts for the kids? Just like before?”
“Financial difficulties, love—”
“Right. Run along to the pub. I’ll bring the wine over, but not for you.”
Laughter, then a roar: “Job’s for the scoundrel!”
Emily shut the door. Inside, the girls beamed with their certificates. The house was full, warm, and *theirs*. No place for second chances.
