March sun peeked through the curtains, casting warm beams on the freshly painted walls. Emily stood by the stove, stirring the pot of bubbling stew while eyeing the clock. She’d woken early to prepare James’ favorite—a nod to his quiet mood from the night before. He’d been grumpy all evening, so she figured a hearty meal might lift his spirits.
“Em, have you seen my blue tie?” James called from the bedroom, shirt half-buttoned.
“In the wardrobe, right drawer. I ironed it last night,” I replied, not looking up from the stove.
The breakfast silence was familiar; James scrolled news on his phone, muttering occasionally, while I watched him eat. I wanted to ask what troubled him but waited, trusting he’d speak if it was serious.
“I appreciate this, thanks,” he said after finishing his coffee. “Listen… my dad’s coming today. Staying with us a while.”
I froze mid-sip. Bernard? The man who’d stormed out of our wedding after calling me “unfit” for his son? The one who ignored birthdays and holidays for years?
“When’s he arriving?” I managed.
“Tonight. I’ll pick him up. He and Mum… had a fallout. He needs time to sort things out.”
“Sort things? James, he—”
“He’s changed, Em. Health issues made him rethink life,” he cut in, avoiding my gaze. “I couldn’t just leave him alone.”
“You should’ve talked to me first. My week is all overboard with work,” I said, setting plates in the sink.
“Sorry. I didn’t want to raise your hopes,” he said, hugging me from behind. “Scared of how you’d react.”
“I’d say you were right to fear,” I muttered, pulling away. “Go. I’ll handle the rest.”
The day blurred. I scrubbed the flat, made up the guest room, and simmered stew. *Whatever happens, happens*, I told myself, arranging the table.
The doorbell rang at seven.
James stood in the hallway, flanked by a tall, silver-haired man with a worn leather suitcase.
“Good evening, Bernard,” I said, forcing a smile.
“Evening, Emily. Thank you for… hosting,” he replied, voice gruffer than I remembered.
We dined in the living room. James did most of the talking—work, our new car, holiday plans. Bernard nodded, asking polite questions while I passed dishes.
“This stew is excellent,” Bernard said suddenly, addressing me. “Did you learn to cook properly at last?”
I blinked. “Self-taught over years.”
“Sally, *rest in peace*, was a wonderful cook. Claire?” He snorted. “She microwave meals and believes standing at the stove is ‘unladylike.’ Spoiled rotten, telling me so.”
James barely suppressed a smile.
I led Bernard to his room later. “It’s your space for now. Let me know if anything’s needed,” I said, unsure why my voice softened.
By dawn, I was awake again—this time to the smell of tea and the clatter of the kitchen.
Bernard was slicing bread in a tracksuit. “Morning. Sorry for the noise. Army habit,” he said, offering a plate.
“No harm. I’ll make breakfast,” I said, though he’d already tucked into toast.
“I’ll wash up,” he added, packing crumbs and plates. The man who once dismissed me as a “poor catch” was cleaning *his* mess.
That night, James found me in the kitchen, helping Bernard with salad prep.
“Need a hand, luv?” Bernard asked.
Unexpectedly, he apologized later. “For the wedding, the comments… I was wrong.”
“I saw you in London last month,” I said slowly. “With Claire, sipping cocktails at The Ritz. Doesn’t exactly scream ‘family man.’”
His face darkened. “She’s not… Claire’s not my partner. We split. Turns out she married me for the pension.”
I listened, stunned, as he recounted her scheming—disposing wills, insinuating he’d “kick the bucket” soon.
“She’s after the house,” he admitted. “I let her. Watched her. If she still cares, she stays. If not… well.”
When James arrived, he found us in harmonious tussle over carrots.
“Everything alright?” he asked.
“More than,” I said.
Bernard proved a surprise: up at dawn doing yoga, fixing a wobbly shelf, or sharing stories of his wartime in the RAF. By week’s end, he’d even painted the living room—James’ old childhood color.
One evening, I overheard them.
“Why did you treat Emily so poorly?” James asked.
“She feared losing you. Lost a son once, didn’t want to lose you, too. Stupid, I know. Now I see the truth,” Bernard replied, his voice cracking.
I dripped into the room like honey, heart full.
Weeks later, Claire stormed in. “Where’s Bernard?”
“I assume you’ve heard about the divorce papers?” he said coldly. “Feel free to collect your ‘loans.’”
She gaped. “This is *her* doing?”
“Emily’s the one who loves him—*really* loves him,” Bernard said softly.
Claire left, slammed the door, and we never heard from her again.
Bernard stayed a fortnight more, then packed. “Thank you, luv. You taught me what family means,” he said to me, hugging James tight.
That night, my phone buzzed.
“Emily,” Bernard said, voice trembling. “Before I go… I feel like a fool, but… if you two ever have children, I’d be honored to be a grandfather.”
I whispered the news of our pregnancy, and the line buzzed with his joy.
As rain tapped the window, James traced my belly. “Guess Dad wasn’t such a lost cause after all.”
Sometimes, life hands you suitcases full of chaos. But if you dare open them, you might just find gold.
