Who would have thought that two childhood friends, Emily and Lucy, could fall out so badly? The villagers whispered to each other:
“What could have happened? They used to be inseparable, and now they don’t even greet each other when they pass in the street.”
Neither spoke about it, so the gossip grew wilder, especially among the women gathered by the well. The only thing anyone knew was that Emily’s daughter, Sophie, had been seeing Lucy’s son, Thomas, since they were children. They had been close since school, but after graduation, their paths diverged—Thomas joined the army, while Sophie went to university in London.
As kids, they were always together—walking to school, playing in the fields until dusk, swimming in the river in summer. As they grew older, they’d sit by the water, holding hands.
“Sophieeee, come out!” she’d hear his voice under her window, and she’d dart outside, just like they’d planned the night before.
They were complete opposites—Sophie, lively and quick-witted, while Thomas was quiet, slow to speak, always thinking before acting. Sophie usually took the lead.
“Tom, let’s go mushroom-picking tomorrow,” she’d say. He’d scratch his head and nod. “Tom, let’s go for a swim.” Again, he’d agree. Never a word against it.
Emily and Lucy had been friends since childhood, playing with dolls, running between each other’s houses—their families lived just a fence apart. Their parents and grandparents had been friends too. They went to the same school, married around the same time, even to men who were mates.
Emily divorced first, when Sophie was three. Her husband had been trouble—bitter, drunk, and violent. She refused to forgive him.
“Emily, your face!” Lucy gasped, seeing the bruise. She didn’t need to ask where it came from.
“I kicked him out. No idea where he went—probably back to his mother’s.”
“Good. Mine’s no better. Yesterday he shoved Thomas across the room just for bothering him. Then he warned *me*—said next time, I’d be the one hurt if I didn’t keep *my* son in line. Not *our* son. *Mine*.”
They talked, then went their separate ways. Six months later, news spread through the village—Lucy had thrown her husband out too.
“Poor Lucy,” the women muttered. “He kept accusing her—said Thomas wasn’t his. But the boy looks just like him! And Lucy was never the type to fool around.”
That was the truth. His jealousy had poisoned their marriage. He’d even held a knife to her throat once. Terrified, she left him. Now both women were on their own, raising their kids, but they didn’t complain. Neither dreamed of men anymore. The ex-husbands had moved away, leaving Emily and Lucy with their only joys—Sophie and Thomas.
After school, Thomas trained as a mechanic, Sophie went off to university. He waited for his army call-up; she left for London. The letter came in late November. Sophie returned to see him off. They spent three days together before he left for service.
All winter, Sophie visited on weekends, stopping by Lucy’s to hear news of Thomas—though she wrote to him too. But by spring, Lucy noticed the visits stopped.
“Emily, where’s Sophie?” she’d ask, dropping by after work.
“Studying. Too busy with exams.”
March passed, then April—still no Sophie. Then Emily suddenly travelled to London. Lucy noticed her friend was distant, hardly speaking, barely leaving the house.
When Emily returned, Lucy couldn’t take the silence. That evening, she marched over.
“Out with it,” she demanded. “What are you hiding?”
Emily sighed.
“No point now. Sophie’s married. Expecting a baby.”
Lucy stared, then bolted out the door like she’d been scalded.
“Married? Pregnant? And what about Thomas?”
She snatched paper and pen, scribbling a furious letter to her son, begging him not to take it too hard.
After his two years of service, Thomas didn’t come home. He went north with a mate, found work, and buried himself in it—oil rigs, hard labour, anything to numb the pain from his mother’s letter.
Emily and Lucy stopped speaking. In three years, Thomas visited just once—stayed a few days, fixed the house, sat by the river, then left. Sophie never came back at all.
“Too posh for us now,” the village women muttered. “Could at least bring the grandkid.”
One day, the postwoman, Rita, stopped by Lucy’s.
“Lucy! Emily asked me to fetch you.”
“We don’t talk,” Lucy said sharply. “Not since that falling-out.”
“I know, but she’s poorly. The nurse came, gave her pills. My Alf picked ’em up in town. She wants to see you.”
Lucy hesitated, then nodded. “Fine. I’ll go.”
Inside Emily’s house, she found her old friend under a blanket, pills and water beside her.
“Hello,” Lucy said. “What’s all this?”
“Dunno. Just… collapsed,” Emily murmured.
After a silence, Lucy poured fresh water.
“Lucy… I’m sorry.”
“For what? Sophie’s choices aren’t your fault.”
“No, listen.”
What Emily said next left Lucy stunned. Then she shot up and ran home.
“I’ll come back!” she called over her shoulder, elated.
She had a mobile now—a gift from Thomas. She dialled his number.
“Tom, love… come home. I’m not well,” she lied, feigning weakness. “I know you’re busy, but—”
“Mum? What’s wrong?” he shouted, but she hung up.
From then on, Lucy visited Emily daily. Then, suddenly, Sophie returned—with a little boy named Oliver.
“Sophie’s back with her lad!” Lucy crowed to the women at the post office. “Emily’s over the moon!”
Soon after, the whole village saw Thomas striding down the lane, backpack slung over his shoulder—home on leave.
“Tom! Oh, love, you’re here!” Lucy beamed, but he frowned.
“Mum, you said you were ill. You look fine.”
“Oh, that? Just a turn. I’m right as rain now.”
She sat him down, piled the table with food, fussing over him.
“Eat, love. You’ve lost weight.”
Thomas didn’t recognise her—this cheerful, restless woman wasn’t his stoic mum.
“Mum, just tell me—what’s going on?”
“Nothing! I’m just glad you’re home.”
After helping her chop firewood the next day, he wandered to the riverbank, lost in memories—Sophie splashing in the shallows, Sophie learning to fish, Sophie laughing in the sun.
“Tom?”
A voice behind him. He ignored it—must be the heat.
Then a rustle. He turned.
Sophie stood there, holding a little boy’s hand.
“Tom… meet Oliver.”
The boy had Thomas’s curls, his nose, his eyes.
“Sophie… but how? Your husband—”
“There *is* no husband,” she said. “And your wife?”
“*Wife*? I never married.”
She explained—her mother, thinking the baby wasn’t his, had banished her from the village. She’d lived with an aunt in London, too ashamed to reach out after Lucy claimed he’d married someone else.
“It wasn’t till Mum fell ill that she believed me. She begged your mum’s forgiveness. Now they want us to make things right.”
Thomas exhaled.
“Bloody women. All this heartache over nothing.”
Sophie stepped closer, took his hand.
“Tom… let me fill that emptiness inside you. With love. With happiness.”
They embraced. Little Oliver tugged their sleeves.
“Mum, Dad… come on!”
Thomas lifted him, grinning.
“We’re coming, son. And then… we’re having words with your grandmothers.”
Hand in hand, they walked home—towards the future they should have had all along.
