Life’s too short to overthink things. It’s complicated and unfair sometimes, but every now and then, it throws you a curveball that changes everything—gives you a chance to fix past mistakes, understand what really matters, and become a better person.
Eight years ago, Edward Whitmore buried his wife, and he hadn’t remarried since. At first, it was just him and his son, Oliver, in that big two-story house. Everything was cozy, well-kept—all thanks to his late wife, Emily. But when she passed, Edward left everything exactly as it was, like a shrine to her memory. He and Oliver kept the place tidy, both of them neat by nature.
Oliver finished school and went off to university. Handsome lad, always had girls flocking to him, even in sixth form—not that he minded.
“Oliver, you’re playing with fire, son,” Edward would warn him. “One of these days, you’ll end up with a baby on the way before you’re ready. Then you’ll have no choice but to settle down.”
University was no different. When Oliver moved to another city for his studies, Edward was left alone. He wasn’t in any rush to date—couldn’t seem to move on from Emily. They’d had something rare, the kind of love you only find once in a lifetime.
One evening, Edward’s old schoolmate and mate, George, dropped by. They stood in the back garden, grilling burgers and catching up.
“How’s Oliver? How’re you holding up?” George asked.
“Not bad, business is picking up. Oliver’s my right-hand man now he’s graduated. Only problem is, he won’t settle down. Not like me in that regard,” Edward chuckled. “Planning to expand the firm next year. What about you?”
“Can’t complain. Got into farming, learned a lot. It’s good work. Oh, and I remarried—you know me and Sarah split ages ago. New wife’s much younger, nearly twenty years. My daughter’s not thrilled, though. She’s married herself, but she’s always giving me grief over it. Ah well, maybe she’ll come around,” George said. “But you—Emily’s been gone years, mate. You’re still on your own. It’s tough without a woman around.”
“Nah, not for me. Not yet,” Edward said. “Plenty of women out there, and I’m not exactly short of attention. Even at the office, there are a few lovely ladies. But I’m not looking to start a family again.”
Next door lived Margaret—a striking woman who’d lost her husband three years back. Her daughter was married. Edward chatted with her now and then, and she seemed to stir something in him, but she kept things proper, as a widow should. No flirting, just the occasional neighbourly gesture—a slice of apple pie, fresh fruit from her garden. They’d swapped numbers once.
“Margaret, let’s exchange numbers. Both living alone, you never know what might happen. If we don’t see each other for a while, we can call,” he’d suggested.
“Good thinking, Edward. Life’s unpredictable,” she’d agreed.
After George left, Edward crashed, full of burgers and a bit too much whisky—though neither of them had overdone it. The next day, as he pulled up to the house, he spotted a young woman waiting.
“You here for Oliver? He doesn’t live here anymore—moved to the city,” Edward said, stepping out of the car.
“I know, Mr. Whitmore. I’m here for you,” she said softly. “My name’s Faith.”
“For me? Curious,” he muttered. Then she handed him a photo of a little girl. “This is your granddaughter—Lily. She’s four.”
“Hold on, Faith. Don’t spin me some tale. Sort this out with Oliver yourself,” Edward snapped, shutting the gate and marching inside.
Six months back, another girl had shown up with a kid, claiming it was Oliver’s. The DNA test proved her a liar. Now he trusted no one. Grumbling to himself, he muttered, “Bloody hell, son. How many more of these girls are going to turn up on my doorstep? I’ll have a proper talk with him tomorrow—time he settled down.”
Later, he stepped out to feed Max, his loyal guard dog, and spotted an envelope stuffed in the gate. Inside were more photos of the girl and some papers. He took it inside and tossed it on a shelf.
“Right, I’ll look at it later. What’s there to even find?”
Of course, work swallowed his time, and he forgot about Faith and the envelope. He did confront Oliver, but his son just brushed it off with a joke.
Nearly a year passed. Edward was at work when his phone rang.
“Hello? What? That can’t be—when?” He hung up, pale. His secretary rushed in with water.
A crushing grief hit him—Oliver had died in a car crash. Heavy rain, a business trip to the next town. He’d lost control.
The funeral was a blur. George handled everything, and Margaret was there constantly, pressing water and pills into his hands. After the service, Edward ended up in hospital—a mild heart attack, the doctor said.
George visited often, and Margaret was practically a permanent fixture.
“I’ve been feeding Max. He knows me, so he eats what I give him. But he misses you—you can see it in his eyes,” Margaret said. “And I’m keeping an eye on the house. George pops round too. Don’t worry about any of that.”
She understood—losing a child was unbearable.
One day, Edward broke down. Margaret hadn’t expected it.
“Rita, I’ve got no one left. I should’ve died too. I’d be with my family now.”
“Edward, don’t say that! If you’re still here, there’s a reason.”
“Thanks, Rita. And call me ‘Ed,’ alright? Makes it easier. Don’t leave me here alone—I’ll go mad. I’ll pay you back for all this.”
“Don’t be daft. We’re neighbours. I took time off work—it’s fine,” she said.
She visited daily, bringing home-cooked meals, pies. Without realising, she’d started catching feelings—not just neighbourly ones.
One day, Edward asked, “Rita, could you grab an envelope from the top shelf at home? I forgot about it, but I need those papers now.”
Next day, she brought the envelope Faith had left. Edward pored over the documents—a DNA test confirming Lily was Oliver’s daughter. Copies of birth certificates, proof she was his granddaughter. And papers showing Faith was seriously ill. He turned to Margaret.
“Can I ask you one more favour? There’s an address here—could you go and bring this woman to me?”
Margaret agreed, though something pinched her heart. She’d been by his side, and now he was calling for someone else? But two hours later, she returned alone.
“Where’s Faith? Did she refuse to come?”
“Faith is dead,” Margaret said quietly. “Her neighbour told me. The girl’s in care.”
“Dead? How? I need to get out of here—I have to see her.”
“You can’t get worked up, Ed.”
“God, I messed up. I should’ve helped them.”
“The doctor won’t discharge you. Why the rush? You can’t bring her mother back.”
“Rita, you don’t understand. Lily’s my granddaughter. Oliver’s daughter. It’s all here. I didn’t believe Faith, and I forgot about these papers. Oliver never acknowledged her. Faith came to me for help, and I—”
“Your granddaughter?” Margaret gasped.
“Yes. Rita, please find her. While I’m stuck here.”
Margaret nodded. She’d help. But then she asked, “Now you see why you’re still here? You’ve got a granddaughter to raise.” Edward could only nod, tears choking him.
While he recovered, Margaret tracked down the care home on the outskirts of town where Lily lived. She spoke to the director, learned how to apply for custody. Then she asked to meet the girl. Lily warmed to her instantly. She even shared her dream.
“I promised Mummy I’d find Grandpa when I grew up. He’ll be old then—someone will need to look after him.”
Margaret smiled, hugging the sweet girl. She adored Lily’s serious little chats, wise beyond her five years. She told Edward she’d found Lily—but didn’t mention how often she visited, bringing gifts, how they’d bonded.
The day came. Edward and Margaret went to the care home, watching Lily play. She cared for the younger kids, handing back dropped toys.
At first, she didn’t see them. Then she looked up, spotted Margaret, and sprinted over. Edward was surprised—why was she so attached to Margaret?
“This is your grandpa, Lily,” Margaret said. “You wanted to find him when you grew up. But he found you first.”
