Matthew pulled his car to a stop outside the cemetery gates and took a deep breath. How many times had he meant to come here? How often had he put it off for “later”? When his mother was alive—there was never time. After her death—it was as though the past had no place left at all.
Yet it was long past time to wake up. To realise the life he’d so carefully built was nothing but a façade. No word, no gesture had ever been truly real. Ironically, he was almost grateful to Natalie—his now ex-wife—for shattering that fragile house of cards. One swift blow, and it all collapsed! That picture-perfect marriage, those “genuine” friendships… And yet—his wife, his best friend, all those who knew and said nothing. It wasn’t just a failure. It was a wound he still hadn’t healed from.
After the divorce, he’d gone straight back to his hometown. Eight years had passed since his mother’s funeral. Eight years! And not once had he found the time to visit her grave. Only now, with nothing good left in his life, had he understood one simple truth: his mother had been the one person who would never betray him.
He’d married late—thirty-three to Natalie’s twenty-five. He’d been proud of her, like a prize. Beautiful, elegant, “sophisticated,” or so he’d thought. Now he remembered her face twisted with fury, the words she’d thrown at him—how she’d hated him through their short marriage, how every night with him had been torture. He still didn’t understand how he could’ve been so blind. She’d cried, begged forgiveness, said she’d been lonely… But the moment he said “divorce,” the mask fell. That was the real her.
Matthew stepped out of the car, grabbing a large bouquet from the back seat. He walked slowly, eyes down. The path must’ve been overgrown. He hadn’t even come when the headstone was placed—handled it all online, remotely. A fitting symbol of his life: everything at arm’s length, nothing real.
But the grave was tidy. The headstone clean, fresh flowers in place, soil neatly turned. Someone had been tending it. One of his mother’s old friends, perhaps. Though… it seemed her own son couldn’t be bothered.
He opened the gate and whispered, *”Hello, Mum…”*
His throat tightened, eyes burned. He hadn’t expected to cry. Matthew—the businessman, cool and calculated, always in control—now wept like a child. He didn’t try to stop the tears. They were freeing, washing away Natalie’s betrayal, the pain. As if his mother were right there, stroking his hair, murmuring, *”There there, love… It’ll be alright.”*
He sat for a long time. Silent. But in his mind, they spoke. He remembered childhood: skinned knees, her dabbing iodine, saying, *”It’ll heal, you won’t even see a scar.”* And it always did. In time. Each wound stung less. She’d add, *”You get used to anything—except betrayal.”*
Now he understood every word. What had seemed like gentle reassurances were wisdom.
Paying the neighbour to look after the house hadn’t been an issue, but how long could he leave it empty? He smiled, remembering meeting her. He’d been a wreck. And her daughter—Sophie—had greeted him with such warmth… They’d talked, and one thing led to another. He’d left at dawn, a note about the keys. Maybe she thought him cruel. But he’d promised nothing. It was mutual. Recently divorced from a tyrant, she’d spoken of her struggles. Two lonely people. A fleeting comfort.
*”Mister, can you help me?”*
Matthew turned sharply. A little girl, seven or eight, stood there holding an empty bucket.
*”I need water for the flowers. Mum and I just planted them, but she’s ill today. They’ll die in this heat! But the bucket’s too heavy. Please don’t tell her I came alone—she’d worry.”*
Matthew smiled. *”Of course. Show me where.”*
The girl chattered all the way. In five minutes, he learned everything: how her mum had ignored advice and drunk cold water, how they visited Granny’s grave (gone a year now, *”and she’d scold Mum for sure!”*), how she was top of her class and dreamed of straight A’s—maybe even a gold medal!
With every word, Matthew felt lighter. Children were miracles. He thought of the family he’d wanted—a loving wife, a child waiting at home. Natalie had been like a porcelain doll: beautiful, hollow. Children? *”Only a fool ruins her figure for a screaming lump,”* she’d said. Five years together. Not one warm memory.
He set the bucket down, and the girl carefully watered the flowers. Then he froze. The name on the headstone—Sophie’s mother. This child’s grandmother.
*”Elsie Wilkins was your gran?”*
*”Yes! Did you know her? Oh, but you knew Auntie Elsie!”*
Matthew stared. *”You… live here with your mum?”*
*”Course! I told you—she won’t let me come alone.”*
Sophie had returned. With a daughter. He hadn’t known… Wait. How old was Lily? Could she be—?
The girl dashed off, reminding him not to worry her mum.
Back at his mother’s grave, Matthew sat, pensive. Something had shifted. Sophie must’ve been tending the house herself. The money he’d sent—he’d thought it was for Elsie. But it didn’t matter who he paid.
Later, he drove to the house. His chest ached. Everything was just as she’d left it—as if any moment, his mother might step onto the porch, wipe her hands on her apron, and hug him. He stayed in the car a long time. She didn’t appear.
But the garden was a surprise—neat, flourishing. Sophie had cared for it. He’d have to thank her.
Inside, the house felt lived-in. Clean, welcoming. As though someone had just stepped out. He sat at the table, but didn’t linger—he needed to settle things with Sophie first. Then he could rest.
Lily answered the door.
*”Oh, it’s you!”* she whispered, finger to her lips. *”Don’t tell Mum we met at the cemetery!”*
Matthew mimed zipping his lips. She giggled. *”Come in!”*
*”Mum, Mr. Matthew’s here!”*
Sophie appeared, frozen. *”You…?”*
Matthew smiled. *”Hello.”*
No signs of a husband.
*”Matthew, I’m sorry… I didn’t tell you about Mum passing. Work’s scarce here, so I’ve been keeping an eye on the place.”*
*”I’m sorry about Elsie. And thank you—for the house. Feels like she just popped out.”*
*”Staying long?”*
*”A few days.”*
*”Selling?”*
He shrugged. *”Haven’t decided. Here—for your trouble. A bonus.”* He set down a thick envelope.
*”Thank you, Mr. Matthew!”* Lily beamed. *”Mum wants a new dress, and I want a bike!”*
Matthew laughed. Ah, that spirit!
By evening, he was ill. Fever spiked. He found his mother’s thermometer—high. Unsure what to take, he texted Sophie’s number (now he knew it was hers).
*”What do you take for fever?”*
Ten minutes later, they were at his door.
*”God, why’d you go inside? I infected you!”*
*”You’re ill—why come?”*
*”I’m better now!”*
Sophie handed him tablets. Lily made tea.
*”You’ll burn yourself!”* Sophie fretted.
*”Lily? Never! She’s clever with her hands.”*
Matthew smiled. Then—click. Like childhood puzzles slotting into place.
*”Sophie…”*
She tensed. *”What?”*
*”When was Lily born?”*
Sophie sank into a chair. *”Why?”*
*”Sophie!”*
She turned to Lily. *”Love, fetch some lemons. And juice.”*
Once the girl was gone, Sophie spoke fast.
*”Matthew, understand this—Lily’s nothing to do with you. We’re fine. Forget it.”*
*”Forget? Is it true?”*
*”Do you even hear yourself? Why didn’t you tell me?”*
*”I chose to keep her. You weren’t part of that. Never thought you’d come back. Never thought you’d care.”*
*”You think I wouldn’t want to know I have a daughter?”*
Sophie shrugged. *”We managed. As you see.”*As he held them both close that evening, Matthew realized that sometimes, life’s greatest blessings come not from what we chase, but from what we’ve overlooked—waiting patiently for us to return.
