Matthew pulled his car up to the cemetery gates and took a deep breath. How many times had he meant to come here? How often had he put it off, telling himself “later”? When his mother was alive, there was never time. After her death—well, it felt like there was no room left for the past at all.
It was high time he woke up. To realise the world he’d so carefully built around himself was nothing but a facade. Not a single word, not a single gesture had been real. It was almost funny—he actually felt grateful to Natasha, his now ex-wife, for tearing down that fragile house of cards. One snap, and it all crumbled. That picture-perfect marriage, those “genuine” friendships… only to find out his wife, his best friend, and all those people who knew and said nothing had been lying to him the whole time. It wasn’t just a blow. It was devastation, and even now, he hadn’t recovered.
After the divorce, he’d fled to his hometown. Eight years had passed since his mother’s funeral. Eight years! And he hadn’t found a single moment to visit her grave. Only now, when there was nothing good left in his life, did he understand one simple truth: his mum had been the only person who would never have betrayed him.
He’d married late—thirty-three when Natasha was just twenty-five. He’d paraded her around like some sort of prize. She was beautiful, polished, “sophisticated,” or so he’d thought. Now all he could remember was her face twisted in rage, the horrible things she’d flung at him—how she’d hated him their entire short marriage, how every night with him had been torture. How had he been so blind? She’d cried, begged for forgiveness, said she’d felt so alone… but the second he said “divorce,” the mask slipped. There she was, the real Natasha.
Matthew stepped out of the car, grabbing a large bouquet from the back seat. He walked slowly, eyes on the ground. The path must have been overgrown. He hadn’t even come when they’d put up the headstone—arranged everything online, remotely. A perfect symbol of his whole life: everything at arm’s length, nothing real.
But the fence was clean. So was the headstone. Fresh flowers, the soil neatly turned. Someone had been tending the grave. Probably one of his mum’s old friends. Though, given how long it had taken him to visit, he could hardly call himself a good son.
He opened the gate and whispered, “Hello, Mum…”
His throat tightened, his eyes burned. He hadn’t expected to cry. He was a businessman, cool-headed, calculated, always keeping face. But here he was, sobbing like a child. He didn’t try to stop the tears. They were freeing, washing away everything to do with Natasha, the betrayal, the pain. Like his mum was really there, smoothing his hair and whispering, *It’s all right, love. It’ll be alright.*
He sat a long time. Silent. But in his head, he talked. Remembered childhood: falling, scraping his knees, his mum dabbing them with antiseptic and saying, *It’ll heal, you won’t even see the scar.* And it always did. In time. Each hurt fading a little quicker. She used to say, *You get used to anything—except betrayal.*
Now he understood every word. Back then, they’d just been kind reassurances. Turned out, they were wisdom.
Paying the neighbour to keep an eye on the house hadn’t been a problem, but how long could the place stay locked up? He smiled, remembering how he’d met her. He’d been in a bad state. But her daughter—Nina—had greeted him with such warmth. They’d talked, and somehow, things just… happened. He’d left early the next morning with a note about where to leave the keys. Maybe to her, it seemed cold. But he’d made no promises. It had just been two lonely people, seeking comfort when Nina had just left an abusive husband.
“Excuse me, mister… can you help me?”
Matthew turned sharply. A little girl, seven or eight, stood there with an empty bucket.
“I need water for the flowers. Mum and I planted them, but she’s poorly now. It’s so hot—they’ll die! But the bucket’s too heavy. Don’t tell her I came by myself. If I take tiny bits, she’ll still notice I was gone.”
Matthew smiled. “Course. Show me where.”
The girl chattered away as they walked. In five minutes, he knew everything: how her mum had drunk cold water against advice and got ill, how they’d visited her gran’s grave—passed a year ago—and how Gran would’ve scolded her for it. She’d also been at school a whole year and was absolutely determined to get top marks—maybe even finish with honours!
With every word, something in Matthew lightened. Children were magic. He thought of how he’d wanted a real family—a wife who loved him, a child waiting at home. His Natasha had been like an expensive doll—pretty, but hollow. Kids were never on the table. *Only an idiot would ruin her figure for a screaming lump*, she’d said. Five years together. And now, he couldn’t think of a single warm memory from that marriage.
He set the bucket down, and the girl carefully watered the flowers. Then he glanced at the headstone—and froze. The photo was… his neighbour. Nina’s mother. This girl’s gran.
“Sheila Roberts—she was your gran?”
“Yeah! Did you know her? Oh, wait—you knew Gran Zoe!”
Matthew looked at her. “So you… live here with your mum?”
“Yeah! I told you—she doesn’t let me come alone.”
He stared. So Nina had come back—with a daughter. He hadn’t even known… Wait. How old was Lily? Maybe she’d had her later?
The girl said a quick goodbye and dashed off, reminding him not to make her mum worry.
Back at his mother’s grave, he sat and thought. Something inside him had shifted. Nina must be looking after the house herself now. He’d been paying her, though he’d thought it was her mum. Not that it mattered who got the money.
Later, he drove to the house. His chest ached. Everything was the same—like his mum might step onto the porch any second, wipe her hands on her apron, and hug him. He sat in the car a long time. She didn’t appear.
But the garden was a surprise—neat, bright with flowers. Nina had really cared for the place. He’d have to thank her properly.
Inside, it was clean, cosy—like someone had just stepped out and would be back any minute. He sat at the table but didn’t stay long. He needed to sort things with the neighbour, then he could rest.
Lily opened 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, and she grinned. “Come in!”
“Mum, Uncle Matthew’s here!” she called.
Nina appeared in the hall—then froze.
“You…?”
He smiled. “Hey.”
No sign of a husband. No trace of one.
“I’m sorry,” Nina said. “I didn’t tell you when Mum died. Work’s scarce here, so I look after the house myself.”
“I’m sorry, Nin. But—thank you. Walking in… it’s like Mum just stepped out.”
“Are you staying long?”
“A few days.”
“Selling?”
He shrugged. “Haven’t decided. Here—this is for you. A bonus.”
He set a thick envelope on the table.
“Thank you, Uncle Matthew!” Lily beamed. “Mum wants a new dress, and I want a bike!”
He laughed. Ah, that spirit!
By evening, he was ill. Fever spiked. He dug out his mum’s old thermometer—high. No idea what to take, so he texted the neighbour’s number. Now he knew it was Nina.
*What do you take for a fever?*
Ten minutes later, they were at his door.
“My God, why’d you go in? I got you sick!”
“Come on, you’re ill—why’d *you* come?”
“I’m fine now!”
Nina handed him tablets; Lily made tea.
“You’ll burn yourself!” Nina fretted.
“Lily? Never! She’s a pro.”
Matthew smiled. Then—click. Like when a tricky maths problem suddenly solved itself in his head.
“Nin…”
She tensed. “What?”
“When was Lily born?”
Nina slowly sat. “Why?”
“Nin!”
She turned to Lily. “Sweetheart, nip to the shop—get some lemons. And juice.”
“Okay!”
The second the door shut, Nina spoke.
“Matthew, listen. Lily has nothing to do with you. We don’t need anything. Just forget itHe pulled them both into a tight embrace, whispering, “This time, I’ll never let go.”
