Matthew pulled the car to a stop by the cemetery gates and exhaled deeply. Christ, how many times had he meant to come here? How many times had he put it off for “later”? When his mother was alive—no time. After her death—as if the past had no place left at all.
And yet, it was high time he woke up. To realize the world he’d so carefully built around himself was nothing but a façade. Not a single word, not a single gesture had any real foundation beneath it. Ironic, really, that he even felt grateful to Natalie—his now ex-wife—for shattering that fragile house of cards. Just like that—gone! Such a perfect-looking marriage, such “real” friendships… And yet—his wife, his best friend, all those who knew and stayed silent. It wasn’t just a collapse. It was a blow he still hadn’t recovered from.
Right after the divorce, he’d fled to his hometown. Eight years since he’d buried his mum. Eight years! And not once had he found the time to visit her grave. Only now, with nothing left of his life worth clinging to, did he understand one simple truth: his mother had been the only person who would never betray him.
He’d married late—thirty-three, Natalie just twenty-five. He’d paraded her like a trophy. Beautiful, elegant, “polished,” as he’d thought at the time. Now, all he remembered was her face twisted with fury, the words she’d hurled at him—how she’d hated him their entire short marriage, how every night with him had been torment. He still didn’t get how he’d been so blind. She’d wept, begged forgiveness, claimed she’d felt alone… But the moment he said “divorce,” the mask slipped. There she was—the real her.
Matthew stepped out of the car, grabbing a large bouquet from the back seat. He walked slowly, eyes fixed on the ground. The path must’ve been overgrown. He hadn’t even come when the headstone was placed—sorted it all online, remotely. A symbol of his whole life: everything at arm’s length, nothing real.
The fence was clean. The headstone too. Fresh flowers, the soil neatly turned. Someone had been tending the grave. One of Mum’s old friends, maybe. Though… clearly not her son.
He opened the gate and whispered:
“Hello, Mum…”
His throat tightened, his eyes burned. He hadn’t expected to cry. Matthew—the businessman, cool, calculating, always in control—now sobbing like a child. He didn’t try to stop the tears. They were freeing, washing his soul clean of Natalie, of betrayal, of pain. As if his mother really were there, stroking his hair and whispering, “There, there, love… It’ll all be alright.”
He sat for a long time. Silent. But in his mind, he spoke. Remembered childhood: falling, skinned knees, Mum dabbing iodine and saying, “It’ll heal, won’t leave a mark.” And it did. With time. Each sting faded. And Mum always added, “You get used to anything—except betrayal.”
Now he understood every word. Back then, they’d just been kind phrases. Turned out they were wisdom.
Paying the neighbour to keep an eye on the house wasn’t the issue, but how long could he leave it shut up? He smiled, remembering how he’d met her. He’d been a wreck. And her daughter—Lillian—had greeted him with such warmth… They’d talked, and one thing led to another. He left at dawn, a note left behind about where to stash the keys. To her, maybe it’d seemed cruel. But he’d promised nothing. Mutual comfort, that’s all. She’d just left a tyrant of a husband, spilled her grief. Both of them lonely. So they’d clung together for a while.
“Mister, can you help me?”
Matthew turned sharply. A little girl—seven or eight—stood there, an empty bucket in hand.
“I need water for the flowers. Me and Mum just planted them, but she’s poorly today. It’s so hot—they’ll die! But the bucket’s too heavy. Don’t tell her I came here alone, though. If I carry bits at a time, she’ll still notice I’ve been gone.”
Matthew smiled.
“Course. Show me where.”
The girl chattered the whole way. In five minutes, he knew everything: how Mum ignored advice and drank cold water, how she’d got sick, how they’d come to Granny’s grave (passed a year ago), and how Granny would’ve scolded her for it. She’d also been in school for a whole year and was dead set on straight As—wanted to graduate with top honours!
With every word, Matthew felt lighter. Children were miracles. He thought how he’d wanted a real family—a wife who loved him, a child waiting at home. His Natalie had been like a porcelain doll—beautiful, hollow. Kids? Never. “You’d have to be mad,” she’d said, “to ruin your figure for a screaming lump.” Five years together. And now? Not one warm memory of that marriage.
He set the bucket down, and the girl carefully watered the flowers. Matthew glanced at the headstone—then froze. The photo was… the neighbour. Lillian’s mother. This child’s grandmother.
“Margaret Hughes was your gran?”
“Yeah! Did you know her? Oh, wait—you’ve been to Granny’s!”
Matthew stared at the girl.
“So… you and your mum live here?”
“Yeah! I told you—Mum won’t let me come alone.”
Matthew floundered. So Lillian had come back. And she had a daughter. He hadn’t known… Wait. He didn’t even know how old Rosie was. Maybe the child came later?
The girl dashed off with a quick goodbye, reminding him not to worry her mum.
Back at his mother’s grave, Matthew sat and thought. Something inside him had shifted. Lillian must’ve been tending the house herself. He’d been paying her—not her mum, as he’d assumed. But in the end, who got the money didn’t matter.
Later, he drove to the house. His chest ached. Everything was just as it had been—as if Mum might step onto the porch any second, wipe her tears on her apron, and hold him. He stayed in the car a long time. She didn’t appear.
But the garden was a surprise—neat, pretty, flowers planted. Lillian had cared for it. He’d have to thank her properly.
Inside, it was clean and cosy, like someone had just stepped out and would be back any minute. Matthew sat at the table, stayed a while, but didn’t linger—needed to settle things with the neighbour, then he could rest.
Rosie 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, and the girl giggled.
“Come in!”
“Mum, Mr. Matthew’s here!” she called down the hall.
Lillian appeared—then froze.
“That’s… you?”
Matthew smiled.
“Hello.”
He glanced around—no husband, no sign of one.
“Matthew, I’m sorry… I didn’t tell you about Mum passing. Work’s scarce, so I’ve been caring for the house.”
“My condolences, Lil. And thank you—so much. Walking in… it’s like Mum just popped out for a minute.”
“Staying long?”
“A few days.”
“Selling?”
Matthew shrugged.
“Haven’t decided. Here—this is for you. A bonus.”
He set a thick envelope on the table.
“Thanks, Mr. Matthew!” Rosie beamed. “Mum’s wanted a new dress forever, and I want a bike!”
Matthew laughed. Ah, that spirit!
By evening, he knew he was ill. Fever spiked. He dug out Mum’s old thermometer—high. No clue about medicine, so he texted the neighbour’s number. Now he knew it was Lillian.
“What do you take for fever?”
Ten minutes later, they were at his door.
“God, why’d you come in? I’ve got you sick now!”
“Come off it, you’re ill, why’d you come?”
“I’m better now!”
Lillian handed him pills; Rosie brewed tea.
“You’ll burn yourself!” Lillian fretted.
“Who, Rosie? Never! She’s a proper little helper!”
Matthew smiled. Then—click. Like when he was a boy, and his brain suddenly solved a hard sum.
“Lil…”
She tensed.
“What?”
“When was Rosie born?”
Lillian sank into a chair.
“Why?”
“Lillian!”
She turned to her daughter.
“Rosie, love, pop to the shop—fetch some lemons. And something to drink.”
“Alright, Mum!”
Once the girl was gone, LillianAs the weeks passed, Matthew found his way back to laughter—real laughter, the kind that filled the quiet corners of their new home, where three hearts slowly learned to beat as one.
