Emily gave the cottage one last glance. Everything seemed in order—dishes were done, the girls’ ribbons tied neatly, Daniel had washed up, and my mother-in-law Margaret sat by the fire, dressed up for the occasion. Liam had called the day before. He was coming home, back to Wilsford, and he wasn’t alone. “A surprise,” he’d said, as though it were a birthday party instead of something far more complicated.
I’d sprinted home from the post office, where the only phone reached, heart pounding. Two months without Liam. He’d left in the spring, saying he needed to work, that the factory jobs in London paid better. Back then, I’d cried. “Li, what kind of family leaves its kids behind in this sleepy village?” He’d been firm, arms crossed, like Margaret when she was mad. “You know why, Em. The roof’s leaking, the girls start school next year, and what in God’s name are we supposed to do here? No jobs, no future.”
I’d had no choice. By the second month, the bills piled up, the neighbors whispered, and Margaret’s sneers about “city gold-diggers” got louder. So I bit my tongue and let him go.
His first paycheck arrived in envelopes, crisp and heavy. I wore my best dress to the postbox, just to shut the gossips up. And it worked—half the village turned up for their pensions that day, so I got my money under the noses of everyone who’d ever called me “poor Emily, poor fool.”
But that didn’t matter now. Now, stand by the gate, heart thumping as the hare in the headlights. The surprise wasn’t a car or a bumper box from Harrods. It was a woman. Tall, dyed red hair, heels that got stuck in the mud. Liam looked flustered, and her eyes—steely, like the ones in the photos my mother used to pin up of her “old friends from the theater.”
“Liam, what’s this?” I asked, voice thinner than I wanted.
“This is Antonina,” he said, like that explained everything. “I’m marrying her.”
The air left my lungs. Margaret snorted from the porch. “Well, well. The prodigal son comes back with a twist.”
I didn’t let them argue. Not there, not with the neighbors watching like seagulls. Margaret slammed the door on her, and poor Liam stared at the closed door like a lost boy.
But the worst came the following week. A black Audi rolled through the village. Two men in suits, one older, one young. “We’re here about the property, Ms. Ivanov?”
“What property?”
“The cottage. Liam sold it. Papers here, signed and sealed. Your family’s out by tomorrow.”
The village gathered. “He can’t do that!” someone shouted. “He’s their dad!”
But lawyers don’t care about sentiment. Margaret and I, the kids, we moved in with Mrs. Hartwell, a widow who lived in the big house at the end of the lane. She let us stay in her spare wing, no questions asked. The girls started school, Daniel tried to grow a beard to look like Liam. We made do.
A year passed. The girls brought home trophies from football and spelling bee. Margaret and I swapped stories over tea, and the cottage became a memory, a second home sold to London types who posted “For Sale” signs in the windows.
Then the day Liam returned.
He stood by the gate, haggard, with a suitcase and a nervous smile. The girls froze. Margaret didn’t blink. I crossed my arms, hard.
“Here for your family, then?” I asked.
“Oh, Em, come on. I’m the father!”
“The father who sold our home? Who brought a stranger to ruin our lives?”
He flinched, said something about “rough times.” I didn’t invite him in. Instead, I took up a garden fork from the shed and marched over, sharp tines glinting in the sun.
“Go on, then,” I said. “Come closer.”
He ran. Not fast—those flimsy trainers couldn’t carry him far, but far enough. The girls laughed. Margaret raised a thumb. And I, for the first time in two years, smiled.
Inside, the girls and I devoured the cake I’d bought for their day. Liam’s name wasn’t mentioned. But today, we were all we needed.
