Come Down to Earth

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 9 minViews 3

Hey, love, you wont believe whats been happening with Emily lately. Shes been dreaming about getting into Cambridge you know, the one with that famous linguistics department. Shes been scrolling forums, seeing grads end up at the UN or even in embassies, and shes got her heart set on it.

Helen was chopping cucumbers in the kitchen when Emily blurted it out, looking like shed just suggested we start dancing on the table.

Emily, love, what are you on about? Cambridge? Helen snorted, not missing a beat with the salad. There are too many clever clogs there already. Come down to earth, darling. Youll crawl back here, and the spots at a decent university will be gone before you know it.

But my grades Emily started.

Grades, grades, Helen waved the knife. Be glad theres something to apply for here. Stay by my side, you wont have to beg in anyone elses corner.

Emily fell silent, staring out the window. Her mum had always warned her not to get her hopes up. Shed checked her GCSE results in her own room, door locked tight. Ninetyfour in English, ninetyone in French, eightynine in History. She read the numbers three times, still couldnt believe them. Then she flopped onto her pillow, eyes glued to the ceiling crack that looked like a map of some unknown country. Her head felt oddly empty and ringing at the same time. She was one of the top leavers in the borough with scores like that she could get into anywhere.

Anywhere

That night she stayed up scrolling university sites until three in the morning, comparing programmes, reading reviews, checking entry requirements. When she landed on the Cambridge page the grand old building on the banner, the foreign languages faculty description something clicked, like a lock finally turning.

This is it. This is where I belong, she thought.

But Helen wasnt having it.

Dont even think about it! she shrieked. Cambridge? Youre trying to leave me here alone?

Helen started pacing the kitchen, grabbing at the table edge, the back of a chair.

Mom, Im not leaving Emily tried to protest.

Youre abandoning us! Traitor! I raised you, gave you my life, and now you

The drama played out every day.

Emily stopped sleeping properly. Dark circles settled under her eyes, her appetite vanished. She moved around the flat like a ghost, trying not to get caught by her mum, but the twobed flat was too tiny to hide in.

Aunt Martha, Helens younger sister, dropped by for the weekend and saw the latest scene. Emilys brilliant. Let her go, let her study. Its her future! she said. And my future is staying here alone?

Youre fortythree, youve got the rest of your life ahead, Martha snapped. Emily isnt your caretaker! She has her own life!

Grandma, shriveled in the corner, just shook her head. Helen, let the girl go. Youll end up kicking yourself for not giving her a chance.

Helen ignored them. A plan was forming in her head. A few days later Emily raided every drawer, every cabinet. Her passport, birth certificate, GCSE certificates all gone.

Mum! Where are my papers? she demanded.

Helen lounged in front of the telly, smug as ever. Theyre where you cant reach them. Im not signing anything. Youre seventeen; you wont go anywhere without my OK.

Emily sank onto a chair, thoughts racing. The application deadline was a week away, and she had neither documents nor her mums signature.

She called the university. A polite voice explained that anyone under eighteen needs consent from a legal guardian no exceptions.

She rang a legal helpline. The adviser confirmed: until she turns eighteen, her mother can dictate her moves.

Martha visited twice more, trying to persuade Helen, but it was pointless. Helen clung to Emily like her life depended on it.

Three days before the cutoff, Emily gave up. She and Helen drove to the local college a drab building on the towns edge, plaster peeling like stale cheese, a crooked sign.

The admissions office smelled of dust and hopelessness. A woman behind the desk took the papers without looking up, muttering something about timetables. Emily stepped out onto the grey pavement, staring at the lifeless asphalt. Inside felt empty, burnt out.

See? Perfect, Helen beamed. Youll stay right by me. No need to go anywhere fancy. I told you, no need to show off!

The first months were a torment. Lecturers used notes from twenty years ago, students glued to phones, the firstfloor bathroom lock broken for ages. Emily dragged herself to class, then started skipping.

Where have you vanished to? asked Yvonne, the only classmate who ever chatted with her, catching her in the corridor.

In the library, Emily replied.

She meant it. The town library became her sanctuary. Shed spend hours buried in grammar, phonetics, cultural studies books, prepping for something she hadnt even admitted to herself yet.

Her eighteenth birthday fell on a bleak November Tuesday. Helen baked a cake, invited the neighbour, Emily blew out a candle, ate a slice, then retreated to her room.

The next morning she marched to the deans office. Id like to withdraw, voluntarily, she placed the slip on the desk.

The secretary raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Shed seen worse.

Back home, Emily dug out her hidden stash the passport, certificates, birth certificate the ones Helen had handed back right after she got in. Everything was there.

What are you doing? Helen called from the hallway.

Emily turned. Helen froze in the doorway.

Im leaving. To Cambridge.

What? Not again! I forbid you! Helen snapped.

Im eighteen now. You cant tell me what to do any more!

Helens face flushed with anger. You ungrateful brat! After everything Ive done for you

Ill call when Ive got a job, Emily said, zipping her bag.

She walked out of the flat, leaving her little cage behind.

At the bus station, Aunt Martha waited with an envelope. Here, I saved some cash for you. Itll get you started.

Emily tried to argue, but Martha just waved her off. Keep quiet. You earned this. Dont give up, okay? No matter what, dont quit.

The 6am coach to Cambridge pulled away. Emily watched the grey terraced houses of her hometown melt into the morning mist. She didnt cry. No tears, just a strange ringing feeling, like finally breathing deep for the first time.

The room she got in the shared house was tiny a bed, a desk, a chair, thats it. She landed a job three days later as a waitress in a café. Twelvehour shifts left her legs buzzing by night, the smell of fried onions seemed to stick to her hair, but the wages covered rent, food, and, most importantly, textbooks.

A year passed in a frantic rhythm: mornings sleeping in, afternoons at the café, evenings buried in notes, listening exercises. She lived on scraps leftovers from the kitchen, tea with toast. She dropped six kilos, nearly fainted once in the dining hall, and the manager sent her home to eat properly.

Still, she pushed on. Summer came, and she reapplied to the same university, same department. The entry score was high, but her grades were even higher.

In August the lists went up. Emily stood in front of the notice board, heart thudding, scanning for her name.

There it was.

A funded place.

She collapsed onto the stone steps of the ancient building, vaulted ceilings and stained glass all around, strangers passing, a few glances, but she didnt care.

Shed done it.

Five years flew by like one long, intense day. She never went back to her hometown. She brushed off her mums New Year and birthday invites.

Helen called less and less. Their chats started with complaints, ended with accusations. Emily would nod, say Yeah, right, mum, I get it, love you, bye.

She kept moving forward.

In June, she walked out of the university holding her degree, the red ribbon gleaming, and paused by the riverbank.

An offer from an international translation firm had already landed in her inbox a salary shed never dared to dream of.

Her phone buzzed. Emily, when are you coming home? I, her mums voice trailed.

Mom, Emily cut in, gentle but firm. I just got my degree. I have a job in Cambridge. Im not coming back.

A pause, then a sob. Youve abandoned me! I knew it! You ungrateful

Bye, mum. Ill call in a couple of months, she said, ending the call and watching the grey water sparkle as a riverboat drifted by.

She smiled to herself, low and quiet. She hadnt let anyone break her. Shed made it.

The Syndrome of a Life Forever Put on Hold… The Confession of a 60-Year-Old Woman Helen: This year I turned 60—and not a single one of my family even rang to wish me happy birthday. I have a daughter and a son, a grandson and granddaughter, and even my ex-husband is still around. My daughter’s 40, my son’s 35. Both live in London, both graduated from respected universities. Both intelligent, successful. My daughter’s married to a high-ranking civil servant, my son to the daughter of a prominent London businessman. Both have thriving careers, own several properties, and each runs their own business alongside a secure government job. Everything is stable. My ex-husband left when our son finished uni. He said he was tired of the constant pace, even though his own work was steady, weekends spent with mates or lounging on the sofa, holidays visiting family up north for the whole month. I never took holidays, worked three jobs at once—engineer in a factory, cleaner for management, and at weekends packing shelves in the local supermarket from eight to eight, plus extra cleaning. Every penny I earned was for the kids—London’s an expensive city and studying at top universities meant good clothes, food, and treats. I’d wear old clothes, patch things up, repair my shoes, kept clean and tidy. That was enough for me. My escapes were dreams—sometimes I’d see myself there; happy, young, laughing. When my husband left, he bought himself a fancy car straight away. Must’ve had a decent stash set aside. Our life together was strange—all the costs were mine except the rent, which he paid; that was his only real contribution. I raised our children, paid for their educations myself… The flat we lived in came from my gran—a solid, well-kept Victorian with high ceilings. Two beds, converted to a three. The box room had a window and I renovated it; perfect for a bed, desk, wardrobe, shelves. That was my daughter’s. My son and I shared a room—luckily, I was hardly home except to sleep. Husband lived in the lounge. When my daughter moved to London, I took her old box room. Son stayed in the other room. Splitting up with my husband was peaceful; no rows, no splitting the furniture, and no blame games. He wanted to LIVE, not muddle through, and I was so worn out I felt relieved… No more slaving over dinners, desserts, and drinks. No more washing his clothes and bedding; I could finally rest. By that stage, I’d racked up plenty of health issues—spine, joints, diabetes, thyroid, exhaustion. For the first time I took a real break and focused on treatment. I kept my side jobs. Got a bit better. I hired a really good tradesman and his mate—they redid my bathroom in two weeks, a proper job. For me that was happiness! Personal, genuine happiness! Happiness for myself! All this time, instead of birthday and holiday gifts, I’d send my successful children money. Then there were grandchildren, so I couldn’t stop working extra. I never saved for myself. My own birthday calls came rarely, mostly in reply to my wishes. No gifts. Worst of all, neither my son nor my daughter invited me to their weddings. My daughter told me: “Mum, you just wouldn’t fit in the crowd. There’ll be people from the Prime Minister’s office.” And I found out about my son’s wedding from my daughter, after the fact… At least they didn’t ask for money for the weddings… Neither child ever visits, though I always invite them. My daughter says there’s nothing for her in our “backwater” (a busy city, over a million people). My son always says, “Oh, Mum, I’m too busy!” Flights to London go seven times a day, just two hours in the air… How would I name that period of my life? Probably the age of suppressed emotions… I lived like Scarlett O’Hara—”I’ll think about it tomorrow”… I buried all my tears and pain, held back everything from confusion to despair. I worked like a robot pre-programmed to keep going. Later, the factory was bought out by London investors—restructuring followed, all us older staff were let go overnight, so I retired early. The pension’s £250 a week… Try living on that. I got lucky—a cleaning job opened up in our five-storey, four-entrance block… So I started mopping up stairwells—an extra £250 a week. I kept my weekend supermarket job, £35 per shift. Hardest bit was being on my feet the whole day. I slowly started fixing up the kitchen. Did most of it myself; ordered new units from a neighbour—he did a fine job at a decent price. And again, I began to squirrel away a little money. Wanted to touch up the rooms, update some furniture. Those were the plans… except nowhere in those plans was I myself! What did I spend on me? Only basic food, and I never ate much. And medicine—those bills were steep. Rent’s climbed year after year. My ex suggested, “Sell the flat, great area, good price—get yourself a one-bed.” But it breaks my heart. It’s my gran’s memory. I don’t recall my parents. Gran raised me. That flat’s my whole life’s history. I kept things friendly with my ex. We chat now and then, like old mates. He’s fine. Never talks about his personal life. Once a month he comes over, brings potatoes, veg, rice, drinking water—all the heavy stuff. Refuses money. Says if I use delivery, it’ll be rubbish, all rotten. I don’t argue. Inside, something’s frozen—bundled tight. I just keep going. Work hard. Never dream. Never want anything for myself. I only see my daughter and grandkids on her Instagram. My son’s life flashes on his wife’s Insta. I’m glad they’re well; safe and healthy. They holiday in exotic places, dine at fancy restaurants. Maybe I didn’t give them enough love. Maybe that’s why they don’t have love for me. Sometimes my daughter asks how I am; I always say I’m fine. Never complain. My son occasionally sends WhatsApp voice notes: “Hi Mum, hope you’re well.” Once my son told me he didn’t want to hear about my problems with Dad—negativity upsets him. So I stopped sharing anything with him, just say: “Yes, love—all’s well.” I’d love to hug my grandchildren, but I suspect they don’t know their living granny exists—the old cleaner on a pension. I guess, according to family legend, granny’s long gone… I don’t recall ever buying anything for myself—all I get is the odd bit of underwear and socks, always the cheapest. Never been for a manicure, pedicure… Once a month I get my hair trimmed at the salon next door, and dye it myself. The one thing I like: even now, I still wear the same size as in my youth—14/16. No need to replace my wardrobe. But I’m terrified that one day I won’t be able to get out of bed—the pain in my spine is relentless. I’m afraid of being trapped. Maybe I shouldn’t have lived this way—no rest, no little joys, always working and saving everything for “later”? But where is “later”? It’s gone… My spirit is empty… my heart—full of indifference… And around me—only emptiness… I don’t blame anyone. But I can’t really blame myself either. I’ve always worked, still do now. Building a little safety net, just in case I can’t work. Tiny, but still… Though, truth be told, I know if I’m bedridden, I won’t want to live… wouldn’t want anyone to have to deal with me. And you know what’s saddest of all? No one in my entire life has ever given me flowers… Not once… Wouldn’t it be a laugh if someone finally brings fresh flowers to my grave? Seriously, it’d be almost funny…

Let Me Remind You “Miss Mary, I just can’t get this swirl right,” sighed little Tommy, a Year 2 pupil, sadly poking his paintbrush at the stubborn, curling-the-wrong-way green leaf on the flower he’d drawn. “Not so hard, love, be gentle with your brush – like you’re stroking a feather across your palm. There, that’s it! Beautiful! That’s not a swirl, it’s a masterpiece!” smiled the elderly teacher. “And who’s the lucky one getting your lovely picture?” “It’s for Mum!” Tommy replied, grinning now that he’d tamed the awkward leaf. “It’s her birthday today! This is my present!” His pride at the teacher’s praise was clear in his voice. “Oh, your mum is a lucky woman, Tom. Don’t close your sketchbook just yet. Let the paints dry a little or they’ll smudge. Then, when you get home, you can carefully tear the page out. Trust me, your mum will love it!” The teacher glanced one last time at the boy’s tousled head bent over the paper, then returned to her desk, smiling at her thoughts. What a gift for his mum! Bet it’s been years since she’s had something so lovely. Tommy’s got real talent for art—maybe I should call his mum about art school. Talent shouldn’t go to waste. And while I’m at it, I’ll ask my former pupil if she liked the present. I can’t take my eyes off those flowers Tommy painted; they look ready to rustle their living green curls. Oh, he takes after his mum! No doubt about it. Lorna was a brilliant young artist herself at his age… ***** “Miss Mary, it’s Lorna—Tommy Cottam’s mum,” came the strict voice of a young woman over the phone that evening. “Just letting you know, Tom won’t be in tomorrow.” “Hello, Lorna! Is everything alright?” “No, it isn’t! That little rascal ruined my whole birthday! And now he’s in bed with a fever—the ambulance only just left.” “Hang on, Lorna, what do you mean fever? He left school happy, bringing you his—” “You mean those splotches?” “Splotches? No, Lorna! He painted you such beautiful flowers! I was just about to call to suggest art school for him…” “I don’t know about flowers, but I certainly wasn’t expecting a soggy mess for a gift!” “Soggy mess? What on earth happened?” Miss Mary was lost for words as Lorna rambled on, tense and upset, and her frown deepened with every explanation: how Tom came home late, drenched in mud and water… How he pulled a soaking-wet puppy from under his coat—the stench! He’d climbed into a thawing puddle to rescue it after bigger boys threw it in. Ruined books, splotched sketchbook, and a fever nearly touching 39… The party ruined, guests left before the cake came out. The doctor scolded her for not watching her child… “After Tom fell asleep, I took that puppy straight back to the dump. The sketchbook’s drying on the radiator, but the water’s made a mess of everything, not just the flowers!” Lorna grumbled. She didn’t seem to notice how the elderly teacher’s expression grew grimmer with every word, especially when she heard what happened to the rescued puppy. Miss Mary looked sternly at Lorna, stroked the ruined sketchbook gently, and spoke softly… About green swirls and living flowers. About the care of a child and his brave heart, unwilling to look away from injustice. Of the bullies who threw the little animal into that pit. Then she stood, took Lorna by the hand, and led her to the window. “There’s that pit,” she pointed. “Tom could have drowned, not just the puppy. Do you think he gave that a thought while he was rescuing it? Or was he thinking about those flowers on the page and trying not to breathe on them, so he wouldn’t spoil his gift?” “Or have you forgotten, Lorna, how—you in the nineties—sobbed bitterly on the school bench, hugging a stray kitten you’d rescued from the local boys?” “How we all stroked it, waiting for your mum? How you didn’t want to go home when your parents tossed your ‘scruffy flea bag’ out… Luckily, they changed their mind in time.” “Well, let me remind you! And your cat, Tigger, you never wanted to part with! And floppy-eared Max, that puppy who went everywhere with you right up to uni, and the rook with the broken wing you took care of at school…” Miss Mary fetched an old photo from her album: a tiny girl in a white pinafore holding a furry kitten, smiling at her classmates. Her voice was gentle, but firm: “I’ll remind you of the kindness in your heart, the kindness that bloomed in spite of everything, bright as paint on a child’s page.” A faded drawing tumbled out after the photo: a girl, clutching a fluffy kitten and gripping her mum’s hand. “If it were up to me,” Miss Mary added more sternly, “I’d have kissed that puppy and Tom together! And put those splotches in a frame! There’s no better gift for a mother than raising her child to be a good person!” Lorna didn’t seem to notice how her face changed with every word. She cast worried glances at Tom’s bedroom door, clutching the ill-fated sketchbook with whitening fingers. “Miss Mary! Please, would you watch Tom for a few minutes? I’ll be right back, I promise!” Under her teacher’s gentle gaze, Lorna threw on her coat and rushed out. She ran straight for the distant dump, not caring that her feet got soaked, calling and searching under boxes and bags, glancing anxiously homeward… Would she be forgiven? ***** “Tom, who’s got their nose buried in the flowers? Is that your mate, Duke?” “That’s him, Miss Mary! Looks like him, doesn’t it?” “It certainly does! There’s that white star on his paw—how I remember washing those muddy paws with your mum.” The teacher chuckled fondly. “And now I wash them every day! Mum says, ‘If you have a friend, you take care of him!’ She even bought a special doggy tub for it!” Tom said proudly. “You’ve got a wonderful mum,” nodded Miss Mary. “Are you drawing her another picture, then?” “Yep! This one’s for a frame. The splotches are up on the wall now, and she always smiles at them. Why would you smile at splotches, Miss Mary?” “At splotches? Maybe you would, if they came straight from the heart. Tell me, how’s art school?” “It’s brilliant! Soon I’ll be able to paint Mum’s portrait—she’ll love it! But for now—look, I’ve got something for you, from Mum. She draws too.” Tom pulled a folded sheet of paper from his bag, and Miss Mary squeezed his shoulder lightly. On the paper, a brightly painted Tom beamed, his hand resting on Duke’s head, the dog gazing at him adoringly. Next to them, a tiny, fair-haired girl in an old-fashioned school dress hugged a fluffy kitten… To the left, behind a teacher’s desk piled with books, sat Miss Mary herself, smiling with bottomless, wise kindness in her lively gaze at her happy students. In every brushstroke, in every mark, she could feel the proud love of a mother. Miss Mary brushed away her tears and, suddenly beaming, noticed—right in the corner, drawn in flowers and curling green spirals—one single word: “Remember.”

One More Year Together… For the past while, Mr. Arthur Evans hadn’t gone out on his own. Not since the day he left for the clinic, lost his way, and forgot both his address and his own name. He wandered the neighbourhood in confusion until his eyes landed upon a very familiar building: the old clock factory where Mr. Evans had spent nearly fifty years of his working life. He stared at the factory, certain he recognised it, but the reason escaped him, as did his own identity—until someone approached from behind with a friendly pat on the shoulder: “Evans! Uncle Arthur, what brings you here—missing us, perhaps? We were just reminiscing the other day about the best foreman and mentor we ever had. Arthur Evans, you haven’t even recognised me? It’s me—Sam Cooper! You made a man of me, Evans!” Something clicked in Arthur’s mind—his memory returned all at once, thank heavens. Sam grinned and embraced his old mentor, “Recognised me now? Shaved off the moustache, don’t look much like myself, eh? Will you come in, the lads would love to see you?” “Perhaps another time, Sam, I’m feeling rather worn out,” admitted Mr. Evans. “I’ve got my car out front, let me drive you home—I remember your address!” Sam cheerfully replied. He drove Arthur home, and ever since, Mrs. Natalie Evans hadn’t let her husband go out alone, even though his memory seemed fully recovered. They only went out together now—to the park, the clinic, and the shops. One day Arthur fell ill—fever, harsh cough. Natalie hurried alone to the pharmacy and supermarket, although she herself was under the weather. She bought medicine and groceries, not even much, but a strange weakness overtook her, and she was short of breath. Her shopping bag felt impossibly heavy. Natalie paused to catch her breath, then struggled onward toward home. A few steps further, she stopped again, set her heavy bag down on the fresh snow, and gently sank to the path leading to her house. Her last thought—why had she bought so much at once, silly old lady! Thankfully, the neighbours saw her lying on the snow, hurried over, and called an ambulance. Natalie was rushed away, while neighbours took her bags of food and medicine, returned, and rang her doorbell. “Her husband must be home—he’s looked poorly lately, I haven’t seen him outside,” guessed Mrs. Nina Miller. “He’s likely sleeping; Natalie mentioned he’s been quite unwell too—oh, old age is no joy, I’ll check back later…” Arthur Evans heard the bell. But his cough made breathing hard, and when he tried to stand, dizziness from fever nearly caused him to collapse. The cough quieted, and Arthur drifted into a strange half-sleep, halfway between dream and reality. Where was Natalie? Why was she taking so long? He dozed for ages, but then heard light footsteps. Suddenly, his wife appeared—his Natalie, thank goodness she was back. “Arthur, give me your hand, hold on, get up, come now,” she called softly. And so, clutching her curiously cold, frail hand, he rose. “Now open the door, quickly, open up,” Natalie whispered. “Why?” Arthur asked, but opened the door as she asked—and in came neighbour Nina Miller and young Sam Cooper from work. “Evans, why didn’t you answer? We knocked and called!” “Natalie—where’s Natalie? She was just here!” Arthur stammered, lips pale, unable to understand where his wife had gone. “She’s in hospital, in intensive care!” exclaimed Nina Miller. “He’s delirious,” Sam realised, just in time to catch his old friend as he fainted… The neighbours called an ambulance—it was a feverish faint. Two weeks later, Natalie was discharged from hospital. Sam drove her home, having helped Arthur recover in her absence. At last, Mr. and Mrs. Evans were together again. Alone at last, tears were hard to hold back. “It’s good, isn’t it, Arthur—there are still kind people. Nina is such a decent woman—remember how her kids came round after school? We fed them, helped with homework, and she’d collect them after work.” “Yes, not everyone remembers kindness, but she’s stayed warm-hearted, it means a lot,” Arthur agreed. “And Sam—a bright young lad; I was his mentor, helped him find his feet. Many young folks forget us oldies, but he didn’t.” “The New Year’s in a few days, Arthur—it’s so wonderful that we’re together again,” Natalie said, nestling close to her husband. “Natalie, tell me honestly—how did you come from hospital and make me open the door for my rescuers? I would’ve died here without you.” He dreaded she’d think his mind was slipping, but Natalie looked astonished, “So it was real? They told me I’d had a clinical death—and during that, in a dreamlike haze, I came to you? I remember it too—seeing myself in intensive care, then leaving and coming to you…” “What strange magic, what blessings as we grow old! And I still love you, more than ever before,” Arthur Evans took her hands in his and they sat for a long time, silent, gazing at one another as if afraid fate might separate them again. On New Year’s Eve, Sam dropped by with a basket of his wife’s homemade pies. Neighbour Nina popped in too; they chatted over tea and pies, feeling content and warm inside. At midnight, Natalie and Arthur welcomed in the New Year together. “You know,” Natalie smiled, “I made a wish—if we see in this New Year together, then it’s ours. We’ll have another year yet.” They laughed with joy at the thought. One more whole year together—it means everything, it is happiness itself.

Leonard Refused to Believe Little Irene Was His Own Daughter—Suspicious Rumors About Wife Vera at the Shop Made Him Reject the Fragile Child, Leaving Only Grandpa Matthew to Cherish Her and Bequeath His Countryside Cottage and a Promise of Happiness The Only One Who Truly Loved Irene Was Her Grandfather As a child, Irene frequently battled illness, small and delicate, prompting Leonard to scoff, “Neither my family nor Vera’s ever had such tiny offspring! That’s hardly a daughter of mine.” With time, even Vera distanced herself, leaving Irene unloved—except for Grandpa Matthew, the kindly forest warden whose remote cottage at the village edge became Irene’s safe haven. He taught her about woodland herbs and cures, nurturing both her spirit and ambition to become a healer, promising support for her studies even if he had to sell the family cow. Grandpa Left Irene Both His Home and a Blessing for Her Future Vera rarely visited her father, but when her son lost a poker game in town, she came begging for money. Grandpa Matthew sternly refused, declaring his priority was Irene’s education, not covering his grandson’s debts. Furious, Vera disowned them both. When Irene entered nursing college, only Grandpa Matthew helped her, his encouragement and Irene’s scholarship sustaining her despite her parents’ neglect. Sensing his end, Grandpa Matthew bequeathed Irene the cottage and foretold her happiness: “Find work in the city, but never abandon your home—its spirit lives through you. Don’t fear the woods at night; your destiny awaits here.” Matthew’s Prophecy Came True After Grandpa’s autumn passing, Irene—now a nurse in the district hospital—spent weekends alone at the cottage. One snowy night, a stranger named Stan appeared, stranded outside, seeking a shovel. Their unexpected meeting blossomed; Stan teased her gentle strength, and Irene welcomed him in from the winter storm. Over tea, they found companionship—Stan offered Irene a ride to town, and soon, their friendship grew. “There’s something magical about your herbal tea—I just had to see you again,” he joked after a surprise visit. They never had a big wedding, but a heartfelt love flourished. Stan doted on Irene, disproving the notion that only storybook husbands carry their wives. When their sturdy son was born, the maternity nurses marveled: “How did such a petite woman have such a strong boy?” Irene named him Matthew, honoring the wonderful grandfather who gave her love and a home.