The Fate Hidden in a Lost Purse
Elizabeth wiped her hands on her apron and glanced at the closed door of her granddaughter’s room. Emily had returned from university in low spirits, and her grandmother knew at once something was amiss. “Another quarrel with Edward, no doubt,” she thought, shaking her head. Their rows were nothing new, but each time, Elizabeth hoped the young ones would sort it out. After a while, she decided to knock.
“Em, love, come and eat. You must be hungry after your lectures,” she called gently.
“I’m not hungry, Gran, I just can’t…” Emily’s voice trembled as though she were holding back tears.
Elizabeth eased the door open and peeked inside. Her granddaughter sat curled up on the bed, arms wrapped around her knees. Her eyes were red, though the tears had dried. Grandmother stepped in, sat beside her, and pulled her close. “No lad’s worth your tears, love,” she murmured. “It’ll all come right in the end.”
“How did you know it was about Edward?” Emily wiped her face, surprised.
“What else would trouble a lass your age so much?” Elizabeth smiled knowingly. “Chin up, love. He’s not the one for you. Your true heart’s match is still out there.”
She held Emily tighter, lost in thought. Memories of her own youth—full of trials and joys—rose to the surface. Emily nestled closer and whispered, “Tell me about your life, Gran. I hardly know anything, only that Grandad passed seven years ago.”
Elizabeth drew a long breath, and her tale began to flow, carrying them both back in time.
At twenty, she’d married Gregory, the boy next door. Love had seemed eternal, but married life became a waking nightmare. Her mother had warned her: “Liz, he’ll make no good husband. Look at his father—a layabout and a drunk. Your Aunt Margery’s match for you is Andrew, a steady sort.” But Liz wouldn’t listen, convinced of Gregory’s good heart. Within a year, he’d begun drinking, and quarrels became routine. One night, he struck her. Liz grabbed her son, Michael, and fled to her parents’. Her father met Gregory with steel in his eyes: “One more step, and you’ll regret it.” The man slunk away and never returned.
Liz raised Michael alone. At twenty-two, divorced, she moved to the city to care for her ailing Aunt Margery, who welcomed them with open arms. Liz nursed her until the end, and the small flat became theirs. She found work as a nursery assistant, taking Michael with her. Their life was modest but warm, and Liz sometimes brought home leftovers—a meat pie, a slice of bread—whatever the children hadn’t finished.
One evening, stopping at the shop on her way home, Liz didn’t notice when her purse—containing nearly her whole wages—slipped from her pocket. Discovering the loss, she panicked. Michael needed new shoes, and payday was weeks away. She rushed back to the shop. The shopkeeper, a sour-faced woman, snapped, “Should’ve kept better watch,” but then handed her a note: “Some lad found your purse. Left his address.”
Liz dashed out, not sparing a thought for the woman’s rudeness. The address was nearby—a ground-floor flat in an old terraced house. A young man with kind eyes answered the door. “Hello,” Liz gasped, “I lost my purse.” He smiled. “Don’t fret, I’ve got it safe. Tell me how much was inside and the colour.” She described it—dark blue—and named the exact sum. “That’s the one,” he said, handing it over. “Name’s Victor. And you?”
“Elizabeth,” she replied, relief flooding her. “Thank you—that’s everything I had.”
Victor waved from the window as she left, and Liz thought, “I must thank him properly.” That weekend, she and Michael bought a cake and returned. An elderly woman—Victor’s grandmother—opened the door. Spotting them, Victor flushed. “No need for this!” But he welcomed them in for tea. Michael, solemn as ever, shook his hand. “I’m Michael,” he announced. They all laughed, and the room filled with warmth.
Over tea, Liz learned Victor lived with his gran, had lost his parents, was twenty-three, had served in the army, and now worked at the factory. His bright eyes and easy smile made Liz feel light, as though she could breathe again. Even Michael, usually wary, listened intently to his stories.
They began courting. They went to the pictures, walked in the park, sometimes taking Michael, who befriended Victor’s grandmother, Mary. Liz worried over their age gap—she was two years older—but her heart overruled her doubts. Victor fretted too: would Michael ever accept him as a father? Then one evening, after a stroll, the boy settled matters himself. “Mum, when’s Victor moving in?” he asked. “And Gran Mary too—she’s nice.” Mary, overhearing, chuckled. “Out of the mouths of babes.” Victor, gathering his courage, proposed. Liz, laughing and crying, said yes.
They married, and life bloomed anew. They had a daughter, Anne, and Michael called Victor “Dad.” Forty-six happy years passed before illness took Victor. Liz felt half herself gone, but her children and granddaughter Emily kept her standing.
“So you see, love,” Elizabeth finished, “life’s a tangled thing, but love—real love—finds a way. Don’t waste your sorrow on Edward. Your true happiness is waiting. You’ll know it when you see it.”
Emily smiled. “I never knew Dad was so bold as a boy.” A year later, she married her classmate Thomas, not Edward, who’d proved unworthy. When their son was born, Elizabeth, holding her great-grandchild, gave thanks for the joy of seeing it.
