**Fate Hidden in a Lost Wallet**
I wiped my hands on my apron and glanced at my granddaughter’s closed door. Emily had come home from university gloomy, and I knew straightaway something was wrong. *Must’ve had another row with Oliver,* I thought, shaking my head. Their fights weren’t rare, but I always hoped they’d sort things out. After a while, I decided to knock.
“Em, love, come and eat. You must be starving after classes,” I called softly.
“Don’t want to, Gran. Not hungry,” her voice trembled, as if she was holding back tears.
I cracked the door open. Emily sat on her bed, knees pulled to her chest. Her eyes were red, though the tears had dried. I sat beside her and pulled her close. “No lad’s worth your tears, love,” I murmured. “You’ll be alright.”
“How’d you know it was Oliver?” she sniffed.
“What else would break a girl’s heart at your age?” I smiled. “Chin up, love. There’s better out there.”
Holding her tight, my mind wandered back—decades ago, to my own trials and joys. Emily nestled closer and whispered, “Tell me about your life, Gran. I hardly know anything except Grandad passed seven years ago.”
I took a deep breath, and the story poured out like a river, carrying us both into the past.
At twenty, I married Gregory, our neighbour. Love felt everlasting, but marriage became a nightmare. Mum had warned me: “Liz, he’s no good. Look at his father—a drunk and a layabout. Your aunt’s matchmaking you with Andrew—steady lad.” But I wouldn’t listen. I believed in Gregory’s kindness. A year later, the drinking started, the shouting became routine. One night, he raised his hand to me. I grabbed my son Michael and fled to my parents. Dad met Gregory with steel in his eyes: “Step near her again, and you’ll regret it.” He slunk off, never to return.
I was twenty-two, divorced, with a child. I moved to London to live with Aunt Margaret, who was ill and lonely. She took us in; I cared for her until she passed, leaving me her tiny flat. I worked as a nursery assistant, taking Michael with me. We lived modestly but never went hungry. Sometimes, I’d bring home leftovers—a sausage roll, a bit of bread—whatever the children hadn’t finished.
One evening, after work, I stopped at the grocer’s. Paying at the till, I didn’t notice my purse slipping—nearly my whole week’s wages gone. At home, I panicked. How would we manage? Michael needed new shoes, payday was weeks away. I rushed back. The cashier, a sour-faced woman, huffed, “Should’ve been more careful,” then pushed a note at me: “Some bloke found your purse. Left his address.”
I ran out. The address was nearby—a ground-floor flat in an old building. A young man with warm eyes answered. “Hello,” I gasped. “I lost my purse.” He grinned. “Don’t worry, I’ve got it. Describe it—amount and colour?” I did—dark blue, £17.30 exactly. “It’s yours,” he said, handing it over. “I’m Edward. And you?”
“Elizabeth,” I replied, relief washing over me. “Thank you. That’s all I’ve got.”
He waved from the window as I left, and I thought, *I must thank him properly.* That weekend, Michael and I bought a Victoria sponge and knocked on Edward’s door. An elderly woman—his grandmother—answered. Edward flushed when he saw us. “You didn’t have to!” But he invited us in for tea. Michael, ever solemn, shook his hand and said, “I’m Michael.” Everyone laughed, and the room warmed.
Over tea, I learned Edward lived with his gran, had lost his parents, was twenty-three, ex-army, now working at a factory. His blue eyes and easy smile made me feel lighter. Even Michael, usually shy, listened intently.
We started seeing each other—cinema trips, walks in the park, sometimes with Michael, who grew fond of Edward’s gran, Mary. I worried about the age gap—two years older—but love won. Edward fretted too: would Michael accept him? Then one day, after a stroll, Michael asked, “Mum, when’s Edward moving in? Can we bring Gran Mary too? She’s nice.” Mary chuckled. “Out of the mouths of babes.” Edward found his courage and proposed. I said yes, laughing through tears.
We married, and life brightened. Our daughter Alice was born; Michael called Edward *Dad.* Forty-six years we had together, until illness took him. I felt half-gone, but the children—and Emily—kept me standing.
“And that, love,” I finished, “is life—tricky, but love finds a way. Don’t fret over Oliver. Your real happiness is still coming. You’ll know it when it does.”
Emily smiled. “Never knew Dad was so bold as a boy.” A year later, she married her classmate Thomas—not Oliver, who’d shown his true colours. When their son, my great-grandchild, was born, I thanked every star I’d lived to see it.
