Matthew pulled the car up to the cemetery gates and took a deep breath. God, how many times had he planned to come here? How many times had he put it off for “later”? When his mother was alive—there was never time. After her death—it was as if there was no room left for the past at all.
And yet, it was long overdue. He needed to wake up. To realise that this entire world he’d so carefully built around himself was just a facade. Not a single word, not a single gesture had any real foundation. Ironically, he was even grateful to Natasha—his now ex-wife—for destroying that fragile house of cards. Just like that—*bang!*—everything collapsed. A seemingly perfect marriage, those “genuine” friendships… and yet, his wife, his best friend, and all those friends who knew and said nothing. It wasn’t just a collapse. It was a blow he still hadn’t recovered from.
After the divorce, he fled to his hometown. Eight years had passed since he buried his mother. *Eight years!* And not once had he found the time to visit the grave. Only now, when nothing good remained in his life, did he understand one simple truth: his mum had been the only person who would never betray him.
He’d married late—thirty-three to Natasha’s twenty-five. He’d been proud of her, like a trophy. She was beautiful, elegant, “high-society,” or so it had seemed. Now, he only remembered her face twisted in fury, the words she’d hurled at him—that she’d hated him their entire short marriage, that every night with him had been torture. He still didn’t understand how he could have been so blind. She’d cried, begged forgiveness, said she’d felt lonely… But the moment he said “divorce,” the mask dropped. That 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 have been overgrown. He hadn’t even visited when the headstone was placed—he’d arranged it all online, remotely. A symbol of his whole life: everything at a distance, nothing real.
But the grave was clean. The headstone too. Fresh flowers, the soil neatly tended. Someone had been taking care of it. Probably one of his mother’s old friends. Although… apparently, her son hadn’t been up to the task.
He pushed open the little gate and whispered,
“Hello, Mum…”
His throat tightened, his eyes burned. Matthew hadn’t expected to cry. He was a businessman, cold, calculating, always keeping face. And now he sobbed like a child. He didn’t hold back the tears. They were freeing, washing his soul clean of everything tied to Natasha, to betrayal, to pain. As if his mother were really there, stroking his hair, whispering, *”It’s all right, son… It’ll be okay.”*
He sat for a long time. Silent. But speaking in his heart. Remembering childhood—falling, scraping his knees, his mum dabbing iodine and saying, *”It’ll heal, won’t even leave a mark.”* And it did heal. With time. The pain faded each time. And his mother always added, *”You can get used to anything—except betrayal.”*
Now, he understood every word. Back then, they’d just been kind phrases. Now, he knew they were wisdom.
Paying the neighbour to watch the house hadn’t been an issue, but how long could he keep it locked up? He smiled, remembering how he’d met her. He’d been in a bad place. And her daughter—Emily—had welcomed him with such warmth… They’d talked, and somehow, it had just happened. He’d left early that morning with a note about where to leave the keys. Maybe from her perspective, he’d done her wrong. But he’d never promised anything. It had been mutual. She’d just divorced her abusive husband, told him how hard it had been. Both of them lonely. So they’d found comfort in each other for a while.
“Mister, can you help me?”
Matthew turned sharply. A little girl, maybe seven or eight, stood there with an empty bucket.
“I need water for the flowers. Mum and I just planted them, but she’s sick today. It’s so hot—they’ll die! But the bucket’s too heavy. Don’t tell Mum I came here alone, okay? If I carry little bits, she’ll still notice I was gone.”
Matthew smiled.
“Of course. Show me where to go.”
The girl skipped ahead, chatting away. In five minutes, he knew nearly everything—how her mum had ignored advice and drunk cold water, how she’d gotten sick, how they’d come to visit her nan’s grave (gone a year now), and how her nan would’ve scolded her for it. She’d also been in school a full year and was *determined* to get top marks—one day, even a gold medal!
With every word, Matthew felt lighter. Children were miracles. He thought about how much he wanted a real family—a wife who loved him, a child waiting at home. His Natasha had been like an expensive doll—pretty, but soulless. Kids? Never. She’d called it *”madness to ruin your figure for a screaming lump.”* Five years together. And now? Not a single warm memory from 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. Emily’s mum. This little girl’s nan.
“Was Eleanor your nan?”
“Yeah! Did you know her? Oh, wait—you knew Nan Zoe!”
Matthew looked back at the girl.
“So… you and your mum live here?”
“Yeah! I told you—Mum won’t let me come to the graveyard alone.”
Matthew stared, bewildered. So Emily had come back. She had a daughter. And he’d had no idea… Wait. He didn’t even know how old Lucy was. Maybe the child came later?
The girl waved goodbye and dashed off, reminding him not to worry her mum.
Matthew returned to his mother’s grave, sat, and thought. Something had shifted inside. Now, Emily must be the one caring for the house. And he’d been paying her, though he’d thought it was her mum. But in the end, who he paid didn’t matter.
Later, he drove to the house. His chest ached. Everything was the same—as if his mum might step onto the porch any second, wipe her tears on her apron, and hug him. He stayed in the car a long time. She never appeared.
But the surprise was the yard—neat, beautiful, flowers planted. Emily *had* looked after it. He’d have to thank her properly.
Inside, it was clean and cosy, as if someone had just stepped out and would be back soon. Matthew sat at the table, lingered a while, then left—he had to sort things with the neighbour. Rest could wait.
Lucy opened the door.
“Oh, it’s you!” she whispered, pressing a finger to her lips. “Don’t tell Mum we met at the graveyard!”
Matthew mimed zipping his lips. The girl giggled.
“Come in!”
“Mum, Mr. Matthew’s here!” she called.
Emily appeared in the hall and froze.
“It’s… you?”
Matthew smiled.
“Hi.”
He glanced around—no husband, no sign of one.
“Matthew, I’m sorry… I didn’t tell you about Mum passing. Work’s bad in town, so I’ve been taking care of the house.”
“I’m sorry too, Em. And thank you—for the house. Walking in… it’s like Mum just stepped out.”
“Are you staying long?”
“A few days.”
“Selling?”
He shrugged.
“Haven’t thought yet. Here—for all your good work. A bonus.”
He set a thick envelope on the table.
“Thanks, Mr. Matthew!” Lucy beamed. “Mum’s wanted a new dress forever, and I want a bike!”
Matthew laughed. Ah, that familiar spark!
That evening, he realised he was ill. His temperature spiked. He found his mum’s thermometer—high fever. He didn’t know what medicine to take, so he texted the neighbour’s number. Only now, he knew it was Emily answering.
*What do you take for a high fever?*
Ten minutes later, they were at his door.
“God, why’d you even come inside? I *gave* this to you!”
“Come on, you’re sick—why’d *you* come?”
“I’m fine now!”
Emily handed him pills. Lucy made tea.
“You’ll burn yourself!” Emily fretted.
“Lucy? Never! She’s a little expert!”
Matthew smiled. Then—*click*—like in childhood, when his brain suddenly solved a hard problem.
“Em…”
She looked up, wary.
“What?”
“When was Lucy born?”
Emily slowly satHe reached for her hand, and as their fingers intertwined, he knew—this was home, and he was never letting go again.
