The Apples of Fate: A Return Home
Margaret Whitmore stood in her garden in Willowbrook, gazing at the apple trees weighed down with fruit. The harvest this year was unlike any she’d seen before. Apples—crimson, golden, and blushed with pink—tumbled to the ground, filling the air with sweetness. She hardly bothered to gather them anymore. There was no one left to eat them.
The village was nearly empty. The young had moved to cities for better opportunities, and only a handful of elderly remained. In winter, lights shone in just four or five of Willowbrook’s cottages.
“Lost in thought, Margaret?” a voice called from behind. “Changed your mind about leaving?”
It was Eleanor, her neighbor, pushing a wheelbarrow for the apples.
“Oh, Eleanor,” Margaret sighed. “Take as many as you like. At least your goats will enjoy them. Take them all… Change my mind? I wish I could, but my son’s already arranged the sale. Even took a deposit.”
“Shame to lose you,” Eleanor said, shaking her head. “Who knows who’ll move in next? Probably just weekenders, not proper residents.”
She fell silent and began filling her wheelbarrow. Margaret watched her, then whispered,
“Such a harvest. I don’t remember one like it. Just as I was set to leave, the land itself seems to hold me back… God, how hard it was to decide. And even now, I don’t know why I’m doing it.”
“It’s easier for your son,” Eleanor replied. “No more trips out here—shops, doctors, everything’s close by. No more chopping wood or tending vegetables.”
“That’s true,” Margaret agreed, though her voice wavered. “But my heart stays here. My head knows better, but my heart won’t let go. Listen, I’m leaving Whiskers and old Rufus with you. Look after them till I sort things out. Maybe I’ll take Whiskers to the city, but Rufus is too old for a flat. That’s the trouble…”
“Don’t worry, Margaret,” Eleanor nodded. “I’ll fetch Rufus tomorrow. Whiskers will find his own way—clever thing. Just don’t miss your bus. Hope we’ll see you again. Maybe you’ll come back… And you’d promised to visit. I’ll hold you to that.”
“Yes, yes…” Margaret murmured. “Bag’s packed. My son’s fetching the rest at the weekend.”
She wandered through the cottage one last time, lingering by the old stove in the kitchen. Tears blurred her vision, but time was short. Margaret stepped outside and sat on a weathered tree stump by the lane.
Soon, a rickety bus groaned to a stop. Margaret exchanged a word with the driver and took her seat by the window. She was the only passenger—Willowbrook was the end of the line.
The road was as rough as ever, potholes brimming with rainwater. The bus crawled along until, with a sickening crunch, it lurched to a halt. The driver muttered under his breath as he climbed out.
“What’s wrong?” Margaret called, leaning out.
The driver crouched by the front wheel, shaking his head. “Bad business. Need to call for help—else we’re stuck here all night.”
As he dialed, to her surprise, Margaret felt relief. She stepped off the bus.
“We haven’t gone far. I’ll walk back. If help’s late, come to the village. It’s nearly dark.”
“They’ll be here in an hour or so,” the driver said. “Sure you won’t wait? Fixing it will take time.”
“No, I’ll go,” Margaret said firmly. “Only a mile or two. I’ll manage.”
“Sure you’re up to it?” he asked.
“Course!” She smiled. “I’ve walked worse—mushroom picking, fetching bread from the next village.”
Margaret strode back toward Willowbrook, her bag light, her heart singing. Eleanor, wheeling her barrow home, spotted her on the lane.
“Well I never!” she gasped. “What’s this mean?”
“Means the house won’t let me go,” Margaret laughed. “I’ll call my son so he doesn’t wait. The bus broke down just past the village—something with the wheel. You know these roads.”
“Splendid!” Eleanor beamed. “Come for supper. You’ve nothing at home, and my stew’s still hot. We’ll have a proper chinwag.”
Rufus, spotting his mistress, barked and wagged his tail. Whiskers darted inside, straight to his bowl.
Margaret set down her bag and declared, “Lord forgive me! What was I thinking? I’m not going anywhere, and that’s final.”
Whiskers meowed in reply.
“Speaking for the Almighty, are you?” Margaret chuckled. “Or just agreeing?”
The cat rubbed against her legs and leaped into her lap.
“Wait—I must call John or he’ll worry,” she said, dialing her son.
“John, listen—the bus broke down… Yes, right by the village. Seems it’s not my time to come. I’m home already. Don’t wait—I’m not leaving. No, truly, something’s wrong with the wheel. I was the only one aboard. And John… I’m staying. Forgive me, love. Cancel the buyers, apologize for me.”
“Mum, you’re sure?” John asked. “Funny thing—the buyers backed out today. Would you believe it? Left a couple hundred quid as compensation.”
“Well, there you are!” Margaret laughed. “No selling now. Now I’m certain.”
“Right, we’ll sort it later,” John sighed.
“What’s to sort? Home is where the heart is,” Margaret said. “Forgive me, son.”
“What can I do with you?” John chuckled. “We’ll use that money for firewood. I’ll order some tomorrow.”
“Marvelous!” Margaret said. “I’ll expect you with the wood. I’ll go tell Eleanor the good news.”
Eleanor and her husband Nigel were cooking supper. Hearing Margaret’s decision, they rejoiced as much as she did.
“This calls for a toast,” Nigel declared, raising his glass. “Enough of this moving nonsense, Margaret. Stay put and give us peace. We’re used to you—we’ll not let you down. And you’ve been a blessing to us.”
“I agree,” Margaret said tearfully, hugging them. “No more scares.”
“Besides,” she added, “all the signs pointed to staying. Must listen to the good Lord.”
“And to us, while you’re at it,” Nigel winked.
They raised their glasses, ate heartily, and laughter spilled from their cottage late into the night.
A week later, John and his wife delivered the firewood. They stacked it all day with Eleanor and Nigel’s help. Come evening, they gathered at Margaret’s. The mood was light, as if thoughts of selling had never been. That sunset was breathtaking—gold and rose spilling over the fields. They sat on the porch, watching in silence.
“Nowhere lovelier than this,” Margaret murmured.
John squeezed her shoulder. “Ours, Mum. Always ours.”
And in that quiet moment, she knew: some roots run too deep to ever be pulled free.
