Who could have guessed that two best friends, inseparable since childhood, would find themselves on opposite sides of hurt, silence, and unspoken words? In the village of Willowbrook, where houses stood in neat rows and everyone knew everyone else, the locals whispered:
—Heard about Lizzie and Marge? Used to be thick as thieves, now won’t even look at each other.
And the truth was, this silence between Lizzie and Marge didn’t come from nowhere. Its roots stretched back to their children’s youth. Emma, Lizzie’s daughter, and Thomas, Marge’s son, had been friends since they were in nappies. They walked to school together, splashed in the river, picked blackberries, built dens in the woods, and dreamed of the future.
Emma was a whirlwind—bold, stubborn, the first to jump into any adventure. Thomas was quiet, thoughtful, with a warm smile and eyes that understood more than words could say. She dragged him along; he let her. That’s how it had always been.
Their mums, Lizzie and Marge, had been just as close. Neighbours, separated only by a low fence, they’d drop by unannounced, sharing cups of tea and secrets. Their friendship went back generations—even their marriages had happened around the same time, to men who, as it turned out, weren’t the most reliable.
Lizzie was the first to leave. A bruise under her eye, a nervous glance—enough said. Her husband had a temper, and one night, she packed his bags without a word. Marge stood by her, though she had her own troubles—her husband had started accusing her of infidelity, once even grabbing a kitchen knife in a rage.
—He says Tommy’s not his, can you believe it?— Marge had laughed bitterly. —Like I’d ever— I’ve only ever been his.
Both women raised their children alone. But they carried on.
After school, Thomas trained as a mechanic, while Emma left for London, university-bound. He enlisted shortly after; she came to see him off. Three days, side by side, as if trying to memorize each other before distance took its toll.
Then came the years apart. At first, Emma visited every weekend—bringing sweets, news, stopping by Marge’s to share Thomas’s letters, how he was doing. Then less often. And after March, not at all.
—Why hasn’t Emma been round?— Marge had asked Lizzie one evening.
—Busy. Exams.
But Marge knew something was wrong. Lizzie grew quieter, her eyes dim. Then suddenly, she packed a bag—*just popping up to London for a bit*.
She returned even quieter.
—Out with it,— Marge barged in that night. —What’s happened?
Lizzie sighed.
—Emma’s got married. Pregnant.
The world shattered. Marge stormed out as if scalded. That same night, she wrote to Thomas. What followed was pain, silence, ice.
After his service, Thomas didn’t come home. He followed a mate up north, working the oil rigs, drowning himself in shifts. Only work kept the memories at bay. In three years, he visited just once—to fix the roof. And Emma? Gone. No husband, no child, never showing her face in Willowbrook.
Then… one morning, the postwoman brought word:
—Lizzie’s poorly. Says she needs to see you. Important.
—We don’t talk,— Marge waved her off.
—She asked for you. Said it’s urgent.
So Marge went. Inside, Lizzie lay on the sofa, blankets piled high, pills and a glass of water beside her.
—Since when do you take to bed?
—Guess it all caught up with me.
They sat in silence. Then Lizzie took her friend’s hand.
—Forgive me, Marge. I need to tell you…
And she did. Everything.
An hour later, Marge flew out the door, grabbed the phone:
—Tommy, come home. I’m not well… Please. Quick as you can.
He arrived two days later—only to find his mother bustling about, laughing.
—Mum, are you actually ill?
—Course not, love. Just wanted you here.
—I’ll pop down to the river, yeah? Missed it.
By the water, he stared at the current—and swore he saw Emma in the ripples. Her laugh, her eyes… The ache clawed at him.
—Hello, Tom.
He turned.
There she was. Emma. And beside her—a boy. Three years old, curly-haired, with *his* eyes. *His* look.
—This is…— he stammered.
—Your son,— she said softly. —This is Alfie. Alfie, say hello to your dad.
—But… how? Why?
—There was never a husband. All that—lies. Mum didn’t want shame on the family. Forbade me from coming back. And yours… she told me you’d married.
—Me? Married? Never. There’s been no one.
—I didn’t believe it. Not ’til Mum took ill. Stopped eating, stopped speaking. Then one day, she broke. Told me everything. Begged forgiveness. She never knew you were the father. Now… now she wanted you to know.
Thomas knelt, pulling the boy into his arms. Tears streaked his face.
—I’m sorry… For everything. Thought I’d lost you.
—I’m here now. Alfie too. We waited, Tom. All this time.
—Fill my soul with love, Em… Please.
—Already am,— she whispered, leaning into him. —Let’s go home.
And they walked—along the river, back to the house where two women waited, bound by something deeper than anger. Waiting for words, for peace, for the start of a family. Late, but real.
