Who would have guessed that two childhood friends, Emily and Lucy, could fall out? The villagers whispered:
“What could have happened? Friends arguing so badly they won’t even visit each other. If they spot one another on the street, they pretend not to see each other, walking past without a word. And yet, they live right next door.”
Both women stayed silent, making the rumors worse. Neighbors by the well spun wild theories—each one more absurd than the last. Only one thing was certain: Emily’s daughter, Sophie, and Lucy’s son, Anthony, had been sweethearts. They were inseparable in school, but after graduation, their paths split. Anthony enlisted in the army, while Sophie left for university in London.
From childhood, the two were always together—walking to and from school, playing with other kids until dusk, swimming in the river in summer, and later, sitting by the water’s edge as sweethearts.
“Sophiiiie, come out!” she’d hear his voice outside her window and dash out in a flash—they’d arranged it the night before.
They were opposites—quick, fiery Sophie and slow, quiet Anthony, who always scratched his head before agreeing to anything. Sophie took the lead in everything.
“Anthony, let’s go mushroom-picking tomorrow,” she’d say—he’d scratch his head and nod. “Anthony, let’s sunbathe by the river tomorrow”—again, he’d agree without protest.
Emily and Lucy had been friends since childhood, playing with dolls, hide-and-seek, always visiting each other, their parents’ homes just a fence apart. Their families had been close for generations—same school, same village. They even married around the same time, to friends no less.
Emily was the first to divorce when Sophie was three. Her husband was trouble—bitter, drank too much, and couldn’t keep his hands to himself. She refused to forgive.
“Emily, look at that bruise—half your face!” Lucy gasped, though she knew exactly where it came from.
“I threw him out. No idea where he went—probably his mum’s.”
“Good. Mine’s no better. Yesterday, he shoved Anthony hard—nearly knocked him over. I stepped in, and he threatened me next time. Said, ‘If you can’t control your son’—like Anthony wasn’t his at all.”
They talked awhile before parting ways. Six months later, the village buzzed:
“Lucy threw her man out—he kept insisting Anthony wasn’t his! As if the boy doesn’t look just like him! Lucy was always decent, never ran around. Married, settled—that was it.”
And so it was. Lucy’s husband poisoned her life with suspicion, even held a knife to her throat once. Terrified, she left him. Both friends were single mothers now, but they carried on, never dreaming of men again. The exes vanished from the village, leaving Emily and Lucy with their pride and joy—Sophie and little Anthony.
After school, Anthony trained as a lorry driver while Sophie studied in London. He waited for his army call-up; she left for the city. The papers came in late November. Sophie rushed home to see him off. They spent three days together before he left—one last celebration, then farewell.
All winter, Sophie visited on weekends, stopping by Lucy’s to hear news from Anthony, though she wrote to him too. But then Lucy noticed Sophie’s visits stopped—last seen after New Year’s, then gone.
“Emily, where’s Sophie these days?” Lucy asked, dropping by after work.
“Busy with studies—buried in notes.”
March passed. April came. No sign of Sophie. But Emily suddenly left for London. Lucy noticed her friend seemed distant—barely spoke, only went to work, nothing else.
When Emily returned, silence. Lucy burned with curiosity. One evening, she marched over.
“Out with it,” she demanded, stepping inside. “What are you hiding?”
Emily sighed. “No point now. Sophie’s married. Expecting a baby.”
Lucy stared, then bolted out the door like she’d been scalded.
“Marrying, having a baby—what about Anthony? Oh, Anthony, what now?”
She grabbed paper and pen, wrote to her son—venting her hurt but urging him not to despair. After two years in the army, Anthony never came home. He followed a mate up North, bunked in a shared flat, worked and worked and worked.
Drilling rigs, odd jobs—anything to blunt the pain from his mother’s letter.
Emily and Lucy stopped speaking. No visits. In three years, Anthony came home once—fixed his mum’s cottage, sat by the river, left. Sophie never returned—not with a husband, not with a child.
“Sophie’s too grand now, too city,” the women clucked. “Won’t even bring her boy home.”
Lucy hadn’t seen Emily in ages when the postwoman, Rita, knocked.
“Lucy! Message from Emily—she’s poorly. Doctor’s been by. Pills, the lot. Asked for you.”
“We don’t speak.”
“Know that. Still, she wants to. Anyway, got pensions to deliver.”
“Fine. I’ll go now.” Lucy wandered off, muttering, “What’s this about?”
Inside, Emily lay under a blanket, pills and water beside her.
“Hey,” Lucy said. “What’s all this?”
“Dunno. Just collapsed.”
Silence. Lucy refilled the water glass, watching.
“Lucy… I’m sorry.”
“For what? Sophie? Not your fault.”
“No. Listen.”
What Emily said stunned Lucy. She sat frozen, then sprang up and flew home.
“I’ll come back,” she called, suddenly cheerful.
She had a phone now—Anthony’s gift. She rang him.
“Anthony, love, come home. I’m not well.” Voice weak, but a lie.
“Mum? What’s wrong?”
“Just… come when you can.” She hung up.
From then on, Lucy visited daily—and suddenly, Sophie arrived with her boy, Oliver. Nursed Emily back to health.
“Sophie’s home—with her son!” Lucy crowed to the women by the shop. “Emily’s over the moon!”
Weeks later, Anthony trudged in with his rucksack—leave at last.
“Anthony, love! You came!” Lucy fussed, but he eyed her suspiciously—she’d claimed to be ill.
“Mum, you alright?”
“Never better! How’s work?”
“Same. Just work.”
She piled the table with food—scarcely room left—while he ate, watching her.
“Eat up! Skin and bones!” She patted his back, then sat, chin in hands.
Anthony didn’t recognize her—smiling, nervous.
“Mum, truth—what’s happened? Are you really sick?”
“It’s not that. I’m just… glad you’re home.”
“Thank God—you scared me. Right, tomorrow I’ll chop wood. Fix things. Now—I’m off to the river. Missed it.”
Anthony stood on the bank, memories flooding—little Sophie splashing, giggling, him keeping watch.
“Hello, Anthony.”
He didn’t turn. A trick of the light.
Must be sunstroke, he thought. Then—rustling behind him. Slowly, he turned.
Sophie stood there, holding a three-year-old boy’s hand.
“Hi,” he managed.
The boy—Oliver—stared. Curly hair, button nose, brown eyes. Just like Anthony’s childhood photo.
“Sophie? No. Sophie!” He gaped.
“Why not? Meet your son—Oliver. Say hello to Daddy.”
The boy blinked. Anthony scooped him up, tears falling.
“Why, Sophie? Why hide him? Where’s your husband?”
“There isn’t one. Where’s your wife?”
“Me? Never married. Why?”
When Mum noticed I was pregnant, she forbade me from coming home. Thought it was someone else’s. She never knew about us—before the army. I tried explaining. She wouldn’t listen. I stayed with Auntie in London.
“Why not write me?”
“Your mum told mine you’d met a girl in the army—married her. Revenge, I suppose.”
Not just Sophie married off in a rush, but Anthony too—found a nice girl on leave, Lucy had said.
Mum only admitted the truth when she fell ill—afraid God was punishing her. She begged Auntie to confirm Oliver was yours. Then she made peace with your mum—who begged my forgiveness. Mum even knelt. We all cried.
Anthony exhaled. “Women. Every trouble starts with you.”
That letter from Mum—Sophie married—it hollowed him out. Just work since.
“Anthony, it’s alright now—I’ll fill that hollow with love. Happiness.” She hugged him.
They stood there until Oliver tugged.
“Mum, Dad… come!”
“Coming, son.” Anthony took his hand and Sophie’s. “We’ve got serious words with Grandma. Ready, Oliver?”
The boy grinnedAnd so, hand in hand, they walked home to the laughter and warmth of a reunited family, leaving the past behind where it belonged.
