For three days straight, Margaret had scrubbed every nook of her cottage as if dust were not the enemy, but the years that had kept her from her son. She woke before dawn, though the coach wasnt due in the village until well past noon. Sleep had eluded her anyway. Timothy was coming home after five long years in France. Five years during which she had seen him only in rare photographs and crackling video calls cut short by poor connections.
In the kitchen, the dough for hot cross buns rested beneath a clean tea towel. She had prepared the mince for pies the night before, rolling each one carefully until late in the evening. The pies had simmered on low heat for hours, filling the house with the scent of Timothys childhood. There was cheese pastry too, just as he had loved when he was small.
Margaret studied herself in the bedroom mirror. She had brushed her hair with care and tied a new scarf, bought specially at the market. The lines at the corners of her eyes told a storyfifty-eight years marked by toil in the garden, worry over the household, and longing for her only child.
“Will he even know me?” she wondered, then laughed at the foolishness of the thought. She was his mother. But himhad France changed him? Would he still speak with his old Yorkshire lilt? Would he be ashamed of the modest cottage, the narrow lanes of the village?
The neighbours had passed by the gate all morning, pretending to have errands, but really they came to see the preparations. “Margarets lad is coming home,” they murmured among themselves. “Made quite the gentleman among the French, they say.”
Only those who have raised children and watched them leave understand how each day of waiting feels like a small eternity.
By noon, she set the table in the parlour, the room reserved for special occasions. A lace tablecloth, polished silver, the good china taken from the cabinet that stayed shut most of the year. In the centre, a crystal vase held fresh flowers from the garden.
When all was ready, she stepped outside and sat on the bench beneath the oak. From here, she could see the high road and hear the coach when it stopped in the village square. There were hours yet, but she was ready to wait. Her heart beat as wildly as a young girls before her first sweetheart arrived.
How many parents like her waited in quiet English villages? How many mothers counted the days between visits from children gone far away? No sacrifice had seemed too great to give her son a better life, yet the price of solitude was heavy indeed.
At a quarter to four, the distant sound of the coachs horn reached her. She stood, smoothed her dress, tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. For a moment, she stood motionless, as if drawing strength from the earth beneath her feet, then walked to the gate.
The coach halted in the square, kicking up dust. A few passengers stepped downan elderly woman with shopping bags, two lads, a middle-aged man. Then, last of all, a tall young man in a navy suit, a suitcase in one hand and a bouquet in the other.
Margaret froze. It was him, yet not him. Taller than she remembered, leaner, his hair cropped short, his bearing elegantalmost foreign against the village backdrop. For a moment, doubt gripped her.
Then the man in the suit looked up. His eyes brightened, his smile transforming his face. He dropped his case and ran toward her.
“Mum!” he called from afar.
Suddenly, the fine suit didnt matter. He was her little boy racing home from school, the teenager helping in the garden, the young man whod promised hed return no matter how far he wandered. In his eyes, she saw the same warmth, the same love.
When he reached her, Timothy paused for just a second, as if to study her, to be sure she was still the same. Then he pulled her into his arms, holding her so tightly she could scarcely breathe.
“Mum,” he whispered, his face buried in her shoulder. “My mum.”
Tears streamed down Margarets cheeks. Words failed her. She held him close, as she had when he was small and she feared losing him in a crowd. He smelled differentof fine cologne and foreign landsbut he was still her boy.
“Come home,” she said at last, drying her tears. “Ive waited.”
Timothy handed her the bouquetwhite roses. He picked up his case and offered his arm. Together, they walked the lane to the cottage, its windows wide open, its table set for the prodigal sons return.
As they made their way down the dusty path, Margaret felt the years of loneliness melt away like frost beneath the spring sun. It didnt matter how long hed stay. It didnt matter if he left again. He was here, beside her, and in this moment, the world was whole.
