For three days, Emma scrubbed every corner of her cottage as if time itself, not dust, were the enemy keeping her from her son. She woke before dawn, though the bus wouldnt reach the village until afternoon. Sleep was impossible anyway. James was coming home after five years in Italyfive years of rare photographs and grainy video calls cut short by poor internet.
In the kitchen, dough for hot cross buns rose beneath a clean tea towel. Shed prepared the filling for roast beef pies the night before, rolling each one carefully until late. The pies had simmered for hours, filling the house with the scent of Jamess childhood. Shed even baked a cheese pasty, just as hed loved when he was small.
Now, Emma studied herself in the bedroom mirror. Shed combed her hair neatly, tied a new scarfbought specially at the marketand traced the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. Fifty-eight years had left their mark, as had the work in her garden and the quiet ache for her only son.
“Will he even know me?” she wondered, then laughed at the silliness of the thought. She was his mother. But him? Had Italy changed him? Did he still sound the same? Would he be ashamed of the old cottage, the dusty lanes of the village?
Neighbours had lingered by the gate all morning, pretending to have errands but really there to see the preparations. “Emmas boy is coming back,” they whispered. “Made himself a proper gentleman with the Italians.”
Only those whove raised children and watched them leave understand how each day of waiting feels like a tiny eternity.
By noon, she set the table in the parlour, reserved for holidays. A lace tablecloth, polished silver, the good china from the cabinet that stayed shut the rest of the year. In the centre, a vase of fresh-cut flowers from her garden.
Finished, she stepped outside and sat on the bench beneath the oak. From here, she could see the high street, hear the bus when it stopped in the village square. Hours still remained, but she was ready to wait. Her heart fluttered like a girls before a first date.
How many parents like her waited in English villages? How many mothers counted days between visits from children gone abroad? No sacrifice seemed too great for her son to have a better lifeyet the price of loneliness was heavy.
At a quarter to four, the bus horn sounded in the distance. She stood, smoothed her dress, tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. For a moment, she stood perfectly still, as if drawing strength from the earth beneath her, then walked to the gate.
The bus halted in the square, kicking up dust. A few passengers stepped offan elderly woman with shopping bags, two teenagers, a middle-aged man. Then, last, a tall young man in a navy suit, a suitcase in one hand and a bouquet in the other.
Emma froze. It was him, yet not him. Taller than she remembered, leaner, his hair neatly cropped, his bearing too polished for the village lanes. For a heartbeat, doubt gripped her.
Then the man in the suit looked up. His eyes lit, his smile transforming his face. He dropped the suitcase and ran toward her.
“Mum!” he called.
Suddenly, the fine suit didnt matter. He was her little boy racing home from school, the teen helping in the garden, the young man whod promised to return no matter how far he went. In his eyes, she saw the same warmth, the same love.
When he reached her, James paused, as if memorising her face. Then he pulled her into a hug so tight it nearly stole her breath.
“Mum,” he whispered, his face buried in her shoulder. “My mum.”
Emma felt tears streaming down her cheeks. Words failed her. She held him tightly, as she had when he was small and she feared losing him in a crowd. He smelled differentof expensive cologne and foreign citiesbut he was still her boy.
“Come home,” she managed at last, wiping her tears. “Ive waited.”
James handed her the bouquetwhite roses. He picked up his suitcase and offered his arm. Together, they walked the village lane toward the cottage, its windows wide open, the table set for her sons return.
As they stepped slowly down the dusty path, Emma felt the years of loneliness melting like frost in spring sunshine. 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 perfect.
