Emily gave the cottage one last glance. Everything seemed in order—teacups neatly stacked, the twins’ ribbons tied, and young Tom’s face freshly washed. Nana Margaret sat on the sofa, her cardigan pulled tighter than usual. Last night, Matthew rang to say he’d be coming home today, and something was off about his voice. “It’s a surprise,” he said, and that word alone made Emily’s stomach twist tighter than her children’s hair bows.
She’d run all the way from the village post office, after all—telephones were scarce these days, and the flickering signal only liked to work in the village hall. God, it had been nearly two months since Matthew left. He’d taken a job in London to earn more money, he said, like it was something logical. But when he first told her, Emily had nearly spilled her tea.
“Matt, you can’t just vanish! What about the kids? We’re not in a bloody soap opera here.”
He’d smiled that lopsided thing of his, the one that made her forget all sense. “Come on, love. The roof leaked for years, and the twins start at the new school next term. This place can’t support us anymore.”
“I know—*I do*—but it feels wrong. Shouldn’t we be in this together?”
Matt had waved it off, his voice too easy. “Imagine the rent in London, Em. With three of us, I might as well be working for the Queen’s crown. It’s easier for me alone.”
Emily had nodded, playing the part of the understanding wife. But her chest had ached like a coal pit closing down. She’d stayed, because she had to. Jobs were scarce in the village, but she could knit jumpers for the winter markets and collect more money that way. The cottage was hers, at least, and the garden still gave them herbs and fruit. But it wasn’t fair, and everyone in the village knew it. Gossips whispered that Matt had left her for richer soil—*or worse*. So when the first money transfer came a month later, Emily wore her best coat to the post office, just to make them shut up. And she did, too. The whole queue turned to stare, and Nana Margaret nearly dropped her knitting.
Now, as the front door creaked open, Emily smoothed her cardigan. The twins and Tom hovered behind, eyes wide. Margaret glanced at her, that same sly look in her eye. “You’re practically dancing, lass. Blundering husband’s coming home, are we?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Nana. He’s just trying to get a grip on things.”
“Em, love,” Margaret croaked, “you know as well as I do—Matthew’s not the breadwinner type. Just like his da.”
But the truth was, Emily didn’t know. Matt had always been different, always said working for mere pennies in the village was *silly*. He’d kept the job at the fish market, only opening once in a while to sort crates, and bringing home wages that barely covered the salt for the pantry. But he’d changed, she told herself. He’d gone to London for *their* sake.
“Mum! It’s Dad!” Tom called, breaking her from the thought.
Emily tugged her coat tighter, her cheeks burning. The neighbors had gathered in their gardens again, pretending not to watch. She stepped outside and froze. Matthew stood at the gate, taller than she remembered, and beside him was the surprise. A woman, tall and sharp-featured, with red hair that looked like it had been spun from fire.
Emily could feel the village’s eyes on her. Matthew smiled awkwardly. “This is… Rebecca. We’re, uh, getting married.”
The woman raised her chin. “Hello, *Emily*.”
For a moment, no one moved. Then Nana Margaret, ever theatrical, turned on her heel and stomped inside. “Not another pup for me to raise,” she muttered.
Matthew looked panicked. “Come on, Em, let’s talk inside.”
But Margaret was already at the door, hand on the knob. “Out you go, the pair of you.”
Rebecca flinched. “Matthew, this was a mistake. I thought you’d tell them about the house—about selling it?”
Emily felt the floor tilt beneath her. The cottage was *Matthew’s* inheritance, given to him at their wedding by his parents. Margaret’s parents had built it before they died, and it had been their home for years.
Matthew grabbed Rebecca’s arm. “Come on, love, we should go.”
Emily barely watched them leave. Her entire world felt like it had been swept into the gutter. The twins clung to her, whispering, “Mummy, is it true?”
A week later, a man in a suit arrived. “Miss Emily Whitaker?” he asked, voice like a knife cleaning bones.
“Depends,” she spat. “Are you here to evict me?”
He handed her a stack of papers. “The property has been sold. New owners are coming in two days.”
The neighbors gathered, murmuring. Margaret pushed through. “Take it up with your *husband*, lass. He’s the one who sold it.”
Emily barely answered. Her mind was too full of the word *sold*. She didn’t notice her mother-in-law’s hand on her shoulder until it trembled under her touch.
But then something changed.
A year later.
“Em, look at the girls! They’re all grown up now!” Margaret chuckled, handing over a stack of certificates from the school fair. Emily smiled as the twins beamed, their red hair blending with the setting sun.
Margaret and Nana Margaret had become like blood. They shared the house, split the chores, and made a life even without knowing their real relation.
“Lass,” Nana whispered, “I never meant for it to come to this. I’m sorry for growing such a scoundrel.”
Emily hugged her. “No one’s going anywhere. We’re family, remember?”
Then, there was a clatter at the gate.
“Mum! Dad’s back! With a bag!”
Emily took a breath. Standing there, older and smaller, was Matthew. The cottage was long gone, bought by a London developer who occasionally used it as a weekend place. But Emily didn’t care. The cottage had belonged to the past, and this new life—well, it was finally *hers*.
She met him outside, vishing back in hand.
“Hello, Matthew,” she said, and the neighbors cheered.
He ran.
