**A Path Through the Storms**
My life had crumbled like a house of cards. The divorce knocked the ground from under my feet, and so, gathering the fragments of my past, I returned to my childhood village on the edge of the Yorkshire Dales. My rock was still there—my grandmother, Vera Watkins, who adored my son, little Jake, and me.
“Jake’s the spitting image of his father, Liam,” I’d mutter bitterly, watching him play. “He’s all I have left from that marriage—like a single ray of light in the dark.”
“I warned you not to tie yourself to that good-for-nothing,” Gran would scold, shaking her head. “It was plain as day—reckless and always reaching for the bottle. Starts young, only gets worse. But you’d have none of it—‘Love, love!’—like you’d lost your senses.”
“What’s done is done, Gran,” I’d sigh. “Must you bring it up forever? At least we have Jake—that’s what matters.”
“Don’t fret, love,” Gran would hug me tight. “Not another word. Look at you—still a proper beauty! Where’s Liam going to find another like you? Fool of a man.”
“Half my school year was mad for me once,” I’d say, smoothing my hair without thinking. “But I’m not looking for romance now. I don’t trust anyone. They’re all sweet at first, then—” I’d wave a hand dismissively.
“Not all men are like your ex,” Gran would counter. “Take Simon, for instance. Remember how he was mad about you? Solid lad—hardworking, no vices. Still single, too. Last of your schoolmates left, mark my words.” She’d give me a knowing look.
“Oh, Gran, don’t start,” I’d protest. “No time for that. I’ve got Jake to get ready for school, the house to sort. Mum and Dad moved to Liverpool for work years ago, so I’m mistress here now. And I’ve got to help you—”
“Help’s always welcome,” Gran would nod. “But don’t rush on my account. Settle in first. I’m still spry—70’s just a number. Having you and Jake here is joy enough. Your parents won’t forget us—maybe when they retire, they’ll come back. Then we’ll all be together again.”
“You’re a proper mother hen,” I’d laugh, hugging her tight.
“Just think about Simon, love,” Gran would pat my cheek. “Men like him don’t grow on trees.”
Three months passed. Simon, the local farmhand, hovered in the background. Like Gran, he saw my marriage as a mistake I’d yet to recover from. How he and Gran conspired, I’ll never know—but they kept crossing paths at the post office or village shop. She’d whisper updates about me and Jake, fretting over my loneliness.
Simon would blush and sigh but fear another rejection. Gran, sensing his hesitation, nudged him along.
“She’s changed, Simon. Learned a lot. Beauty fades—it’s character that lasts. And you—you’re steady, dependable, kind…”
“And not much to look at,” he’d chuckle, then sober. “But I’ve loved her all this time, Vera. Never stopped.”
Gran’s eyes would well up as she promised to help.
“Just take it slow. Don’t push her. It’s only been a year and a half since the divorce—give her space.”
“What if someone else snaps her up?” Simon would fret. “I lost her once—not again. I’ll do anything to make her mine.”
“Then listen,” Gran would smile slyly. “Help around the house—casually. Keep your feelings hidden. Play it cool.”
“Quite the matchmaker, you are!” Simon would laugh. “You sure this’ll work?”
“Like a charm,” Gran would assure him. “And I’ll put in a good word. But mind—hurt her, and you’ll break my heart.”
Simon would nod, warmth spreading through him like he’d already won my blessing.
Spring bloomed. One morning, the roar of a tractor outside made me rush out in slippers and an old coat.
“Simon, what’s all this?” I’d gape at the trailer full of compost.
“Yours, obviously!” he’d shout, jumping down. “Gran’s request—said to deliver it, no arguments. Open the gate. Blimey, you’ll catch your death in slippers—go put on proper shoes!” He’d swing the gate open himself, dump the compost neatly, then leave before I could protest.
“How much do I owe you?” I’d fumble for my purse.
“Not a penny. Pensioner’s discount—Gran’s privilege.”
The next day, Simon’s younger brother, Jack, spent hours spreading it—refusing payment with a shrug.
“Simon’s orders. Don’t ask me.”
“This is barmy,” I’d throw up my hands. “What next—free roofing tiles?”
Gran just beamed.
“There—ready for planting. That compost’ll last years.”
A week later, Simon dumped a load of manure behind the shed.
“Take it while it’s free.”
“Thanks, Simon,” I’d smile. “Never took you for the farming type. Fancy a cuppa? Made scones.”
He nearly jumped for joy—but recalled Gran’s advice and played it cool.
“Maybe another time. Work’s stacked up. Here—for Jake.” He’d shove a chocolate bar at me. “Too many sweets lying about.”
I’d watch him drive off, warmth in my chest.
Soon, sand and gravel piled up outside. Neighbours murmured.
“Determined, that one. Fixing up the place proper.”
“Still—ought to remarry. Tough doing it alone.”
When Simon dropped the gravel, I’d laugh.
“Gran’s perks again?”
His grin was answer enough.
“Enough freebies,” I’d roll my eyes but tug him inside. “Stay for tea—I insist.”
He’d glance around the tidy kitchen.
“Cosy. Real homely. A man could marry for this.”
“Go on, then,” I’d say lightly, eyes teasing.
He’d choke on his tea, stand abruptly—then freeze when I grabbed his arm.
“Honestly, like a startled bull,” I’d laugh. “Can’t marry without love, can you?”
“Love?” he’d burst. “I’ve loved you since school! No one else—just you.”
I’d press a finger to his lips, then trace his stubbled cheek. He’d pull me close—and that was that.
“So much for manure and compost,” I’d whisper, laughing.
“Planned it all, didn’t we?” He’d grin, and we’d both dissolve into laughter.
“But let’s not rush the wedding,” I’d say.
“My lot will be over the moon,” he’d cut in. “They’ve known forever. Tomorrow.”
We married in my garden—simple, warm, full of laughter. Gran sat beaming beside Jake and me.
“That divorce barely bruised her,” the neighbours whispered. “Look at her now—glowing.”
“Men like Simon don’t come twice,” Gran would say proudly.
She was right. Our marriage lasted decades—raising Jake and little Emily, still finding joy in each small day.
