Happy Changes
Elizabeth Bennett stepped out of her house and paused. She narrowed her eyes slightly, glancing up at the sky to judge the likelihood of rain before nodding briefly to the neighbours gathered on the bench outside. Then, chin held high, she walked on. The women, who had fallen silent at her approach, immediately began whispering behind her back, casting disapproving looks her way.
No one knew Elizabeth’s exact age. She was retired, with silver-streaked hair always stylishly cut. Her make-up was modest, appropriate for her years. Her figure was elegant—no extra weight, though no one would call her thin. Some guessed she was in her early sixties, others late fifties. The most envious swore she was past seventy but looked younger thanks to “a surgeon’s handiwork.”
“Course she looks good—had a decent husband, didn’t she? Never drank, never raised a fuss. Just left quietly for a younger woman. Only son’s no trouble either. No grandkids, no pets, no worries. If it weren’t for my drunken Dave, maybe I’d be walking round like a queen too.”
“You? A queen? That’s rich, Martha,” one of the women snickered, nudging her.
“Oh, come off it. If Dave drank himself into the grave—God forbid—maybe I’d start living too. Just like her. Walk out, give you lot one look, and off I’d go.”
The bench erupted in laughter.
“See how William can’t take his eyes off her? Even forgot his work,” one muttered.
“Dream on, that one. Should aim lower,” sighed another.
“What’s wrong with William? Doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke, hands like gold,” someone defended.
“Why so bitter, ladies? Leave Elizabeth be. No need to be green-eyed,” William called over, trimming the hedges.
Elizabeth knew they talked about her—caught the whispers, felt the stares. She’d long stopped caring.
Life hadn’t always been kind. Her husband had been handsome, just like her, and women had thrown themselves at him. She’d suffered for it. When he left, she nearly lost herself—only pulled through for her son, Thomas. Since then, she’d kept men at arm’s length.
Thomas was nearly thirty and still unmarried—not that Elizabeth minded him living at home, but it wasn’t right, was it? He’d had girlfriends, yes, but never anything serious.
None of them had pleased her, truth be told. Yet she held her tongue—no good came from meddling. Over time, the infatuations faded. Some he ended; others left him.
Once, he nearly married. A sweet girl, really. Elizabeth didn’t object—if it was time, it was time. Thomas went to meet her family and came home pale. Her father was a drunk, her mother frail from his beatings. Over drinks, the man had started lecturing Thomas, threatening him—almost came to blows.
“Mum, what do I do? I love her, but how do I live with family like that?”
“Nothing you can do. Parents aren’t like wives—can’t swap them out. If you’re ready for that, marry her.”
To her relief, they split.
After her walk, Elizabeth read, napped, then set to cooking dinner, glancing at the clock. Thomas was late. “Must be in love again,” she mused.
When he arrived, he wasn’t alone.
“Mum, this is Emily. Emily, my mother, Elizabeth Bennett.”
Elizabeth looked her over—blue eyes like lakes, dimpled cheeks. The kind men married. Well, it was time.
“You might’ve warned me. I’d have made something nice.”
“Everything you make is nice,” Thomas said, hugging her.
“Flattery means you want something.” She gave him a playful poke. “Wash up—dinner’s ready.”
Laughter and rustling carried from the bathroom. They returned flushed and sheepish—to a set table, steaming tea. Everything as it should be.
Thomas’s guilty look told her: there was more.
“Out with it, then,” she sighed.
He took a breath. “We’re hiking tomorrow—two days. Emily wants to come.”
“Good way to get to know someone. Meet your friends too,” Elizabeth said, though she sensed the real news was coming.
“Could you watch Charlotte? She’s six—no trouble.”
“Whose child?” she asked, though she knew.
*Here we go. Where does he find them? One with nose rings and tattoos, another with a drunk for a father, now a child? She can’t be older than twenty-five—already a six-year-old? Early starter, this one.*
“Mine,” Emily said, meeting her gaze.
*No shame, no challenge—just honesty.*
“I can’t. Forgotten how to handle children. And a stranger’s child? Too much responsibility.”
*As if I’d play nanny.*
“Mum, don’t be daft. What plans? Walking the park? Take Charlotte along.”
*What names they pick these days.*
“No, it’s fine,” Emily murmured, resting a hand on Thomas’s. Her look was steady.
*No eye-rolling, no tantrums. Lets him handle it. Hmm.*
“Fine,” Elizabeth conceded.
“You’re the best!” Thomas kissed her cheek. “We’ll drop Charlotte by six.”
“Six? We—?”
That night, she lay awake, regretting her yes. A child—a stranger, no less. Noise, mess, responsibility.
Up at dawn, she cooked porridge. Thomas left early to fetch Emily and Charlotte.
The door clicked. In the hall stood Emily in hiking gear, a bag at her feet, and a girl clutching a doll, thin braids framing wary blue eyes—just like her mother’s. Elizabeth’s heart twinged.
“Clothes for anything,” Emily said, setting down the bag.
“We’re off, Mum.” Thomas steered Emily out, who cast one pleading glance back.
“Go on, it’s fine,” Elizabeth shooed them.
Turning to the girl: “Come in, then. Don’t be shy. I’m Elizabeth Bennett. Can you remember that?”
A nod. The girl scanned the room. Bit by bit, they warmed up. Over breakfast, Charlotte leafed through an old book of Thomas’s.
“Want me to read?” Elizabeth asked, sitting beside her.
“I can. Slowly, though,” and she began, syllable by syllable.
“Clever girl.”
By eleven, they ventured outside.
“Visitor, Elizabeth?” a bench-dweller called.
Elizabeth nodded. Charlotte dashed to the playground while she sat, uneasy in this new role. *Grandmother? Hardly. Might not last.*
“Auntie Liz,” Charlotte ran over, “I want a cart like that girl’s.”
“For your doll? I don’t know where they sell those.”
“No—for leaves.” Big eyes locked onto hers.
“Right. Let’s ask William.” She led Charlotte to where the man busied himself in the garden.
Spotting her, William wished he’d worn his best.
“William, my… friend wants a cart. Can you make one?”
“Anything for you, Elizabeth Bennett. Build you a palace if you asked.” His heart raced. *A woman like her—never known one.*
Next day, Charlotte and a new friend hauled stones and flowers in their carts. Elizabeth watched, smug. *Ours is prettier, better-mannered.* Then paused—*since when ‘ours’?*
Thomas and Emily returned Sunday night. Elizabeth was putting Charlotte to bed.
“Could she stay till morning?” she asked hopefully.
Emily refused—work, nursery. Thomas drove them home.
“I like Emily. And Charlotte. But how old was she when—? Is this serious?”
“Glad you approve. Didn’t expect it. But Emily didn’t birth her. She’s her sister.”
“What?”
“Their mother remarried—a younger man. Wanted a child. She died in labour. He bolted, Emily took Charlotte. Calls her ‘Mum.’”
Elizabeth shook her head.
“Her own father walked away, and Emily shouldered this. Gutsy. Why not say sooner? I thought—”
“We’ll have our own,” Thomas hugged her.
“You’re marrying her?”
“Yes. And don’t argue. She’s got her own place—we’ll live apart.”
“What? I’ve only just got a granddaughter, and you’ll take her?”
“Mum, you astonish me. We’ll visit often. And when Emily has ours, Charlotte will need you.”
*All decided, then.* The sting faded.
Life without Charlotte felt barren. Weekends, Elizabeth baked pies, set the table, thrilled by her new family—Thomas, Emily, Charlotte, soon another.
Charlotte stayed over often. Elizabeth adored her, amazed—she’d never imagined loving a child not her own.
She still walked past the bench-neighbours with a nod. Let them talk.
Soon, Charlotte called her “Grandma.” Warmer than “Auntie Liz.”
As for smitten William—And one crisp autumn evening, as golden leaves swirled around the bench, William finally gathered the courage to ask Elizabeth for a walk—and to everyone’s surprise, especially her own, she said yes.
