Life moves fast, no time to dwell on things too long. It’s complicated and sometimes unfair, but every now and then, it throws you a curveball that changes everything—gives you a chance to fix past mistakes, understand what really matters, and become a better person.
Eight years ago, Harold Wilson buried his wife, and he hadn’t remarried since. At first, it was just him and his son, Oliver, in that big two-story house. Everything was cozy and well-kept, all arranged by his late wife, Emily. But when she passed, Harold left everything exactly as it was—furniture untouched, like time had stopped. He and Oliver kept the place tidy, both of them neat by nature.
Oliver finished school and went off to university. Handsome lad, girls flocked to him even in secondary school, and he didn’t exactly push them away.
“Oliver, you’re playing with fire, son,” Harold would warn him. “One of these days, you’ll end up with a baby on the way before you’re ready. Then you’ll have to grow up fast.”
Same story at uni. When Oliver moved to another city for his studies, Harold was left alone. He wasn’t in any rush to date—couldn’t seem to forget Emily. They’d had a real love, the kind you don’t find often.
One evening, Harold’s old schoolmate and mate, Nigel, dropped by. They stood in the back garden, grilling burgers and catching up.
“How’s Oliver? How’re you holding up?” Nigel asked.
“Can’t complain. Business is good. Oliver’s my right hand now he’s finished uni. Only thing is, he won’t settle down. Not like me in that regard,” Harold chuckled. “Planning to expand the business next year. What about you?”
“Same old, really. Got into farming, learned a lot. Oh, and I remarried—you know me and Irene split ages ago. New wife’s much younger, nearly twenty years. My daughter’s not thrilled, though. She’s married herself but still gives me grief over it. Ah well, maybe she’ll come round. You, though—Emily’s been gone years. Don’t you get lonely? Bloke needs a wife.”
“Nah, not for me, Nigel. Plenty of women about, and I’m not exactly short of attention. Even some lovely lasses at the office. But I’m not looking to start a family again.”
Next door lived Margaret, a striking woman who’d lost her husband three years back. Lived alone—daughter was married. Harold chatted with her now and then, and there was something about her, but she kept things proper, as a widow should. No flirting, just the occasional pie or apples from her garden. They’d swapped numbers once.
“Margaret, let’s exchange numbers—neighbours should, just in case. If we don’t see each other for a while, we can ring.”
“True enough, Harold. Life’s unpredictable,” she agreed.
After Nigel left, Harold crashed—full of burgers and a bit of whiskey (just a nip, mind). The next day, pulling up to his house, he spotted a young woman waiting.
“Looking for Oliver? He doesn’t live here anymore—moved to the city.”
“I know, Harold. I’m here for you,” she said softly. “I’m Faith.”
“For me? Interesting.” She handed him a photo of a little girl. “This is your granddaughter—Lily. She’s four.”
“Faith, hold on. Don’t spin me a tale—sort this out with Oliver yourself.” He shut the gate and went inside.
Six months back, some girl had pulled the same stunt, even brought a kid along. Turned out she’d lied after the DNA test. Now he didn’t trust any of them. Grumbling, he stormed in.
“Bloody hell, son. How many more of these lasses are gonna turn up on my doorstep? I’ll have a proper talk with him tomorrow—time he settled down.”
Later, heading out to feed Max, his loyal German Shepherd, he spotted a plastic folder jammed in the gate. Inside were more photos of the girl and some papers. He tossed it onto a shelf in the living room.
“Right, I’ll look later. What’s the odds it’s anything important?”
Work kept him busy, and he forgot all about Faith and the folder. He did talk to Oliver, but his son just brushed it off with a joke.
Almost a year later, Harold was at work when his phone rang.
“Hello? What? No—when?” He hung up, pale. His secretary rushed in with water.
Oliver was gone—killed in a car crash. Heavy rain, coming back from a business trip in the next town. Lost control.
The funeral was a blur. Nigel handled everything, and Margaret was there constantly, handing him water and pills. Afterward, Harold ended up in hospital—micro heart attack, the doctor said.
Nigel visited often, and Margaret was practically glued to his side.
“I’ve been feeding Max—he knows me, so he eats. But he misses you, poor thing. I’ve kept an eye on the house too, and Nigel drops by. Don’t fret over that, at least.”
She understood. Losing a child? That’s a wound that doesn’t heal.
One night, Harold broke down. Margaret wasn’t expecting it.
“Rita, I’ve got no one left. Should’ve been me. I’d be with my family now.”
“Harold, don’t say that! If God left you here, there’s a reason.”
“Cheers, Rita. And call me ‘Harold,’ not ‘Mr. Wilson.’ Makes it easier. Don’t leave me—I’ll lose my mind in here. I’ll pay you back for all this.”
“Don’t be daft. We’re neighbours. Took holiday from work, so don’t worry.”
Every day, Margaret brought home-cooked meals, pies—everything. Without realising, she’d started catching feelings for Harold, and not just as a neighbour.
Then one day, he asked her, “Rita, there’s a folder on the top shelf at home—documents I forgot about. Need them.”
Next day, she brought the folder Faith had left. Harold pored over the papers—a DNA test proving Lily was Oliver’s daughter. Copies of birth certificates, everything. And documents showing Faith was seriously ill. He turned to Margaret.
“I need another favour. Can you go to this address and bring this woman to me?”
Margaret agreed, though something pinched her heart. Here she was, looking after him, and he was calling for another woman. But two hours later, she returned alone.
“Where’s Faith? Didn’t want to come?”
“Faith is dead,” she said quietly. “Neighbour told me. The girl’s in care.”
“Dead? How? I need out of here—I have to see her.”
“You can’t get worked up, Harold.”
“God, I messed up. I should’ve helped them.”
“The doctor won’t discharge you. What’s the rush? The girl’s mum isn’t coming back.”
“Rita, you don’t get it. Lily’s my granddaughter. My blood. Here’s the proof. I didn’t believe Faith—forgot about the papers. Oliver never claimed her. And she came to me for help, and I—”
“Your granddaughter?” Margaret gasped.
“Yes. Rita, find her, please. While I’m stuck here.”
She nodded but asked, “Now you see why God left you here? You’ve got a granddaughter to raise.” Harold couldn’t speak—tears choked him.
While he recovered, Margaret tracked down the care home on the outskirts of town where Lily lived. Spoke to the director, learned about guardianship. Then she asked to meet the girl. Lily took to her straight away, chatting like they’d known each other forever. She even told Margaret about her dream.
“I promised Mummy I’d find Grandad when I grew up. Someone’s got to look after him when he’s old.”
Margaret smiled, hugging the sweet girl. Lily’s serious little voice, despite being just five, melted her heart. She told Harold she’d found Lily—but didn’t mention how often she visited, bringing gifts, how they’d bonded.
Time came. Harold and Margaret went to the care home, watching Lily play with the other kids, gently helping the little ones, picking up toys they’d dropped.
At first, Lily didn’t see them. Then she looked up, locked eyes—and sprinted to Margaret. Harold was stunned as the girl hugged his neighbour tight.
“This is your grandad, Lily,” Margaret said. “You wanted to find him when you grew up. But he found you first.”
Lily peered up. Harold crouched down.
“Hello, sweetheart. I’m definitely your grandad. Want to come live with me?”
“You really are? And you want me? But you’re not even old yet,” she said, wise beyond her years.
“Cross my heart.
