**A Reunion of Friends**
Mickey started Year Two at a new school in a different village. He overheard his father talking to his mother one evening:
“Vera, my old army mate Ivan sent a letter. Remember how he carried me when I broke my leg during training?”
“And?” asked his wife, Elaine, while he stayed silent, drawing out the suspense. “Greg, what’s next?”
“Well, this Ivan suggested we move to their village. Says they’re doing well there. I’m a mechanic, and they need skilled hands—and you’re a vet, so there’s work for you too. Our chairman couldn’t care less about the farm—lets everything fall apart. Drinks more than he manages.”
“Maybe it’s for the best,” Elaine agreed. “I’m tired of arguing with him.”
So they moved. In Year Two, Mickey was seated next to Jack—a sturdy, quick-witted boy with freckles across his nose. They became fast friends. Two rows ahead sat Lily, a fair-haired girl with curls framing her face and a long braid down her back. She was Jack’s neighbor, so the two walked to and from school together. Jack never let anyone bully her and often declared proudly, “Lily’s gonna be my wife when we grow up!” Mickey would laugh—”That’s ages away!”—but Jack still carried her bag home every day. Mickey tagged along since his house was on their way.
Mickey loved the village. He made friends quickly, rushed through homework, then vanished outside with the local lads, running wild until dusk.
Three years passed. Then, disaster struck—his mother fell ill and, soon after, died. Mickey curled up in a corner, sobbing. “How do I live without Mum?”
They buried Elaine, leaving Greg alone with his son. Without her, nothing felt right. Mickey ached with loneliness while Greg struggled—his soups were bland, his cooking barely edible. Too exhausted from work to check Mickey’s homework, he often collapsed into bed, leaving chores half-done.
Six months later, Greg brought home a new wife, Zoe, from a neighboring village.
“Son, this is Zoe. She’s my wife now. You’ll mind her, understand?” Greg said, ruffling Mickey’s hair.
Mickey disliked Zoe instantly. Even Jack and Lily pitied him.
“My mum says your stepmum’s nasty,” Lily blurted one day. “I overheard her telling a neighbor no one in her village would marry her, but your dad didn’t know better.”
“Come on, Lil, maybe it’s not true,” Jack defended, but Mickey already knew—he’d never love her like he’d loved his mum.
“We’ll see,” Mickey replied grimly, sounding older than his years. His friends exchanged glances.
Villagers gossiped, then moved on. Zoe paid Mickey little mind—no interest in his studies or hobbies, just indifference that settled in his gut like a stone.
Then she had a son, Paul. Suddenly, all attention shifted to the baby. Greg doted on him, leaving Mickey feeling like an afterthought. One evening, Mickey overheard Zoe complaining:
“Greg, two kids are too much. Mickey’s lazy, never helps, and now he’s talking back!” The lies piled up until Greg caved. “Take him to his gran’s. I can’t handle him.”
So Mickey was sent back to where they’d come from—to Granny Anne, his mother’s mum. Saying goodbye to Jack and Lily wrecked him. They cried, promised to write, exchanged a few letters—then silence.
Granny Anne cherished him—Mickey was all she had left of Elaine. Next door lived Anthony, his wife Marion, and their daughter Katie, five years younger but glued to Mickey’s side. Marion had been Elaine’s friend and treated Mickey like her own. Anthony, a skilled carpenter and mechanic, took him under his wing, teaching him tools and tricks.
“Oi, Mickey, give us a hand,” Anthony would say, grinning. “Hold this steady. We’ll go fishing at dawn—tell Granny to wake you early.”
Marion, a whirlwind in the kitchen, constantly showered them with pies and stews. “Marion, really, we’re fine,” Granny Anne protested, but Marion waved her off. “I cook too much—eat up!”
Katie adored Mickey, trailing him to school, begging for piggyback rides, sledding in winter. He never said no.
After school, Mickey aced his exams and got into polytechnic. He visited Granny on breaks, but each time, she seemed frailer, though she’d never complain.
Years later, Mickey—now Michael—returned as a broad-shouldered engineer. Walking home, he nearly collided with Katie, now a budding teacher.
“Katie! Blimey, look at you!” He swept her into a spin, her laughter ringing out.
“Careful, you’ll drop my girl!” Marion called from the yard.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Michael grinned.
That evening, they walked for hours. Michael’s heart hammered—she was his missing piece.
Granny Anne handed him a letter next morning—from Greg, inviting him to Paul’s wedding.
“Took him long enough,” Michael muttered.
“Go,” Granny urged. “See your dad while you can.”
The bus dropped him in the village square. As he turned toward Greg’s house, a little girl piped up, “Who’re you here for, mister?”
“Gregory Carter.”
“Oh! You’re for the wedding! I’m Polly. My dad’s Jack!”
“Jack? Lead the way, then.”
Inside, he froze—Lily stood there, gasping.
“Mickey!” She flung herself at him.
“I had no idea you two married! And Polly—she’s your spitting image! Where’s Jack?”
“Out back, parking the car.”
Jack strode in, scowled—then beamed. “Mickey! You daft git!” They crushed each other in a hug, laughing through tears.
Over supper, they reminisced. “Remember in Year Six?” Lily giggled. “Jack shoved that new boy Andy against a fence, growled, ‘Sit away from Lily!’ Next day, Andy begged to move seats, said Lily hit him!”
Jack grinned. “We never fight—well, not for long. Can’t stand her scowling.”
Dawn found Polly poking Michael awake, offering ginger ale. “Mum says your head’s pounding. You slept forever!”
Greg’s house felt like a tomb. Zoe, plump and cold, barely glanced at him. Greg, now a stooped ghost, clutched his hands. “Son, forgive me.”
Zoe snapped, “Stop moping—it’s a wedding!”
Greg whispered, “I wrote to see you—not for the wedding. I won’t last much longer.”
Michael’s anger melted. He left heavy-hearted, knowing he’d never see Greg again. Two months later, Jack called with the news—Zoe hadn’t bothered.
Six months on, Michael proposed. Katie said yes. The wedding was joyous—but a week later, Granny Anne slipped away quietly, as if she’d held on just to see him happy.
And so life moved on—bruised, but full of love.
