**Filling My Soul with Love**
Who could have guessed that two best friends, inseparable since childhood, would find themselves on opposite sides of bitterness and silence? In the village of Brookford, where cottages lined the narrow lanes and gossip traveled faster than the wind, the neighbours whispered:
“Have you heard? Emma and Lucy aren’t speaking anymore. Used to be thick as thieves, always together… Now they act like strangers.”
The truth was, the silence between Emma and Lucy hadn’t come from nowhere. Its roots stretched back to their children’s youth. Sophie, Emma’s daughter, and James, Lucy’s son, had been friends since they could walk. They’d gone to school together, splashed in the river, picked wild berries, fished, built stick forts, and dreamed of the future.
Sophie was a whirlwind—bold, stubborn, first to jump into any adventure. James was steady, thoughtful, with a quiet smile and eyes that understood more than his words ever could. She’d drag him along—he’d follow. That was how it had always been.
Their mothers, Emma and Lucy, had been just as close. Neighbours, separated only by a hedge, dropping by unannounced for tea. Their friendship had carried down from their own mothers, and they’d even married around the same time—men who, as it turned out, weren’t worth much.
Emma divorced first. The bruise under her eye, the tremor in her hands—enough said. Her husband had a temper. She threw him out without a word. Lucy stood by her, though she wasn’t free of pain herself—her own husband had started whispering that James wasn’t his. Once, in a fit of rage, he’d even grabbed a knife.
“My boy, not his? Can you believe it?” Lucy had laughed bitterly. “As if I’d ever— I was only ever his.”
Both women carried on. Alone, with their children.
After school, James trained as a lorry driver. Sophie left for London—university. He was drafted into the army soon after. She came to see him off. For three days, they never left each other’s side.
Then came the distance. Sophie visited at first—weekly, with sweets and stories. She’d stop by Lucy’s, telling her about James’ letters, how he was getting on. Then—less often, until after March, she didn’t come at all.
“Where’s Sophie these days?” Lucy asked Emma.
“Busy. Studies. Exams.”
But Lucy knew something was wrong. Her friend had grown quiet, her eyes dull. Then Emma suddenly packed for London—”to visit.”
She returned even quieter than she’d left.
“Out with it,” Lucy barged in that evening. “What’s going on?”
Emma sighed.
“It’s done… Sophie’s married now. And she’s expecting.”
The world shattered. Lucy stormed out like she’d been scalded. That same night, she wrote to James in the army. What followed—pain, silence, ice.
When his service ended, James didn’t come home. He followed a mate up north, worked the oil rigs, pushing himself till the ache dulled. In three years, he visited just once—to help his mother. Sophie? Gone. No husband, no child ever seen back in Brookford.
Then… One morning, the postwoman brought news.
“Emma’s ill. Asked for you. Says it’s urgent.”
“We don’t speak,” Lucy snapped.
“But she insisted. Herself.”
So Lucy went. Inside, Emma lay on the sofa, blankets tucked around her, pills and water on the side table.
“What’s this, then? Taken ill?”
“Guess it all caught up with me…”
Silence stretched between them before Emma finally took Lucy’s hand and whispered, “Forgive me. I need to tell you…”
And she did. All of it.
An hour later, Lucy bolted from the house, grabbed her phone.
“James, love, come home. I’m not well… Badly. Please—quick as you can.”
He arrived two days later—only to find his mother bustling about, laughing.
“Mum, you’re sick?”
“Fine, love. Just happy you’re here.”
“Mind if I walk down to the river? Missed it.”
By the water’s edge, he stared at the current—as if he might see Sophie there. Her laugh, her eyes… The old hurt clawed at him.
“Hello, James.”
He turned. Sophie. And beside her—a boy. Three years old, curls, his eyes. His gaze.
“This…?”
“Your son,” she said softly. “Meet Ollie. Ollie, this is your dad.”
“But—how? Why?”
“There was never a husband. Everything you heard—a lie. Mum didn’t want me shaming the family. Forbade me from coming back. And yours made out you’d married.”
“Me? Married? Never. There’s never been anyone else.”
“Didn’t think so. Not till my mother fell ill. Wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t speak. Then—she broke. Told me everything. Begged forgiveness. She didn’t know… didn’t know you were his father. And now… now she wants you to know. He’s yours.”
James stood frozen. Then, slowly, he knelt, wrapped the boy in his arms. Tears streaked his face.
“Forgive me… For all of it. Thought I’d lost you forever.”
“And now I’m here. Ollie’s here. We’ve been waiting for you, James. All this time.”
“Fill my soul with love, Sophie… Please.”
“Already am,” she whispered, pressing close. “We’ll live. Together.”
And they walked—along the river, toward home, where two women waited, bound by something stronger than hurt. Waiting for words, for peace, for the start of a new family. With late—but real—happiness.
