June 12th, 2024
I’ve been unwell. I came to stay with Gran in the village of Willowbrook, where the air carries the scent of wild thyme and echoes of childhood summers. Lying on the old iron bedstead, I caught Gran’s eye—Mary Stevens, ever steady, ever kind.
“Don’t know what I’d do without you, Gran,” I murmured. “Feels like I’m alone in this world. Maybe no one really needs me?”
“Good heavens, William!” She clapped her hands, scandalised. “A strapping lad like you? You’d be a godsend to any woman worth her salt! Stay put—I’ll fetch honey from Mrs. Whittaker down the lane.”
Mary shook her head and bustled out. I closed my eyes, slipping into restless dreams—until the door creaked. Light footsteps.
“Gran?” I bolted upright, disbelief tightening my chest.
I’d rushed to Willowbrook these past years. With Father still at the factory and Mother lost in her rose gardens, visits to Gran fell to me.
“I’ve the time,” I’d always say. “And she loves having me.”
“Too right,” Mother agreed. “You bring the groceries, mend the fence—she lives for your weekends.”
I did love her. Childhood summers here were golden. Then came the Army, work in Manchester, life slipping by.
“Still, when will you settle?” Mother fretted. “Thirty-seven, William. A man ought to have a family.”
The dirt road to Willowbrook jolted the car. Boxes of shopping rattled in the boot. My mind wandered back to Ashford—the next village over—where I’d loved a girl once. Emily. Quiet, dark-eyed, speaking volumes without words. Our summers had been fire and tenderness.
“Gone now,” I sighed. I’d left for service; she’d taken up with a lad back from the docks. Made quite the scene, apparently.
A hitchhiker appeared. I slowed.
“Ashford way?” she asked, pushing chestnut hair from her eyes.
“Hop in.”
She had Emily’s smile. Exactly.
“Local or visiting?” I ventured.
“Home from nursing college,” she said. “Exams done. Though ‘holiday’ here means chores.” She laughed—that laugh—and my hands tightened on the wheel.
“You wouldn’t be Emily’s girl?”
“Sophie Dawson,” she corrected. “Mum was Emily Carter before she married.”
“I knew her.” My pulse thudded. Same mole on her cheek—same as mine.
“How old are you?”
“Eighteen next month.”
“Takes after her dad, they say,” she added later, stepping out. “Though he’s gone now. Ten when he died. Just us two left.” She waved, vanishing down the lane.
“I’d like to see the old photo albums,” I told Gran that evening.
We paged through memories. When I asked after Emily, Gran sighed.
“Married that dockworker, Tom, after you left. Nearly ruined the wedding, you did.” She eyed me. “Still—when’s your turn, eh?”
“Tom died, though?”
“Years back. Hard on them.” She retreated to the kitchen.
The girl—Sophie—haunted me. That mole. The timing. Could she be mine? Had Emily lied?
At dawn, I drove to Ashford. Emily froze mid-yard, laundry basket slipping.
“William—?” She fled inside.
“Emily! We need to talk!”
She emerged, pale. “The garden. Sophie mustn’t hear.”
“I’m at Gran’s. I—”
“After twenty years? Why?” Her tears glittered.
“I shouldn’t have left. I loved you—”
“Youthful folly,” she whispered. “I loved Tom. It came to nothing.”
“Nothing?” My voice broke.
Sophie bounded out then. “You two know each other?”
Emily hissed, “Leave. Don’t ruin this.”
At the car, I gripped her hands. “Sophie’s mine. The mole proves it.”
She recoiled. “Madness! She adored Tom—you’ll not take that from her!” Then, softer: “Forgive me. But our time’s up.”
Fever spiked that night. Gran fussed. “Gallivanting when you’re poorly!”
“Chemist’s was closed,” I lied.
I woke to rustling. Emily stood there—same floral dress, same quiet grace.
“You…?”
“Mrs. Whittaker said you were ill.” Her fingers twisted. “I was harsh yesterday.”
“Explain properly, Em.”
A shuddering breath. “Sophie—she’s yours. The mole…”
I knelt, clutching her. “My girl… All these years—”
“Don’t tell her yet,” she begged. “I need time.”
Gran emerged from behind the curtains, honey jar trembling. “Heard every word,” she wept. “Oh, my boy…”
A week later, Sophie skipped off to friends, and I held Emily in their kitchen.
“Gran wants to see Sophie. Fears she’ll not see the truth in time.”
“She will,” Emily murmured. “Who knew you’d come back?”
I kissed her forehead. “We’ll make it right. If you’ll have me?”
Her nod was my absolution.
By autumn, I’d moved in. We married quietly. Sophie learnt the truth at Christmas—tears, then acceptance. We kept Tom’s memory sacred, weaving our second chance gently, like the willow branches overhead.
