“Sorry it took so long…”
Oliver hadn’t been home in years. The first two while at university in another city, he’d still come back for holidays. His mum would spoil him rotten, cooking all his favourite meals. After stuffing himself for a few days, he’d start to get bored. All his mates had moved away, and there was nothing to do.
The town was small—familiar down to every tree—you could walk the whole place in a couple of hours. After sleeping in and moping around for a week, he’d be itching to get back.
His mum would beg him to stay just a little longer, but Oliver would make up some excuse about urgent coursework and leave with a clear conscience. The big, bustling city called to him. That’s where life happened, where things were exciting. He’d already made friends there. What was there to do back home? Dull as dishwater.
In his third year, he got a job at a fast-food place. Evening shifts, right through closing—just when the place was packed with students. He liked the buzz. The extra cash didn’t hurt either. His student loan barely covered rent. He refused his mum’s offers of help. She’d call, asking if he’d come home for Christmas. He’d promise, even though the café was busiest over the holidays.
After New Year’s, lectures started again. He put off going home until summer. But when summer rolled around, he switched to full-time hours. Life in the city was a whirlwind, time flying by. Before he knew it, he had his degree. He and his course mates celebrated for days—who knew when they’d all be together again?
Then his mate Jake had an idea.
“Fancy working in Spain?”
“Come with me. You’d be perfect for it. Just need to decide now—got to sort the paperwork. The bloke I was going with bailed. His girlfriend’s pregnant, wedding plans and all that. So, what do you say? Year-long contract. Your English is solid, you’ll pick up Spanish quick.”
See the world while we’re young. Once we’re tied to jobs, wives, kids, it’ll be one miserable week abroad every three years. Dance while you can, mate,” Jake sang off-key.
Oliver agreed. What followed were frantic weeks of doctors’ appointments, forms, and last-minute prep. The night before flying out, he called his mum. Guiltily, he promised he’d be back in a year and would visit then.
“How can you leave for a whole year? Just come home for a day. I’m starting to forget what you look like,” she pleaded.
“Sorry, Mum. Flight’s tomorrow, tickets in hand. Can’t let the company or Jake down. Love you. I’ll call…”
In Spain, they lived on-site at the hotel, meals included. Some rented places—Oliver saved every penny. They did all sorts of jobs. Slack off, and you were fined. But he loved it.
He came back after three years. Straight into a mortgage, straight into a job. He called his mum now and then, always on the run. Promised he’d visit—just needed to sort things out first. But one thing always led to another.
One weekend, out clubbing with friends. Booze, dancing, the works. Woke up with some girl in his bed. Pretty or not, hard to say—a thick lock of dark hair covered her face. He didn’t dare move it, not wanting to wake her. He couldn’t remember her name or how she got there.
He slipped out, gulped tap water in the kitchen, then stood under the shower’s hard spray, figuring how to politely kick her out.
By the time he stepped out, soap-fresh and sobering up, she was in the kitchen. Thank God, she was gorgeous. Wearing just his shirt, legs bare and endless. She looked so stunning, all thoughts of kicking her out vanished. The smell of coffee filled the air. A plate of neatly arranged cheese slices sat on the table.
“Sorry, but your fridge is basically empty,” she smiled.
After coffee, they ended up back in bed…
Her name was Tasha. Oliver doubted it was real but didn’t ask. Did it matter? No hang-ups, no expectations—just fun. Tasha stayed a month.
He liked her—physically, at least. What more did a bloke need? Easy, no strings. She couldn’t cook, didn’t even try. Takeaways or cafes kept them fed.
That month, he never slept properly. Tasha didn’t work. “Finding myself,” she’d say. He’d leave for the office while she snoozed. Evenings, she’d drag him back to clubs, drinking till late.
He was knackered, irritable. His boss side-eyed him. And he wasn’t stupid about Tasha—lived off lads happy to pay for her looks. Time to rein it in before he got sacked. Money was vanishing. But he couldn’t just chuck her out.
In the end, he bolted home for the weekend, hoping she’d take the hint. Bought his mum presents, called Tasha from the station.
“I’ve gone home. Not sure when I’ll be back.”
“And what about me?” she drawled, offended.
He pictured her posed on his sofa, legs stretched out, barely dressed. But the image didn’t stir him like before.
“Do what you want,” he said, hanging up.
The whole trip, he imagined pressing the doorbell, hearing the muffled chime, footsteps. His mum opening up, arms wide…
A little ashamed he’d called so little, visited even less. She had every right to be upset. His dad died when he was fifteen. His mum was still young—she could’ve moved on. What if she had? What if some bloke was at the table now… He shook the thought away.
Climbing the stairs, he fought the urge to take them two at a time like he used to after school. Felt like a lifetime ago. He paused outside the door, listening. Quiet. But what if… No, nonsense. His mum was fine. He pressed the bell.
The chime sounded. No footsteps. The latch clicked, the door cracked open. A little girl, about seven, big-eyed, thin blonde plaits, a teddy hugged to her chest.
“Who are you here for?” she asked, business-like.
“Hi. Are the adults home?”
She frowned—clearly miffed at being called a kid.
“Who d’you want?”
“Weren’t you taught not to open doors to strangers?” he countered.
“Thought you were Granny,” she shrugged, already pulling the door shut.
“Granny? You mean Nan?”
“She’s not a nan, she’s Granny.” The girl tugged harder.
“Hey, this is my house,” he blurted, foot stopping the door.
“No it’s not. It’s Granny’s and mine and Mummy’s.”
A gasp behind him. Something clattered down the steps. He turned—his mum stood frozen, a spilled bag of apples at her feet.
“Mum!” He hugged her, breathing in her familiar scent—she always wore lily of the valley perfume.
“Ollie…” she whispered into his chest.
When had she gotten so small? Had he ever hugged her like this before?
“Mum, don’t cry—I’m here. Sorry it took so long…”
“Ollie, love…” She pulled back to look at him. “Look at you. Why are we standing here? Come inside…”
He gathered the apples. As he climbed the steps, the girl watched from the doorway.
His mum shooed her inside, muttering about drafts. The girl vanished, sulking.
“Who’s that, Mum?” Oliver asked, hanging up his coat.
She gave him an odd look. “Let’s eat first. You must be starving.”
“Roast dinner?” His mouth watered at the thought.
“Course. Made it yesterday—like I knew you’d come.”
She bustled between cupboards, fridge, microwave. Soon, steaming gravy-smothered roast beef sat before him.
“This is amazing,” he mumbled through a mouthful.
“Why stay away so long? No ring—not married, then. Good.”
“Who *is* that girl? Why’d she call you Granny?”
“Because I am.”
“Don’t be daft. You’re young. I don’t even have kids—how could you be a gran?” The words died in his throat.
“Age doesn’t matter. It’s about title. Think—who’d you mess around with last time you visited?”
“Didn’t mess with anyone,” Oliver said—then stopped.
Last visit was after second year. All his mates had left. He’d run into Emily Carter—quiet, mousy girl from school. Never noticed her before, but he was glad to see a familiar face. She’d always been odd, withdrawn.
He remembered her mum had died. Lived with her drunk dad.
Emily never shared much. Smart, but invisible. Not like he’d cared. JustOliver met Emily’s eyes across the table, the weight of all those lost years and the little girl who was his daughter settling in his chest like a promise he finally meant to keep.
