**Sorry It’s Been So Long…**
Oliver hadn’t been home in years. The first two, while studying at university in another city, he’d still visit for the holidays. His mum, of course, would stuff him silly with all his favourite home-cooked meals. After a few days of overeating, though, he’d start feeling restless. His old mates had all moved away, and there was nothing to do.
The town was small—familiar down to every last tree—and you could walk its length in a few hours. After a solid week of sleeping in and twiddling his thumbs, he’d be itching to leave.
His mum would beg him to stay another week, but Oliver would conjure up some vague excuse and dash off without a second thought. The big, bustling city called to him. Now that was the place to be—never a dull moment. He’d already made new friends there. But back home? Mind-numbingly dull.
By his third year, he’d snagged a job at a fast-food joint, working evenings till closing—peak time for students. He liked the hustle, and the extra cash didn’t hurt. Student loans barely covered the essentials. He stubbornly refused his mum’s help, too proud to take it. She rang, begging him to come home at least for Christmas. He promised—though work was insane over the holidays.
New Year’s break came and went, lectures started again, and Oliver postponed visiting until summer. But when summer rolled around, he switched to full-time hours. Life in the city was a whirlwind, and before he knew it, he’d graduated. They celebrated for days—who knew when they’d all be together again?
Then his mate suggested working abroad—Turkey, of all places.
“Come with me. You’d be perfect—just gotta decide now. The bloke I was going with pulled out—his girlfriend’s pregnant, and he’s settling down. So, what d’you say? Year-long contract. You know enough English, and you’ll pick up Turkish.”
See the world while you’re young, before the grind of mortgages and nappies chains you down. He agreed. A frenzy of doctor’s visits, paperwork, and last-minute prep followed. Right before leaving, he called his mum, guiltily promising he’d visit after the year was up.
“But a whole *year*? Just pop home for a day, love—I’m starting to forget what you look like!”
“Sorry, Mum. Flight’s tomorrow, tickets in hand. Can’t bail on the job or my mate. Love you, I’ll call.”
Turkey was a blur—hotel life, meals on-site, saving every penny. They worked insane hours, fined for the smallest slip-up, but Oliver loved it.
He returned three years later, bought a flat on a mortgage, and dived back into work. He’d ring his mum in passing, always swearing he’d visit—just after one more thing. But one thing became another.
One weekend, he and a mate hit a club. Booze, dancing, the works. He woke up to a girl in his bed—couldn’t tell if she was fit; a thick, dark curl covered half her face. Not daring to move it, he slipped out, chugged water from the tap, and stood under the shower a solid twenty minutes, debating the politest way to kick her out.
By the time he emerged, clean and almost sober, she was in his kitchen—wearing nothing but his shirt, looking unfairly stunning. The scent of coffee filled the air, a plate of neatly sliced cheese on the table.
“Sorry,” she grinned. “Your fridge is tragic.”
After coffee, they ended up back in bed.
Her name was Lana. Oliver doubted it was real, but did it matter? She was fun, uninhibited—exactly what a bloke in his twenties wanted. She stayed a month.
It was great, at first. Easy. No strings. But she never cooked (takeaway or cafés), never worked (“finding myself”), and kept him out all night. Exhaustion set in. His boss side-eyed him. Money vanished. He knew this wasn’t sustainable.
So he ran—home for the weekend, hoping she’d take the hint and leave. He bought his mum gifts, called Lana from the train: “Gone home. Don’t know when I’m back.”
“And what about *me*?” she whined.
He pictured her pouting on his sofa, long legs stretched out, phone in hand—but the image didn’t stir him like before.
“Do what you want,” he said, hanging up.
The whole journey, he imagined pressing the buzzer, hearing muffled footsteps, his mum gasping and throwing her arms wide—
Guilt nagged. He rarely called, never visited. She had every right to be furious. His dad had died when Oliver was fifteen. His mum was still young—what if she’d moved on? What if some stranger sat at their table now?
He took the stairs two at a time, stopping at the door to listen. Silence. What if—? No. She was fine. He buzzed.
A faint chime sounded inside. No footsteps. The door cracked open—a wide-eyed little girl, maybe seven, clutching a teddy bear, two thin blonde plaits swinging.
“Hello. Who’re you here for?” she asked, businesslike.
“Uh—are the adults home?”
She scowled, clearly offended.
Oliver backtracked. “Sorry. Is your mum or—your grandma in?”
“She’s *not* a grandma,” the girl huffed, tugging the door shut.
“Wait! This is *my* house.”
“No, it’s *my* grandma’s.”
Just then, a gasp behind him—a bag dropped, apples tumbling down the steps. He turned. His mum stood frozen.
“Mum!” He rushed to hug her, breathing in her familiar lily-of-the-valley perfume.
“Ollie…” she whispered into his chest.
When had she gotten so small?
“Don’t cry, Mum. I’m here. Sorry it’s been so long.”
She pulled back, cupping his face. “Look at you. Come inside!”
As he gathered the apples, the girl watched from the doorway.
“Who’s that?” Oliver asked, shrugging off his coat.
His mum hesitated. “Let’s eat first.”
“Is there beef stew?” His mouth watered at the thought.
“Made it yesterday.”
She bustled about, and soon a steaming bowl sat before him.
“This is incredible,” he mumbled between bites.
“You never visited. No ring—not married, then? Good.”
“So… the girl. Why does she call you Gran?”
“Because I *am*.”
“You’re not old enough!”
“Gran isn’t about age, love. It’s about the title. Think hard—who’d you last… *see*, before you left?”
Oliver froze.
He’d come home after second year. None of his mates were around. Just Lizzie—an old classmate. Quiet, shy, never stood out. He’d forgotten she existed until he ran into her. He remembered then—her mum had died, her dad drank.
She’d listened wide-eyed as he bragged about uni life. Invited her to the cinema. A walk. Then—
He’d had girlfriends, but none so… *fervent*. No guilt, though. She’d wanted it. He’d walked her home, kissed her, promised to call. Never did.
“When her dad found out she was pregnant, he kicked her out. She came to me. Wanted an abortion. I wouldn’t let her. She stayed,” his mum said.
“Why didn’t *you* tell me?”
“Lizzie made me swear. Said if you ever came back, *then* she’d tell you.” His mum fetched two photos—one of young Oliver, one of the girl. “Look. See the resemblance?”
It was undeniable.
“Lizzie’ll be home soon. Hurt her, and you’re out. Got it?”
The front door clicked open.
“Someone here?” A bright voice.
Oliver stood. Lizzie walked in—but nothing like the mousy girl he remembered. Confidence. Beauty. No trace of the past.
“Hello, stranger.” She smiled. “I’ve got steak for dinner.”
His mum took little Evie (short for Evelyn, apparently) to another room.
Lizzie sat across from him. “Back for good?”
“Just the weekend.”
She smirked. “Evie thinks you’re a secret agent. I wasn’t resurrecting some dead war hero for a cover story.”
“You’ll tell her I’m her dad?”
“*If* you want. You tell her.”
He barely slept. His *daughter* was in the next room.
Next morning, Evie raced between him and Lizzie at breakfast, chattering. In the park, she held both their hands. *Like a family*, he realised. Because they *were*.
Before leaving, his mum cornered him. “Well?”
“It’s not *my* choice. It’s theirs—if they’ll have me.”He returned the next weekend with flowers for Lizzie and a toy bear for Evie, ready to prove he could be the man they deserved—even if it took the rest of his life.
