**A Tale of Lonely Hearts**
On New Year’s Eve, the residents of a care home in a quiet village nestled at the foot of the Pennines wait with fading hope for their children to visit. Those unable to walk listen intently as the more mobile among them peer through the windows, longing for familiar figures. But the snow has buried the path to the gate, and not a soul turns off the cleared main road toward the home. The yard is swallowed by drifts, as if no one cares for the lonely old souls inside.
Margaret Whitmore speaks proudly of her son, though a quiet guilt lingers when she shares with her friends. Her Edward is a successful architect, his wife a finance manager at a prestigious firm, and their grandson is soon to graduate from university. A perfect family, the envy of the others, whose own children are either lost to addiction, vanished without a trace, or tangled in misfortune. Margaret almost feels ashamed of her fortune, yet deep down she clings to the hope that Edward hasn’t forgotten her.
Evenings find the women gathered in the common room, retelling the stories of their lives like well-worn tales, holding onto memories as if they were lifelines.
When Margaret first arrived, she confided in her friend Edith that she’d been born in a remote Lincolnshire village. Years ago, Edward had persuaded her to leave her home, promising care and a cosy room in his flat. Her late husband had grumbled—cities weren’t for them—but he’d relented. Edward, knowing his father was a veteran of the Second World War, saw an opportunity. He registered him in the city, and soon the family secured a spacious three-bedroom flat. Edward’s wife, Claire, had wept with joy—before that, they’d been squeezed into a cramped, shared house.
But within a year, Margaret’s husband was gone. Grief crippled her, and she suffered a stroke. She recovered slowly, relearning to walk, but caring for her became a burden. Claire’s patience wore thin—doors slammed, voices rose. Margaret, unable to bear the strife, whispered to her son: *”Take me to a home. I won’t be the reason you quarrel.”* Edward nodded in silence, and before long, she found herself in the care home.
Edith had her own sorrow. Her son, Daniel, was kind-hearted, but life had led him astray. He’d been imprisoned but was due for release before New Year’s. She waited for him like one waits for a miracle. She blamed his wife, Lillian, who’d worked at a corner shop, bringing home bits of ham, cheese, then bottles of whisky. At first, they drank “for cheer,” but soon it became their life. Lillian lost her job, and she and Daniel turned to theft—first robbing Edith’s home, then their neighbours’. When the old woman’s legs failed her, she begged to be taken to the home, unable to watch her son’s descent.
Daniel went to prison but wrote letters swearing he’d change, start anew. He never spoke of Lillian—Edith didn’t even know if she was alive. Every morning, she prayed he’d keep his word and come for her.
The day faded, and still, no one came. The women whispered: *”Could something have happened? Surely they haven’t forgotten?”* Hope melted like snow beneath the weak winter sun.
At lights-out, the night nurse stepped into Edith and Margaret’s room.
*”Edith, your Daniel—has he an anchor tattoo on his wrist?”*
*”He does!”* Edith cried, rising despite her aching legs.
*”He’s alive, don’t fret. He’s sleeping in the porter’s lodge by the boiler house. Clothes torn, beard down to his chest. Wanted to see you but was ashamed to come like that.”*
*”Nurse Jenny, love, take this—feed him, get him warm,”* Edith wept, pressing crumpled notes into her hands.
*”Won’t take a penny,”* the nurse smiled. *”He’s fed, warm, washed. Fast asleep. Expect him tomorrow.”*
Edith wiped her tears, thanking her, but the nurse just waved and left. Margaret lay staring at the ceiling. Edward hadn’t come. His promise had been empty. Her heart ached, but she stayed silent—not wishing to dim Edith’s joy, the only warmth in their cold little room.
