Emily stepped out of her house and gasped at the transformed garden. Overnight, snow had blanketed everything. Fluffy flakes drifted silently onto the few remaining yellow leaves clinging to the trees, onto the pavement and parked cars.
She held out her palm. A few snowflakes landed and melted instantly. Taking a few steps, she listened to the soft crunch beneath her boots, a sound that whispered of Christmas—the scent of oranges, the glittering baubles on the tree, and, of course, the promise of magic.
Inside the shop, she grabbed oranges, milk, and biscuits for tea. At the till, her phone buzzed—Mum.
“Em, can you come over today?”
“Yeah, sure. What’s up?”
“Nothing. I’ve got someone I’d like you to meet. Come by lunchtime.” Mum’s voice bubbled with excitement.
“Oh God, not another one of those ‘mummy’s boys’ looking to escape the nest?” Emily sighed.
“It’s a surprise. You’ll see,” Mum said mysteriously before hanging up.
Curious. Emily hadn’t heard Mum sound this giddy in years. After Andrew left, she’d sobbed on Mum’s shoulder until Mum ruined it by saying, *I told you so.* Of course she’d been right. But that didn’t help. They’d argued. Emily stopped visiting, only calling, nursing her heartache alone.
On impulse, she picked up a small cake from the bakery. Couldn’t turn up empty-handed.
At home, she wondered what surprise Mum had planned. Just in case, she washed her hair, curled the ends, touched up her mascara and lipstick, and slipped into a charcoal skirt and a peach knit jumper. Smiling at her reflection, she thought, *Whatever it is, I’ll face it looking my best.*
*Andrew’s going to regret this,* she mused, pulling on her boots and coat.
Mum opened the door, and Emily froze. Her mother’s eyes sparkled, her cheeks were flushed, and—most shockingly—a chic new haircut had shaved a decade off her age.
“Mum, you look amazing,” Emily said, handing over the cake.
“Ta, love.” Mum smiled shyly. “Come in, make yourself at home.” She disappeared into the kitchen with the cake.
*Definitely invited someone over.* Emily straightened her curls in the hall mirror and walked into the living room. A sturdy man in his fifties, wearing chinos and a navy jumper, stood from the sofa. His receding hairline gave way to a strong brow, a prominent nose, and creases at the corners of his eyes—either from laughter or squinting in the sun. He studied her with quiet interest. She greeted him warily.
“Emily, this is Graham Whitmore. An old friend from my childhood.” Mum slid an arm around her waist, searching her face for approval.
“So, the village lad, then?” Emily shot Mum a disappointed look.
“Lunch is ready,” Mum said abruptly, leading the way.
Emily sat in her usual spot—back to the fridge by the window. *Is he taking Dad’s place?* Graham sat opposite. Mum settled between them, facing the stove. Just like when Dad was alive.
“Let me guess—you’re setting us up? Didn’t see that coming. Explains the makeover,” Emily said coldly.
“Why do you have to be like this?” Mum frowned.
“Missed a good punching bag, did you? Dad didn’t hit you enough? Where’s the whiskey? You two forgotten the vodka?” She glared at Graham.
“Graham doesn’t drink. He—” Mum faltered, glancing at him apologetically.
Graham covered Mum’s hand with his rough, work-worn one. “Don’t, Antonia.”
“Playing the teetotaller now, are we? Wait till you move in and show your true colours. Mum, are you *marrying* him? *This* is the surprise? Graham, did the wife kick you out, so you’re leeching off my mum?”
The words tumbled out. She couldn’t stop. Tears welled in Mum’s eyes. Graham stared at his cooling soup.
“Finished?” Mum snapped—uncharacteristically sharp. “What kind of life have I had? Drunken rages, fists. You’d flee to the neighbours when he came home. We’d walk the streets at night till he passed out. I stole money from his pockets to buy you shoes or dresses. You don’t know *anything*—” Her voice cracked.
Emily had never seen her like this—usually meek, flinching at raised voices. She remembered Dad snarling, *You’re only good for wiping boots on.* Yet here she was, defending some stranger.
“Should’ve told you years ago. Thirty years I kept quiet.” Mum took a shaky breath. “He’s your father. Graham Whitmore. Your *real* father.”
*”What?”* Emily recoiled, pressing against the fridge. She stared between them.
“Yes. We loved each other since school. Then he joined the army. Small village—everyone knew. I told Gran I was pregnant. She screamed, hit me with a towel. Then she dragged in some lad to ‘fix the fence.’ Next thing I knew, she’d guilted him into marrying me. We moved to the city. I never loved him. Maybe he guessed you weren’t his. Drank, hit me. Graham didn’t know about you.”
Her voice trembled. “I avoided the village, too ashamed. Last summer, I went back, remember? That’s when I saw him. He came to me after. Said he didn’t blame me. Loved me his whole life. I’m moving to his farm. The flat’s yours. Stop renting. I’m only forty-nine—I want to make things right.”
Emily couldn’t process it. Dad had been awful, but he’d been *there.* Now this? She stood abruptly and left.
“Em!” Mum called.
“Let her go. She’ll work it out,” Graham murmured.
*Oh, now he’s the voice of reason,* she thought, slamming the door.
Snow fell as she walked, stirring memories. Once, they’d fled Dad’s rage in winter. She’d peered into lit windows, envying the families inside—warm, safe, whole.
*Mum gave up. Wore those frumpy cardigans, looked ten years older. No life, just suffering. But she’s still young. Maybe Graham does love her. And I yelled like a brat.* Guilt gnawed at her. *And me? When Andrew suggested moving in, did I listen to Mum? No. Two years, and he still wouldn’t marry me.*
Days passed. She replayed Mum’s words, knowing she’d been cruel. She had to apologize—properly, face-to-face.
Mum flung the door open, tearful. They hugged. Suitcases littered the room.
“Packing. I’m moving to Graham’s farm,” Mum said brightly.
“What about your job?”
“There’s a post office. Dairy nearby. We’ll manage,” Graham said, grinning.
“Visit us. The farm’s lovely. Used to worry what people thought. But they’ve got their own dramas,” Mum said, leaning into Graham.
Emily helped her move, then took over the flat. Months passed—she’d held out hope Andrew would return. Mum called often. At Christmas, Emily visited. The farm was cosy—log fire, real tree, bees in the garden. Mum glowed.
Then, one spring morning, Graham rang from Mum’s phone. His voice was tight. “She’s gone, love. In her sleep. Heart defect. A clot.”
*Heart defect?* Emily hadn’t known. *Mum, why’d you go? All that work—*
She took the next bus to the village. The coffin sat in the parlour. Emily barely recognised Mum. She whirled on Graham.
*”You* did this! You brought her here!”
“Quiet, love,” said Aunt Val, Mum’s sister-in-law. “Graham never let her lift a finger. She was happy. Worked at the post office. He gave her what that brute never did.”
“Dad, the hearse is here.” A tall young man—*Graham’s son?*—nodded at Emily.
“My boy, Paul. Fetch the lads,” Graham said.
They carried the coffin out, laid it on a truck strewn with holly, and drove slowly to the churchyard. Villagers watched from doorways, crossing themselves.
“She wanted to be buried here. Near her parents,” Graham said.
Neighbours laid out food for the wake.
“Staying?” Graham asked later. “Paul can drive you back.”
“No. I’ll go.” Being with a near-stranger felt wrong.
The car ride was quiet until Paul spoke. “Dad married my mum when I was little. Adopted me. Then she ran off to Aberdeen, took me. Came back to Dad at sixteen. Work at the railworks now, got a flat. He’d never leave the farm.”
At the door, Paul handed her a heavy bag—potatoes, jam, pickles from the farm—and as she drifted to sleep under the blanket he’d tucked around her, she dreamed of winter windows glowing warm, and when she woke to find him still there, drowsing in the armchair, she knew, with a quiet certainty, that she’d never have to envy those lights again.
