**Thanks, Mum, for the Gift**
Evelyn stepped out of her house and paused to admire the transformed garden. Overnight, snow had blanketed the earth. Fluffy flakes drifted soundlessly onto the few yellow leaves clinging stubbornly to trees and bushes, onto the pavement and the parked cars.
She held out her palm. A few snowflakes landed and dissolved instantly. Taking a few steps, she listened to the quiet crunch beneath her boots, a reminder that Christmas was coming—with its scent of clementines, the glossy baubles on the tree, and, of course, the anticipation of magic.
Evelyn ducked into the shop for clementines, milk, and biscuits for tea. At the till, her mum called.
“Evie, could you come over today?”
“Sure, Mum. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. There’s someone I’d like you to meet. Come for lunch.” Her mum’s voice carried an excited lilt.
“Another ‘nice young man’ looking to escape his mother’s apron strings?” Evelyn asked, a little flatly.
“It’s a surprise. You’ll see,” her mum said mysteriously before hanging up.
Curious. Evelyn hadn’t heard that tone in years. When Andrew left, she’d gone to her mum in tears, only for the comfort to sour when her mum said, “I warned you.” She’d been right, of course. But that didn’t help. They’d fought, and since then, Evelyn had kept her distance, only calling, determined to bear the pain alone.
At the bakery section, she picked up a small cake. She couldn’t turn up empty-handed.
At home, she wondered what the surprise might be. 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 cashmere jumper. Smiling at her reflection, she thought, *Whatever it is, I’ll face it looking my best.*
*”Andrew will regret this,”* she muttered, pulling on her boots and coat.
Mum answered the door, and Evelyn froze. Her eyes sparkled, her cheeks were rosy, and a chic haircut had shaved a decade off her age.
“Mum, you look fantastic,” Evelyn said, handing over the cake.
“Thanks.” Her mum smiled shyly, then whisked the cake away. “Come in, love.”
*Must have invited someone over.* Evelyn quickly adjusted her curls in the hall mirror and stepped into the living room. A sturdy man in his fifties rose from the sofa—trousers, navy jumper, a receding hairline above a strong forehead, and a prominent nose. Crow’s feet radiated from his eyes, betraying either a cheerful nature or years of squinting in sunlight. He studied her just as intently. She greeted him warily.
“Evelyn, this is Gregory, my childhood friend.” Her mum slipped an arm around her waist, eyes pleading.
“Ah, from the village,” Evelyn said, disappointed.
“Lunch is ready,” her mum said briskly, leading the way.
Evelyn took her usual seat—back to the fridge by the window. *Is he meant to replace Dad?* Gregory sat opposite. Her mum settled between them, facing the stove, the way they always had when Dad was alive.
“So, you wanted me to meet him? Didn’t see that coming. Explains the makeover,” Evelyn said tartly.
“Why must you be like this?” her mum chided.
“Missed being shoved around, did you? Dad wasn’t enough? Where’s the whisky, then? Or are you both teetotal now?” Her gaze flicked to Gregory.
“He doesn’t drink. He’s—” Her mum faltered, glancing guiltily at Gregory.
He covered her hand with his rough, work-worn one. “Leave it, Jean.”
“Playing the saint now, but you’ll show your true colours once you move in. Planning to marry him, Mum? That’s the big surprise?”
The words tumbled out uncontrollably. Her mum’s lips trembled, tears welling. Gregory stared at his cooling soup.
“Finished?” her mum snapped, uncharacteristically sharp. “What did I ever have? Drunken rages, fists. You’d flee to the neighbours when he came home. We’d wander the streets at night till he passed out. I’d pinch money from his pockets while he slept—said it was stolen—just to buy you shoes. You’ve no idea…” She broke off, stifling a sob.
Evelyn had never seen her like this—always timid, cowed. Once, Dad had roared that she wasn’t fit to wipe his boots. Now she was defending a stranger.
“Should’ve told you sooner. Thirty years I kept quiet.” Her mum took a shaky breath. “He’s your father. Gregory Whittaker. Your real father.”
*”What?”* Evelyn recoiled, pressing against the fridge, eyes darting between them.
“Yes. We loved each other since school. Then he joined the army. Tiny village—no secrets. I told my mother straight away. She beat me with a towel, then brought in a lad from the next hamlet to ‘fix the fence’. He was visiting his gran. She said I shouldn’t ‘miss my chance’.”
“One night, after the dance, he walked me home. Mum met us, said he couldn’t just ‘have his fun and leave’. He claimed he was serious. So I married Robert. We moved to the city. Had you. I never loved him. Maybe he guessed—drank, hit me. I wrote to Gregory in the army, said I’d married. He never knew about you.”
“I avoided the village, ashamed to face him. Last summer, visiting my brother—remember?—I saw him. Later, he came to me. Said he didn’t blame me. Loved me all his life. I’m moving in with him. The flat’s yours—no more renting. At forty-nine, I want to make things right.”
Evelyn couldn’t process it. Dad had been awful, but he’d been *there*. Now this? She stood abruptly and left.
“Evie!” her mum called.
“Let her be,” Gregory murmured.
*”Oh, now he’s the voice of reason,”* she seethed, slamming the door.
Snow fell steadily as she walked, stirring memories. Once, fleeing Dad’s rage, they’d wandered a winter night. Through lit windows, she’d envied families gathered cosily by their TVs.
*Mum gave up on herself—drab clothes, that awful bun. A life of misery. And she’s still young. Maybe Gregory loves her. And I was horrible. Just like when Mum warned me about Andrew, and I moved in with him anyway. Two years, and he still wouldn’t marry me.*
Days passed. Evelyn knew she’d been wrong. She had to apologise properly.
Mum flung the door open, arms wide. They hugged. Suitcases stood in the hall.
“Packing. I’m moving to the village with Gregory,” her mum said brightly.
“What about your job?”
“They’ve a post office, a dairy nearby. She’ll find work,” Gregory said, smiling.
“Visit us. Gregory’s place is lovely—strong beams, bees, a proper garden. I used to worry what people thought. Let them talk.” She leaned into Gregory.
After helping her mum move, Evelyn settled into the flat—months spent waiting for Andrew, ignoring her mum’s calls. At Christmas, she visited. The house was warm, the tree real, her mum radiant.
Then, one spring morning, Gregory called. Mum had died in her sleep. A heart defect—a blood clot.
*Heart defect?* She hadn’t known. *Why did she go, then? All that work…*
She took leave and caught the next bus. In the village, a coffin stood in the parlour. Evelyn barely recognised her mum. She whirled on Gregory.
“This is your fault! You brought her here!”
“Hush, love,” said Aunt Meg, her uncle’s wife. “Gregory never let her lift a finger. She was happy. Worked at the post office—girl there was on leave. He gave her joy. Robert only hurt her. She hid it, barely visited. Thought we didn’t know.”
“Dad, the car’s here,” a tall young man said, nodding at Evelyn.
“My son, Paul. Fetch the men, lad.”
They carried the coffin to a truck strewn with pine boughs, slowly driving to the next village’s churchyard. Locals watched from doorways, crossing themselves.
“She wanted to be buried here,” Gregory said. “Beside her parents.”
Neighbours laid out a wake.
“Will you stay?” Gregory asked later. “Paul can drive you back.”
“No. I’ll go.” Being near this stranger—her *father*—felt unbearable.
The drive was silent until Paul spoke. His mother had left when he was small, taking him to Aberdeen. At sixteen, he’d returned to Gregory, who’d raised him as his own. Now he worked at a rail factory, owned a flat,Evelyn looked at Paul’s kind, crinkled eyes and softly whispered, “Thank you, Mum, for the gift.”
