**Diary Entry – December 12th**
The snow had transformed the garden overnight. As I stepped outside, the world was blanketed in white—soft, silent flakes drifting onto the last stubborn yellow leaves clinging to the trees, onto the pavement and parked cars. I held out my palm, catching a few snowflakes. They melted instantly, like fleeting promises. The crisp crunch under my boots reminded me: Christmas was coming, with its scent of oranges, the glow of tinsel-laden trees, and that quiet hope for something magical.
I popped into the corner shop for milk, chocolate biscuits, and a bag of satsumas. At the till, Mum rang.
“Emily, could you come round today?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“Nothing alarming. There’s someone I’d like you to meet. Lunchtime?” Her voice was oddly bright.
“Not another one of your ‘lonely blokes looking to escape their mums’?” I sighed.
“It’s a surprise. You’ll see,” she said cryptically before hanging up.
Curious. Mum hadn’t sounded that lively in years. After Daniel left, I’d sobbed on her sofa while she stroked my hair—until she ruined it by saying, *I told you so*. She wasn’t wrong, but it didn’t help. We rowed. After that, I dealt with my heartache alone, only calling her sporadically.
I grabbed a small Victoria sponge from the bakery. Never arrive empty-handed.
At home, I washed my hair, curled the ends, dabbed on mascara and lipstick, and slipped into a charcoal skirt and peach jumper. *Whatever Mum’s planning, I’ll face it polished.*
Mum answered the door, and I froze. Her eyes sparkled, cheeks rosy, her new bob shaving off a decade.
“You look lovely,” I said, handing her the cake.
“Ta.” She smiled shyly. “Come through.”
*Definitely guests.* I adjusted my curls in the hall mirror and stepped into the lounge. A sturdy man in his fifties stood from the sofa—tweed trousers, navy jumper, a farmer’s tan and a nose like a knuckle. Crow’s feet framed his eyes, the kind from laughter or squinting into sunlit fields. He studied me with equal intrigue. I nodded stiffly.
“Emily, this is William Hartley. An old friend,” Mum said, slipping an arm around my waist, her gaze pleading.
“Ah. From the village,” I muttered, shooting Mum a look.
Lunch was awkward. I took my usual seat—back to the fridge, where Dad used to sit. William sat opposite. Mum perched between us, near the stove, just as she had when Dad was alive.
“So, this is the surprise? Really?” I scoffed.
“Emily,” Mum warned.
“What, missed being knocked about? Wasn’t Dad enough? Or did you forget the whiskey?” I glared at William.
“He doesn’t drink,” Mum faltered.
William covered her hand with his calloused one. “Leave it, Margaret.”
“Oh, playing the saint now? Wait till you move in. Christ, Mum, are you *marrying* him? Did some wife toss you out?” The words tumbled out, venomous. Mum’s lips trembled.
William stared at his untouched soup.
“Finished?” Mum snapped—uncharacteristically sharp. “And what have *I* had? A drunk’s fists, that’s what. You’d flee to Mrs. Wilkins’s when he staggered home. We’d walk the streets at midnight, waiting for him to pass out. I stole coins from his pockets to buy your school shoes. You’ve no idea—” She choked off.
I’d never seen her like this. The timid woman who flinched at raised voices now defending a stranger.
“Thirty years I kept quiet.” She inhaled shakily. “William’s your father.”
*What?* I recoiled, back hitting the fridge.
“We were sweethearts. He joined the army; I fell pregnant. Gran beat me with a tea towel, then dragged in some lad from the next village to ‘fix the fence.’ Made sure he *didn’t* leave after one date. I married your *Dad*—moved to Leeds. William never knew about you.”
Her voice broke. “Last summer, I saw him at my brother’s. He came to me afterward. Said he didn’t blame me. Loved me all these years. I’m going back to the village with him. The flat’s yours—no more renting. At forty-nine, I want my chance.”
I fled to the hall.
“Emily!” Mum called.
“Let her be,” William murmured.
*Protective now, is he?* I slammed the door.
Snow kept falling as I walked home, stirring memories. Once, we’d escaped Dad’s rage into a winter night. Through lit windows, I’d envied families cozied up with telly, oblivious to our shivering.
*Mum gave up—wore granny buns, frumpy clothes. A life of dread. Maybe William does love her. And I spat poison at her… Just like I ignored her warnings about Daniel. Two years wasted.*
Days passed. Guilt gnawed. I owed her an apology.
At her flat, Mum flung the door open, tearful. Suitcases stood packed in the hall.
“Off to the village,” she said, glowing.
“What about your job?”
“Post office or the dairy—they’ll sort me,” William said, smiling.
“Visit us. Who cares what folks say? They’ll gossip, then forget,” Mum said, leaning into him.
I helped her move. Christmas came; I visited. Their cottage was everything I’d dreamed of as a child—log fire, honey from their hives, a real pine tree.
Then, on a brittle spring morning, William called. Mum was gone. A blood clot, he said. *Heart defect?* I never knew.
I took the next bus. In the cottage, the coffin lay atop a bench. Mum looked unreal—waxen, unfamiliar. I wheeled on William.
“You did this! Dragged her here—”
“Auntie Jean,” Mum’s sister-in-law, hushed me. “He did the heavy work. She was happy—postmistress, loved. Your *Dad* was the brute. She hid it, ashamed.”
A tall man entered. “Dad, the car’s here.”
“My son, James,” William said.
We buried her in the village churchyard, beside her parents. At the wake, William lingered.
“Staying?”
James offered me a lift.
We drove in silence until he spoke. “Mum left us when I was small. Took me to Manchester. I came back to Dad at sixteen. He never married again—always loved your mum.”
At my flat, he carried up a heavy bag. “Potatoes, jam, pickles. Dad’s doing.”
I collapsed on the sofa. He draped a blanket over me. When I woke, he was dozing in the armchair.
“You’re… my brother now?” I asked weakly.
“Or friends. Whichever you like.” His smile crinkled his eyes—just like William’s.
Over tea, we pored through old photos. One showed Mum young, radiant.
“You look like her,” James said.
“That *is* me,” I laughed.
Nine days later, we returned to the village together. With him, I felt that warmth I’d envied through frozen windows as a child.
*No, not a brother.*
If not for Mum, I’d never have met him. All those years I resented her…
*Thank you, Mum. For this.*
