The spring sun peeked through the window, scattering rays across Emily’s freshly painted wall. She stirred the thick layers of a roast casserole, glancing at the clock. Up early and cooking James’ favorite dish—determined to cheer him up after his brooding from last night.
“Em, have you seen my navy tie?” James shuffled in from the bedroom, shirt half-tucked, a sleep-ruffled mess.
“In the wardrobe, on the right shelf—ironed it last night,” Emily replied, not missing a beat with the sauce.
Breakfast passed in familiar silence. James scrolled through his phone, grumbling occasionally, while Emily watched his spoon scrape the cereal bowl. She wanted to ask about his mood, but let it linger—until he spilled the beans.
“I… uh… my dad’s coming,” he said, halfway through his coffee. “Tonight. He’s staying a while.”
Emily froze. Harold? The man who’d bellowed at their wedding, declaring her “unfit” for his son, then vanishing from their lives for years?
“When?” she forced out.
“Evening. I’ll pick him up. He’s, er… stuck with his ex-wife and… needs time to sort it out.”
“Time?” Emily slammed down her mug. “A fortnight? You know how he treated me!”
“He’s… different now,” James mumbled, avoiding her gaze. “A heart scare… I couldn’t say no, Em. He’s still my dad.”
“You should’ve asked *me* first,” she huffed, stacking plates. “I’ve got a big project deadline—and now I’m hosting a retired colonel?”
By dusk, the flat gleamed, guest room stocked with fresh linen, and supper fired up. Emily fought the urge to hide in her shed.
The doorbell rang promptly at 7 p.m. Emily took a deep breath.
James stood on the doorstep, flanked by a tall, silver-haired man gripping a battered leather case.
“Evening,” Harold muttered, stooping slightly as he entered. “Thank you for taking in an old man.”
“Right this way,” Emily said, forcing a smile. “Dinner’s nearly ready.”
Over the meal, James dominated the conversation—career updates, their new car, holiday plans. Harold nodded, asking polite questions while Emily silently added courses to his plate.
“Excellent cooking,” Harold said, surprising her. “Always this good?”
“Learned from my grandmother,” Emily replied, flustered. “My ex-father-in-law’s wife—she relied on ready meals. *‘Not a woman’s place, standing by the stove,’* she’d say. Modern woman, what can you do?”
They exchanged a glance. James shrugged faintly, clueless.
The next morning, Emily stumbled into the kitchen at six to find Harold in trackies, slicing bread.
“Morning,” he said, as if it were perfectly normal. “Don’t mind me. Army habit.”
By ten, he’d vacuumed the spare room, sorted the coal in the firebox, and offered to tidy the garage.
Emily rang her best friend Laura.
“Harold’s here! The *man* I despised! But he’s… polite! Even washed his own mug!”
“Or plotting something,” Laura snorted. “Remember the time he sent roses that said *‘Live Together, Die Free’*?”
Dinner that evening unfolded with Harold quietly dicing veggies for the salad. When he spoke, it was unexpected.
“I owe you an apology,” he said, voice gruff. “For the wedding. For… being a prat.”
Emily dropped a ladle.
“For all of it,” he continued. “My ex… she wasn’t right for me. Focused on my pension, not a care for my health. Found out she was colluding with a lawyer to repossess my flat. Rather dramatic, isn’t it?”
They watched the rain patter outside. Harold sipped tea. “Decided to come here instead. Show her I’m not one to die quietly. Or alone.”
James finally arrived. Stunned. “You two… alright?”
“Fine,” Emily said, eyeing the man who’d once threatened to “reclaim his son” over dinner.
Weeks passed. Harold joined sunrise runs in the park, fixed the wobbly bookshelf in the study, and developed a soft spot for Emily’s neighbor’s cat (identifying it as “a proper feline, not one of those small dogs in fur coats”).
One day, he overheard James say to his old dad, “Why did you treat Emily like that back then?”
“Ego, I suppose,” Harold replied. “Thought I’d lose you. Ridiculous, really. Only when you’re alone do you truly grasp what you’ve lost.”
On a rainy Sunday, the doorbell rang. There stood Harold’s ex—blonde, polished, and clutching a designer handbag.
“Where *is* he?” she demanded.
“Harold,” Emily said, withering, “meet our visitor.”
The two traded glares. Harold handed over a jewelry box. “Your pearls, I believe. Take the flat, the savings, and never darken these steps again.”
By evening, Emily made mint tea as Harold and James shared a rare hug.
“You don’t have to leave,” she said, suddenly understanding.
“Thank you, but a man needs a bit of independence at this stage,” he chuckled. “Still, this flat’s not far—shall pop by for Sunday roasts?”
Then, just as he was about to leave, his phone rang.
“Em,” James said, “Harold’s on the line again…”
“This is Harold,” he announced, voice shaking. “Just… just to say I’m proud of you for choosing someone who truly cares. And… I’d love to be a grandfather, if you ever…”
Emily laughed through tears. “That’s probably seven months off, but we’ll keep you posted!”
Rain drummed against the window. Some days, life handed you a suitcase. Others, a second chance.
