The Last Summer at Willow Cottage
Fog curled over the river like a shawl. Margot Thompson sat on the creaky porch of her country cottage, watching the dawn. For her, summer had always begun here—stillness, the chill of early light, the scent of burning logs from the neighbor’s fire. She’d counted at least a hundred such mornings, but this one felt different. Final.
“Gran, why’re you out here so early?” Emily, her granddaughter, yawned at the door.
“Enjoying,” Margot murmured, patting the step beside her. “Come see. It’s beautiful.”
Emily flopped down, her cheek resting on Gran’s shoulder. At fourteen, most girls would’ve grumbled at summer rising, but since the news of the cottage’s sale, she’d become oddly reflective.
“Don’t you think we could keep it? Just a little longer?” Emily asked, as she had a dozen times.
“I’d love to, child. But the arthritis in my hands and back won’t wait, and the rent from my pension won’t stretch to fix the roof or trim the wild yew hedge. The garden’s overgrown, the beams sag.”
“But we could help—me and Dad, even Mummy!”
“She’s working double shifts at the hospital, and your father’s caught in accountancy season at the firm. Most days, they’re too tired to come here as it is.”
“You always said Dad built the garden shed last year!”
“He did. Then he limped for three days and vowed to never touch a hammer again. As for your mother—she snuck out one afternoon to weed the marrows but had to call a taxi home by dusk, her wrists aching.”
Emily sighed. “I just want it to last.”
Margot smoothed her granddaughter’s hair. “Then we’ll make this summer one to remember. No farewells yet. Just moments we carry with us.”
By midday, the cottage buzzed with family. In walked Thomas, her nephew, arms full of tomato seedlings.
“Got the heritage heirloom varieties, just like you asked, Margot!”
“To what good are plants if the house is gone?” retorted his wife, Clara, pragmatic as ever.
“So the harvest might still taste like summer,” Margot replied, linking arms with them.
Thomas grumbled as Clara marched off with the crates, but Emily lingered, tracing the knots in the old apple tree where she’d once broken her arm, the rowan bushes hiding the secret hideaway she’d shared with her cousin, the sagging greenhouse they’d been told never to enter.
“Emily, stop mooning and help me peel the spuds!” Clara barked from the kitchen.
Over a roast beef and Yorkshire pudding lunch, stories flowed. Thomas regaled them with the neighbor’s midnight DIY debacle; Clara boasted about her new gluten-free diet; and Margot recounted how she and Harold had bought the land.
“It was far worse back then,” she said, slicing cucumber into a salad. “He said, *Margot, this will be our home. The garden here, the summerhouse by the river for tea on dares*.”
“We never built the summerhouse,” Thomas muttered, pouring tea.
“Time stretched like taffy, then snapped,” Margot whispered. “Now it’s almost gone.”
Silence fell, interrupted only by bees and the tick of the mantel clock.
“Who’s buying it?” Clara asked.
“A young couple with a toddler,” Margot replied, brightening. “The husband’s a software developer. They want to live full-time, sublet the city flat. They seem earnest.”
Emily’s face fell. “Maybe they’ll change their minds. Just a little more time?”
“They’ve already left a deposit. They’ve mapped out their plans for the garden.”
After lunch, the men tackled the porch, while the women preserved blackberries—Margot’s last batches to be shared.
“You could let us chip in for repairs,” Clara offered.
“Darling,” Margot said gently, “we discussed this. It’s not just the money or my health. This place was Harold and me for ten years, then my refuge after he—” she paused, “—after he passed. It’s time to let it go. I’ll find a new rhythm now.”
“Where precisely?” Clara smirked.
“You’ll see,” Margot said, cryptic.
By dusk, the family gathered under the mulberry tree, roasting sausages on a grill beside an old log that had been their dining table for years.
“A cottage without a barbecue isn’t a cottage,” laughed Emily’s father, uncorking a bottle of wine.
“To Margot, who gave this place a heart for us all!” Thomas raised his glass.
“Here, here,” Emily said, toasting with apple juice.
As twilight deepened, Margot revealed a hidden memory—a trunk in the attic, buried under moth-eaten quilts. Inside: a checkerboard hessian swing, bought secondhand years ago.
“Harold thought it’d look charming between the birches. Never got around to hanging it,” she said.
Laughter filled the air as the swing creaked under them.
“Gran, what do you wish for when a star falls?” Emily asked, lying on a blanket.
“That their love for this place will match ours,” she said quietly.
Margot squeezed her hand.
The next morning, the visitors departed. Emily stayed, helping sort heirlooms.
“Found these old photo albums!” she gasped, holding a box from the attic.
“Let’s look together,” Margot said, stirring stew on the stove.
They pored over faded images: Emily’s parents as children, neighbors from the village, her dotty uncle Jim with his camera.
“This is Dad?” Emily laughed, pointing at a freckled boy.
“Your father at ten. And the girl by his side? Your mother! They were best friends, you know.”
Emily sighed. “Nothing like that for me. No dachas, no love stories.”
“You’ll have your own,” Margot said. “Different, perhaps, but just as rich.”
By August, the cottage baked under the sun. Days blurred into garden chores and packing. On the final afternoon, Emily stumbled into the yard, breathless.
“Gran, I found something!” she cried, holding a rusted tin box from the edge of the overgrown garden.
Inside, yellowed letters and a folded note. Margot read aloud:
*“My Dearest Anna, if you find this, I’ve failed to return. Know that I’ve thought of you every hour. Protect the children, and tell them of me…”*
Her voice wavered. “This was the lighthouse keeper’s,” she said. “A man who lived here in the 1940s. He and his family. When the war broke out, he vanished. The house crumbled. Only this tin remained.”
Emily’s eyes widened. “Should we give it to the new owners?”
“Yes. Let it begin their story.”
On the day of the sale, the new couple arrived—a young woman in a floral dress, a man with a sketchpad, and a wide-eyed toddler.
“We’ll cherish it,” the woman said, taking the box. “You’re welcome to visit anytime.”
Margot nodded, her eyes on the horizon.
On the drive home, Emily fumbled with questions. “Where are you going?”
“To the Lake District,” Margot replied. “A cabin on the shore. And you’re coming with me.”
“Me?”
“Yes. Your parents agreed. This isn’t an ending. It’s a beginning.”
As the cottage disappeared, Margot glanced at her granddaughter. “A home isn’t a place. It’s the love between us. And that, we carry everywhere.”
