The Last Summer at Home Vladimir arrived on a Wednesday, just as the midday sun began to warm the roof until the slates crackled. The garden gate had fallen off its hinges three years ago; he stepped over it and paused on the porch. Three steps led up—one completely rotten. Testing his weight, he climbed the second step and went inside. The house smelled of stale air and mice. Dust lay thick on the sills; a web stretched from the beam to the old sideboard. With effort, Vladimir opened a window, flooding the room with the scent of sun-warmed nettles and dry grass from the yard. He walked through all four rooms, building a mental list: wash the floors, check the stove, fix the plumbing in the summer kitchen, throw out everything rotten. Then call Andrew, Mum, the nephews. Say: come for August; let’s spend a month here, just like old times. “Old times” were twenty-five years ago, when their father was alive and every summer the whole family gathered. Vladimir remembered making jam in a copper basin, he and his brothers hauling water from the well, and their mother reading aloud on the veranda at night. Later, their father died, Mum moved to the city with their youngest brother, and the house was boarded up. Once a year, Vladimir checked it hadn’t been looted, then left. But this spring, something shifted within him: try to bring it back, just once. The first week he worked alone. Cleared the chimney, replaced two porch planks, scrubbed the windows. Paint and cement from the county town, arranging an electrician for the wiring. The parish council chairman met him at the shop, shaking his head. “Why pour money into this old heap, Vlad? You’ll sell it anyway.” “I’m not selling before autumn,” Vladimir replied, and walked on. Andrew arrived first, Saturday evening, with wife and two kids. He climbed out, surveying the yard with a frown. “You’re serious about a whole month here?” “Three weeks,” Vladimir corrected him. “Fresh air for the kids—and for you.” “There’s not even a shower.” “There’s the old sauna. I’ll heat it tonight.” The children, a boy of eleven and a girl of eight, trudged off to the swings Vladimir had hung from the ancient oak. Andrew’s wife, Sarah, hauled groceries into the house in silence. Vladimir helped unload. His brother still scowled but said nothing. Mum came Monday; the neighbour drove her over. She entered the house, paused in the lounge and sighed. “Everything seems so small,” she whispered, “I remembered it bigger.” “You haven’t been here for thirty years, Mum.” “Thirty-two.” She wandered into the kitchen, hand on the worn countertop. “It was always cold in here. Your dad promised central heating, but never got round to it.” He heard not nostalgia, but tiredness. He poured her tea, settled her on the veranda. Mum stared at the garden, talking about hauling water, aching backs after washing, neighbours gossiping. Vladimir realised: for her, this house wasn’t a nest—it was an old wound. That evening, after she went to bed, he and Andrew sat at a fire in the yard. The kids slept; Sarah read by candlelight—electricity ran to just half the house. “Why do all this?” Andrew asked, looking into the flames. “I wanted us all together.” “We already see each other—holidays and such.” “It’s not the same.” Andrew smirked. “Vlad, you old romantic. Think living here for three weeks will make us close?” “I don’t know,” Vladimir confessed. “I wanted to try.” Andrew fell silent, then said gently, “I’m glad you did. Truly. But don’t expect miracles.” Vladimir wasn’t. But he hoped. Days passed in a whirl. Vladimir fixed fences, Andrew helped reroof the shed. The boy, Tom, soon discovered old fishing rods in the barn and took to the river; Emma, the girl, weeded the new veg patch with her gran. One afternoon, painting the veranda together, Sarah suddenly laughed. “We’re like a commune, aren’t we?” “Communes at least had plans,” Andrew grumbled—but he smiled. Vladimir saw the tension easing. Nights, they ate at the long veranda table—Mum made soup, Sarah baked pies with cottage cheese from the village. Chats covered little things: where to get mosquito nets, whether to mow the grass near the windows, if the pump was fixed. Then one evening after the kids slept, Mum said: “Your father wanted to sell this house. The year before he died.” Vladimir froze, mug halfway to his lips. Andrew frowned. “Why?” “Tired. Said the house was an anchor. He wanted a city flat—close to the hospital. I objected. I thought this was ours, a family place. We fought. He never sold, and then he died.” Vladimir set down his mug. “Do you blame yourself?” “I don’t know. I just… got worn out by this place. I insisted, and he never got to rest.” Andrew leaned back. “Mum, you never told us.” “No one asked.” Vladimir looked at her—she sat hunched, hands work-worn; now he saw—the house wasn’t a treasure to her, but a burden. “Maybe you should have sold up,” he murmured. “Maybe.” She nodded. “But you grew up here. That’s something.” “What exactly?” She met his gaze. “That you remember who you were. Before life scattered everyone.” He didn’t believe her at first. But next day, at the river, when Andrew hugged Tom, who’d caught his first perch, and laughed—genuinely, not tiredly—he understood. That night, Mum told Emma how she’d taught their dad to read here on this very veranda. Vladimir heard in her voice not hurt—something else. Maybe peace. They set Sunday for departure. The night before, Vladimir fired up the sauna; afterwards they all drank tea on the porch. “Will we come back next year?” Tom asked. Andrew looked to Vladimir, but said nothing. Next morning, Vladimir loaded the car. Mum hugged him goodbye. “Thank you for inviting me.” “I hoped for better.” “It was good. In its own way.” Andrew clapped his shoulder. “Sell it if you want, no hard feelings.” “We’ll see.” The car disappeared in a cloud of dust. Vladimir tidied the remaining dishes, gathered rubbish, locked up. He found an old, heavy padlock from the barn and hung it on the gate. He stood at the gate. The roof straight, porch solid, windows gleaming. The house looked alive—but Vladimir knew better. A house is alive while people are in it. For three weeks, it breathed. Maybe that was enough. He drove away, glancing back at the roof in the rearview mirror before the trees closed in. He thought, come autumn, he might call an estate agent. But for now—he would remember them all at the table, the way Mum laughed at Andrew’s joke, Tom showing off his fish. The house had done its work. It brought them together. And maybe that was enough to let it go in peace.

The Last Summer at Home

James arrived on a Wednesday, the sun already slanting towards noon, heating the roof until the slate tiles crackled and popped. The garden gate had fallen from its hinges about three years ago, so he stepped over it and paused on the doorstep. Three wooden steps, the bottom one rotted clean through. He gingerly tested the second, then carried on inside.

A stale, musty air greeted him, with a distinct tang of mice. Dust blanketed the windowsills, and cobwebs stretched from the ceiling beam to the old Welsh dresser in the sitting room. James pried open a windowthe swollen frame resistingand a rush of warm nettle and dry grass from the garden flooded in. He wandered through all four rooms, compiling a mental list: mop the floors, check the Aga, fix the summerhouse plumbing, clear out everything that had gone mouldy. Then, ring Andrew, Mum, the nieces and nephews. Say: come for August, lets spend a month here, the way we used to.

The way it used to betwenty-five years ago, when Dad was still alive and every summer the whole family gathered here. James remembered making jam in a copper pan, the brothers dragging buckets up from the well, Mum reading aloud on the veranda in the evenings. Then Dad died, Mum moved into Andrews flat in town, and the house was boarded up. James came back once a year, checking it hadnt been pillaged, then left. But something shifted in him this spring: he felt he needed to try to bring it back, just once.

He worked alone for the first week. Swept out the chimney, replaced two boards on the porch, scrubbed the windows. He drove to town for paint and cement, arranged for an electrician to check the wiring. The parish council chairMr Hawkinscaught him outside the village shop and shook his head.

Why bother, Jim? Pouring money into this old heap? Youll sell it in the end.

James only said, Not before autumn, and carried on.

Andrew was the first to arrive, Saturday evening, wife and two children in tow. He unfolded himself from the car, eyeing the garden with a grimace.

You seriously think well make it a month here?

Three weeks, James corrected him. Kids need fresh air, you could use it, too.

There isnt even a shower.

Theres the old bathhouse. Ill light it tonight.

The kids, Williameleven, and Emilyeight, shuffled towards the makeshift swings James had hung from the old oak the day before. Andrews wife, Alice, said nothing, trudging into the house with her shopping bag, James helping unload. Andrew still looked sceptical, but for once said nothing.

Mum arrived Monday, dropped off by a kindly neighbour. She paused just inside the sitting room, taking a long breath.

Its all so small, she murmured. I remember it being bigger.

You havent been back in thirty years, Mum.

Thirty-two.

She walked to the kitchen, running her hand along the worn counter.

It was always so cold in here. Dad promised hed put the central heating in, but he never got round to it.

James heard not nostalgia in her voice, but weariness. He poured her a cup of tea, settled her on the veranda. Mum sat quietly, watching the orchard, speaking of how hard it was lugging water, how her back ached after laundry days, how the neighbours gossiped. Listening, James realised that for her, this house wasnt a haven, but a wound.

That night, once Mum had gone to bed, James and Andrew sat by a campfire in the garden. The children were asleep, Alice was reading with a candleelectricity only reached half the house.

Why are you really doing all this? Andrew asked, watching the flames.

I wanted us together.

But we see each other. At Christmas. Easter.

It isnt the same.

Andrew shook his head, a smile tugging.

Jim, youre a dreamer. Think if we play house for three weeks well become close again?

I dont know, James admitted. I just wanted to try.

His brother was quiet, then softer: Im glad you tried. Honestly. But dont hope for miracles.

James didnt. But he still hoped.

The following days flew by in a flurry of chores. James fixed the fence, Andrew helped patch the old shed roof. William, at first listless, found dusty fishing rods in the shed and vanished to the river each day. Emily began helping Gran pull weeds from the rough patch of vegetable beds James had cobbled together by the southern wall.

One afternoon, while they all painted the veranda railings together, Alice laughed suddenly.

We look like some little commune.

Communes had a plan, Andrew muttered, but he smiled all the same.

James could see the tension slowly easing. Evenings brought dinners out on the veranda, Mum ladling soup, Alice baking cottage cheese tarts with the local dairys cream. The talks were mundanewhere to buy better fly screens, whether the grass needed another cut, if theyd managed to fix the pump yet.

But one evening, after the children had gone up to bed, Mum said softly, Your father wanted to sell this house. The year before he died.

James froze, mug in hand. Andrew frowned.

Why?

Hed simply had enough. He said the house was an anchor. He wanted to move close to the hospital in town. I refused. I thought, this was ours, belonged to the family. We argued. He never sold, then he was gone a year later.

James set down his mug.

Do you blame yourself?

I dont know. Im just tired of this place. Its all remindersof how I wouldnt budge, and he never got comfort at the end.

Andrew leant back in his chair.

Mum, you never told us.

You never asked.

James gazed at her. Old now, hands marked by years of work, slumped in her chair. Now he saw it: for her, the house wasnt a treasure, but a burden.

Maybe we should have sold it, he said quietly.

Maybe. Mums voice was very soft. But you all grew up here. Surely thats something.

What, exactly?

She looked up at him.

That you remember who you were. Before life swept you away.

James didnt believe her words at once. But the next day, down at the river with Andrew and William, as the boy caught his first perch, he saw his brother clap William on the back and burst out laughingreal, unguarded laughter. That evening, when Mum told Emily how, on this very veranda, shed taught their father to read, James heard in her voice not pain, but something else. Perhaps acceptance.

They planned their departure for Sunday. The night before, James fired up the old bathhouse, everyone bundling in together, then drinking tea out on the veranda. William asked if they could come again next summer. Andrew looked James way, but said nothing.

In the morning, James helped with the bags. Mum hugged him before she got in the car.

Thank you for having us.

I thought itd be better.

It was good, James. In its own way.

Andrew clapped his shoulder.

Sell if you want. I wont mind.

Well see.

The car rumbled off, dust settling over the lane. James wandered through the rooms, gathered up stray crockery, took out the rubbish. Then he latched the windows, locked the doors. From his pocket, he drew out an old iron padlock hed found in the shed, heavy and rusted, but solid, and hooked it fast to the gate.

He stood a while on the lane, watching the houseroof straight, porch sturdy, windows sparkling. It looked lived in. But James knew it was only an echo. A house is alive when people fill it. For three weeks, it was alive. Maybe that was enough.

He got into his car and rolled away. In his rearview mirror, the roof flashed, then vanished as the lane twisted into trees. James drove slowly, bumping along rutted roads, thinking that come autumn hed ring the estate agent. But for nowfor now hed remember the six of them round the old table, Mum laughing at Andrews jokes, William cradling his catch.

The house had done its part. It brought them together. And that, perhaps, was enough to let it go, without regret.