Emily slammed the garden gate shut with such force that the neighbor’s spaniels started barking from their kennel. Yet another row with Gran. The same old tune—”Water the veg patch,” “Help with the jam,” “Put that phone down.” As if an eighteen-year-old girl had nothing better to do all summer!
“Emily! Come back here this instant!” shouted Lydia Anne after her. But her granddaughter was already stomping down the dusty village lane, not looking back. She had nowhere to go, but going home was the last thing she wanted.
She reached the pond and sank onto the grassy bank, watching the sun dip behind the treeline. Resentment twisted inside her—at her parents, who’d left for Germany for work and dumped her here; at Gran, who’d dragged her to this backwater instead of letting her stay in the city. Emily had already got into university—her new life was right there, waiting. And yet here she was, stuck lugging jars about.
The next morning, Gran tapped on her bedroom door.
“Emily, love, give us a hand? Need to get these jars down the cellar. My knees won’t manage those stairs.”
Gritting her teeth, Emily got up, washed her face, and went. The jars were heavy, the steps rickety. She made several trips. On the last one, she spotted a battered old suitcase tucked in the corner, thick with dust.
“Gran, what’s this trunk doing here?”
“No idea… Must’ve been your granddad’s. Haven’t been down here since he passed.”
Curiosity got the better of Emily. Ignoring Gran’s protests, she hauled the case into the light. The fabric was frayed, the clasp rusted.
“Leave that muck be,” Lydia Anne grumbled. “Lord knows what’s in there.”
But Emily was already rummaging through old shirts, photos, and yellowed notes. At the very bottom lay a neat envelope. On it, in faded ink: “For Kate. To forgive and understand.” The handwriting was unmistakable—Granddad’s.
“Can I?” Emily asked, glancing up.
Gran gave a stiff nod. Emily unfolded the letter. It was heartfelt. In it, her grandfather Michael begged forgiveness from a woman named Kate. He wrote of loving her deeply, of ruining everything with his distrust. The date—1969. Gran went pale.
“That’s… a year after we married,” she whispered.
“Maybe we should leave it,” Emily said quietly.
“No. I need to know now.” She pointed at the page. “Where’s this place he mentions—‘where I broke her dreams’?”
Late that evening, Gran asked Emily to look up train tickets to a town near Coventry.
“Just do it, love. I need to see that street.”
The next day, they boarded the train together. The journey was long, and Gran talked the whole way—about her youth, meeting Michael, marrying for love. Yet somewhere inside, she’d always carried a sliver of doubt that he hadn’t been fully hers.
Arriving, they took a cab to the address in the letter. The house was a tidy redbrick semi. As they lingered by the gate, a voice called out behind them:
“Looking for someone? From the pension office?”
They turned. A spry woman in her eighties stood there, sharp-eyed and smiling.
“Hello. Excuse me, do you know a Catherine Mallory?” asked Lydia Anne.
“My daughter,” the woman replied. “But she’s been in Cardiff for years.”
“And Michael Benton—did you know him? I was his wife.”
The woman—Nana Nell—invited them in. She explained how Michael had been stationed there years ago. Catherine, her daughter, had worked as a nurse at the base. They’d been in love, set to marry, until lies spread that Catherine was unfaithful. Michael believed them—and left. Catherine never forgave him but never stopped loving him either. Two years later, she got engaged. A month before the wedding, Michael’s letter arrived. Nana Nell opened it, read it—and sent it back.
“I wanted her to move on. And I don’t regret it. She’s happy. Has a good life. And you, Lydia—you’ve lived well too. Means it all turned out right.”
They left in silence. Tears streaked Gran’s cheeks.
“What if she’d forgiven him?” she whispered in the B&B that night.
“Gran,” Emily said gently, “there’s no rewriting the past. You were his wife. He loved you. And you loved him.”
Lydia Anne nodded, pulled Emily close, and smiled—properly—for the first time in years.
