Life is fleeting, with little time for hesitation. It is complex and often unjust, yet sometimes it offers surprises that fill it with new meaning—chances to right past wrongs, understand life’s true worth, and become better than before.
Edward Harrington buried his wife eight years ago and had not remarried since. At first, he and his son Thomas lived together in their large, two-story home, where everything remained as his late wife Margaret had arranged it—cozy, well-kept, every corner touched by her hands. When she passed, Edward left everything just as it was, save for keeping the house tidy with Thomas, who shared his father’s neat habits.
Thomas finished school and went off to university. He was a handsome lad, and girls had flocked to him even in his school days—something he never discouraged.
“Thomas, you’re carrying on with those girls all wrong,” Edward would chide. “Mark my words, one of them will land you with a child before you’re ready. Then you’ll see—you’ll have to marry her.”
At university, it was much the same. When Thomas left for another city to study, Edward was left alone. Yet he showed no hurry to court another woman. Perhaps he could not forget his beloved Margaret; theirs had been a rare and true love, the kind few experience in life.
One day, an old schoolmate and friend, Geoffrey, dropped by. They stood in the back garden, grilling sausages and chatting.
“How’s Thomas? How’ve you been keeping?” Geoffrey asked.
“Well enough. Business is thriving. Thomas is my right hand since finishing university—though he still won’t settle down. Not like me in that regard,” Edward laughed. “Next year, I plan to expand. And you?”
“Oh, I’m managing. You know I took up farming—learned a great deal. Keeps me busy. Married again, too. You recall I split with Irene. My new wife’s young, nearly twenty years my junior. Bit of a row with my daughter over it, though—she’s married herself, but she can’t stand the idea of me with a younger woman. Ah well, perhaps time will smooth things over.” He paused. “You’ve been alone since Margaret passed. It’s high time you remarried. A man needs a wife.”
“No, Geoffrey. Not yet. Plenty of women about, of course—I’m not short of attention, as you well know. Even in my office, there are fine women. But I’ve no plans to start a family just yet.”
Next door lived Eleanor, a striking woman who had buried her husband three years prior and lived alone, her daughter already married. Edward spoke with her often, and though she stirred something in him, she carried herself with the dignity of a widow—no hints of flirtation, just neighbourly kindness, offering pies or apples from her garden. They exchanged numbers one day.
“Eleanor, let’s swap numbers. We’re both on our own—best to be safe. If we don’t see each other for a while, we can call.”
“Quite right, Edward. Life is unpredictable,” she agreed.
After seeing Geoffrey off, Edward turned in, a touch light-headed from whisky and the evening’s fare. The next day, as he pulled up to his house, he spotted a young woman waiting. Stepping out, he asked, “Are you here for Thomas? He doesn’t live here anymore—moved to the city.”
“Oh, I know, Mr. Harrington. I’m here for you,” she said softly. “My name is Charlotte.”
“For me? Curious.” She handed him a photo of a little girl. “This is your granddaughter—Emily. She’s four.”
“Now, Charlotte, don’t spin tales. Sort this out with Thomas yourself.” He shut the gate and went inside.
Six months prior, another girl had come with the same claim, even bringing a child. But the test proved it false. Now he trusted none of them. Grumbling, he muttered, “Bloody hell, son. How many more of these girls will turn up at my door? I’ll have a proper talk with him tomorrow. Time he married.”
Later, as he fed Jack, his loyal guard dog, he noticed an envelope jammed in the gate. Inside were papers—photos of the girl and some documents. He tossed it onto a high shelf in the study.
“I’ll look later. What could possibly be in there worth my time?”
Work consumed him, and he forgot the girl and the envelope. He did speak to Thomas, but his son brushed it off with a joke.
Nearly a year passed. Edward was at work when his phone rang.
“Hello? What? That can’t be—when?” He hung up, pale. His secretary hurried in with water.
Tragedy had struck. His only son, Thomas, had died in a crash. Heavy rain, a business trip, a loss of control—gone in an instant.
The funeral passed in a blur. Geoffrey handled everything, and Eleanor was there, pressing water and pills into Edward’s hand. Afterward, he collapsed, hospitalised with a mild heart attack.
Geoffrey visited often, and Eleanor was a near-constant presence.
“I’ve been feeding Jack—he knows me, so he eats what I give him. But he misses you terribly; it’s plain in his eyes,” she told him. “And I’ve kept an eye on the house. Geoffrey checks in too. So don’t fret over that, at least.”
She understood. Losing a child was a grief no parent should bear.
One day, Edward broke down weeping. Eleanor, startled, held his hand as he gasped, “Eleanor… I’ve no one left. I should’ve died too. Then I’d be with my family.”
“Edward, don’t say such things! If the Lord spared you, it’s for a reason.”
“Thank you, Eleanor. And—call me Edward, no more ‘Mr. Harrington.’ It’s easier. Don’t leave me here alone, or I’ll go mad. I’ll pay you for your time—”
“Don’t be absurd. We’re neighbours. I’ve taken leave from work—I’ll stay as long as you need.”
She visited daily, bringing home-cooked meals and pies. Without realising, she caught herself thinking of Edward not just as a neighbour, but as someone dearer.
One afternoon, he asked her, “Eleanor, there’s a file on the top shelf at home—documents I forgot about. Could you fetch them?”
The next day, she brought the envelope Charlotte had left. Edward pored over the papers—test results confirming Emily was Thomas’s daughter, his own grandchild. There were copies of records, proof of kinship. And then, documents showing Charlotte was gravely ill. He turned to Eleanor.
“I need another favour, a crucial one. Could you visit this address and bring this woman to me?”
She agreed, though a pang struck her heart. Was he turning to another after all her care? But two hours later, she returned alone.
“Where’s Charlotte? Did she refuse to come?”
“Charlotte’s dead,” Eleanor whispered. “A neighbour told me. The girl’s in an orphanage.”
“Dead? How? I must leave—I have to see her.”
“You can’t exert yourself, Edward.”
“Good God, how could I have turned her away? I should’ve helped them.”
“The doctor won’t discharge you. What’s the rush? The girl won’t get her mother back.”
“Eleanor, you don’t understand. Emily—she’s my granddaughter. Thomas’s child. It’s all here in black and white. And I didn’t believe Charlotte, forgot the papers. Thomas never acknowledged her. She came to me for help, and I—”
“Your granddaughter?” Eleanor gasped.
“Yes. Emily is mine. Eleanor, please, find her before I rot in this bed.”
She nodded, though her heart ached. “Now you see why the Lord left you here. You’ve a granddaughter to raise.” Edward could only nod, tears choking him.
While he recovered, Eleanor tracked down the orphanage on the outskirts of town, spoke with the director, and learned how to secure guardianship. Then she met Emily. The girl took to her at once, chattering freely. She even shared a promise she’d made to her mother.
“I told Mummy I’d find Granddad when I grew up. Someone has to look after him when he’s old.”
Eleanor smiled, hugging the sweet, serious child. She visited often, bringing gifts, though she didn’t tell Edward—not yet.
At last, the day came. Edward and Eleanor arrived at the orphanage, watching Emily play, tender with the younger children, picking up dropped toys.
She didn’t see them at first. Then her head lifted, her eyes locked on Eleanor, and she dashed into her arms. Edward stared, stunned.
“This is your granddad, Emily,” Eleanor said gently. “You wanted to find him when you grew up—but he found you first.”
The girl looked up as Edward knelt.
“Hello, sweetheart. I’m your granddad. Would you like to come live with me?”
“Are you really? And
