“Who are you looking for?” asked Margaret Whitmore, stepping onto the porch with Nicholas beside her, both squinting at the stranger in the fading light.
“Im here for Margaret Whitmore!” the young woman called back, her voice bright with nervous energy. “Im her granddaughterwell, great-granddaughter, really. The daughter of her eldest son, Alexander.”
Margaret sat on the sunlit bench, soaking in the first warmth of spring. At last, winter had loosened its grip. Only God knew how she had endured those long, brittle months.
“One more winter, and I wouldnt have made it,” she thought, exhaling slowly. She wasnt afraid of passing anymore. In fact, shed been waiting. The savings were set aside. The clothes had been bought. Nothing tethered her to this world anymore.
***
Once, shed had a bustling familyher husband, Frederick Whitmore, a towering man, and their four children: three boys and a girl. Theyd lived in harmony, helping one another, quarreling little. The children grew, one by one, and scattered like leaves in the wind.
The eldest two sons went off to university, then settled in distant cities for work. The middle boy, never one for books, built a thriving business that carried him overseas, where he stayed. The daughter, too, fled their quiet villageflitting off to London and marrying soon after.
At first, the children visited often. Letters arrived like clockwork, and when telephones became common, calls replaced ink and paper. Grandchildren came, one after another. Margaret would dig out her battered old suitcase and travel to play nanny for a while.
But the grandchildren outgrew her care. The summons grew rare. The phone seldom rang. Visits? Unthinkabletoo busy now, with work and families of their own. The last time theyd all gathered was for Fredericks funeral. Hed seemed invincible, a man whod live to a hundred. But life had other plans.
After the burial, the children dispersed. Calls to their mother dwindled, then stopped altogether. Margaret tried ringing them, but the silence on the other end spoke plainly: she was an afterthought. So she stopped trying. A decade passed this way. Some years, one of them would remember her, and for a week afterward, shed smile to herself.
One afternoon, as she sat on her bench lost in thought, a voice startled her.
“Afternoon, Aunt Margaret!” A young man grinned over the fence. “Dont you recognize me?”
She squinted.
“Nicholas? Is that really you?”
“It is!” He beamed, stepping into the yard.
Nicholas was the neighbors boyhis parents had been the sort who couldnt last a day without a row. Margaret remembered him always hungry, always lingering at her door. Pity had made her feed him, clothe him in her childrens old things, let him sleep over when his parents shouting grew too loud.
They hadnt lasted long. One day, they were gone, and Nicholas was whisked away to some orphanage. She hadnt seen him sinceuntil now.
“Whereve you been all these years?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“Foster care, then the army, then trade school. Now Im backgonna put this village right again!”
Margaret waved a hand. “Whats left to fix? Everyones gone.”
“Well manage!”
And just like that, her life changed. Nicholas found work with Mr. Thompson, the largest farmer in the county. In his free time, he patched up his parents crumbling cottagenow hisand never forgot Margaret, helping with her chores. She brightened, calling him “son” without thinking. Three peaceful years passed.
Then, one evening, he stood awkwardly in her kitchen. “Ive got to go, Aunt Margaret. Thompsons turned rottenwants the work but wont pay fair wages. Im off to find proper work. Dont be cross.”
“Cross? Dont be silly! Go with God.”
Alone again, the loneliness sometimes pressed tears from her. She counted the days, waiting for the endyet something still held her here.
***
“Afternoon, Aunt Margaret!”
She turned, startled. There he stood at the fenceNicholas, but taller now, well-dressed.
“Its really you!”
“Course it is!” He strode into the yard. “Back for good!”
“Good heavens!” She fluttered about. “Come in, come in! Ill put the kettle on!”
“Tea sounds perfect!” He laughed. “But let me fetch something firstdidnt think Id find you home.”
Half an hour later, they sat at the table, steaming tea in her best china cups, talking over one another.
“Id nearly packed for the next world, Nicholas,” she admitted, dabbing her eyes.
“Dont even think it!” He wagged a finger. “Were going to live grand, you and I! Ive saved enoughstarting my own farm. Youre not going anywhere!”
“Hello? Anyone home?” A girls voice shattered the moment. Margaret peered out the windowa young woman in a smart coat and heels stood in the yard.
“Who are you looking for?” Margaret and Nicholas stepped onto the porch.
“You! Im your great-granddaughterSophie! Alexanders granddaughter. I rang, but your phone was off, so I thought Id chance it.”
Bewildered, Margaret ushered her in while Nicholas took her suitcase.
Sophie devoured the offered cakes, chattering between bites. “Hate the city. Wanted to try village life. Granddad said if I stayed awhile, Id come running back. He rangso did Dad. Couldnt get through. Sorry! Ive got money, and they sent gifts!”
“Stay as long as you like!” Margaret finally said.
A month passed. Margaret watched from her bench as Sophie tended the garden, her hands quick and sureno city girls hesitation. With Nicholass help, theyd revived the long-neglected plot, built a greenhouse, filled it with seedlings.
Nicholas, too, was busyhis savings had bought land, and workers now raised a modern barn. Hed even hired men to fix Margarets roof and install proper heating.
She was happy. The smile rarely left her face.
Yet sometimes, when she remembered Sophie would leave, sadness flickered across her features. Shed grown fond of the girl. But time flew, and soon Sophie packed for London.
“How will I manage the garden alone?” Margaret fretted, wrapping pastries for the journey.
“Nicholas will water it!” Sophie grinned. “And Ill be back to weed!”
“Youre coming back?”
“Of course! I cant stay away now. I love it herelove you. And Nicholas proposed! Autumn weddingcant leave my farmer, can I?”
A year later, Margaret rocked her great-great-grandsons pram in the sun, watching Sophie and Nicholas laugh over plans for the farm.
She smiled.
“Not going anywhere just yet,” she murmured. “Too much to do.”
