**A Diary Entry Springs Unexpected Blessings**
“Who are you looking for?” I stepped onto the porch with Nicholas, squinting at the stranger in the afternoon light. “Im here for Margaret Whitmore!” the young woman replied. “Im her granddaughtergreat-granddaughter, really. Im the daughter of Arthur, her eldest son.”
I sat on the sunlit bench, soaking in the first warmth of spring. At last, the bitter winter had passed. Only God knew how Id endured it.
“I wont last another winter,” I thought, exhaling in relief. I wasnt afraid of death. In fact, Id been waiting. My savings were ready, my funeral clothes bought. Nothing tied me to this world anymore.
***
Once, Id had a large familymy husband, Frederick Whitmore, a tall, sturdy man, and our four children: three boys and a girl. We lived happily, helping one another, seldom quarrelling. One by one, the children grew up and scattered like leaves in the wind.
The two eldest sons went off to university, then settled in distant cities. The middle boy struggled in school but later built a successful business that took him abroad. My daughter, too, left our village, marrying and moving to London.
At first, they visited often. They wrote letters, then switched to phone calls when mobiles became common. Grandchildren came, and Id pack my battered old suitcase to stay with one family or another as a nanny.
But gradually, the grandchildren outgrew me. Calls became rare, visits rarer still. Work, their own families, their childrens needsthey forgot about me entirely.
The last time they gathered was for Fredericks funeral. Hed been so strongI thought hed live to a hundred. But life had other plans. After the burial, they drifted away again. At first, they called now and then, but soon, even those stopped.
I tried ringing them, but I quickly sensed I was a burden. So I let go. For ten years, I lived alone. Once a year, one of them would remember me, and Id smile to myself for a week after.
One afternoon, as I sat lost in thought, a voice startled me.
“Afternoon, Aunt Margaret!” A young man stood at the gate, grinning. “Remember me?”
I squinted. “Nicholas? Is that you?”
“It is!” he beamed, stepping into the yard.
Nicholas was the neighbours boy, raised in chaos. His parents drank, fought, and left him hungry. Id fed him, given him clothes my children had outgrown, let him sleep here when his home was too loud.
His parents didnt last long. After they were gone, Nicholas vanished into the care system. Id missed him terribly.
“Whereve you been all these years?” I asked, delighted.
“Foster care, then the military, then trade school,” he said. “Now Im back to rebuild my roots!”
“Rebuild what?” I scoffed. “Everyones left.”
“Doesnt matter. Ill make it work.”
And so, a new chapter began. Nicholas found work with Mr. Thompson, the largest farmer in the village. He fixed up his parents old cottage and helped me with chores. I called him “my boy” and felt lighter than I had in years.
Then, one day, he looked sheepish. “Im leaving, Aunt Margaret. Thompson wont pay fair wages. Im heading north for work.”
“Go with my blessing,” I said, though my heart ached.
Again, I was alone. Some days, the silence was unbearable. I waited, counting the hours. Yet something kept me here.
***
“Afternoon, Aunt Margaret!” A familiar voice snapped me from my thoughts.
“Nicholas? Really?”
He stepped in, taller now, well-dressed. “Im back for good!”
“Oh, what joy!” I fussed. “Come in, come in! Ill put the kettle on!”
“Tea sounds perfect,” he laughed. “Just let me fetch something from homedidnt think Id catch you in!”
Half an hour later, we sat at the table, sipping tea from my best china, talking nonstop.
“Id nearly given up, Nicholas,” I admitted, wiping a tear.
“Dont you dare!” He wagged a finger playfully. “Were going to live well now. Ive saved enough to start my own farm. Youre not going anywhere!”
Then, a sharp voice cut through.
“Hello? Anyone home?”
A girl stood in the yard, smartly dressed in a short coat and heels.
“Who are you looking for?” Nicholas and I stepped out.
“You must be Margaret Whitmore,” she said. “Im your great-granddaughter. Arthurs granddaughter. I called, but your phone was off, so I thought Id chance it!”
Bewildered, I ushered her in while Nicholas carried her bag.
“I hate the city,” she declared between bites of cake. “Dad and Grandad thought a few months here might cure me. They tried callingcouldnt get through. Dont worry, Ive got money. Ill stay till term startsI study remotelythen head back.”
“Stay as long as you like,” I said, heart swelling.
A month passed. I watched from the bench as Victoriano city girltended the garden. With Nicholass help, shed revived the long-neglected plot, planted seedlings, even put up a greenhouse.
Nicholas, too, was busy. Hed hired builders for a modern barn and had my roof fixed, even installed central heating.
I was happy. Truly happy.
Only one shadow lingeredVictoria would leave soon. Id grown too fond.
“How will I manage this garden alone?” I fretted, packing her a tin of biscuits.
“Just keep the water barrel filled,” she laughed. “Nicholas will handle the rest. And Ill be back to weed!”
“Youre coming back?”
“Of course! I love it here. And Nicholas proposed! Were marrying in autumn. Cant leave him, can I?”
A year later, I rocked the pram where my great-great-grandson slept. Victoria and Nicholas were at the farm, thriving, lifting the whole village with them.
I smiled down at the baby and thought, *Not yet. They still need me.*
