“Who are you here for?” Margaret Whitmore stepped onto the porch with Nicholas, eyeing the unexpected visitor. “Im here for Margaret Whitmore! Im her granddaughterwell, great-granddaughter, actually. The daughter of her eldest son, Alexander.”
Margaret sat on the sun-warmed bench, soaking in the first warm days of spring. At last, winter had passed. Only God knew how shed endured it this time.
“One more winter like that, and I wont make it,” she thought, exhaling with relief. She wasnt afraid of death anymore. In fact, she welcomed it. The money had been set aside for years, the burial clothes bought long ago.
Nothing held her to this world now.
***
Once, shed had a bustling familyher husband, Frederick Whitmore, a towering man, and their four children: three sons and a daughter. Theyd lived in harmony, rarely squabbling, always helping one another. But one by one, the children grew up and scattered.
The two eldest sons went off to university, then settled in distant cities for work. The middle boy, never much for school, built a thriving business that eventually took him abroad, never to return. The daughter, too, left their villageflitting off to London, where she soon married.
At first, they visited often. Letters arrived regularly, and when mobile phones became common, the calls replaced the post. Grandchildren came next. Margaret would pack her worn leather suitcase and travel to one child or another to help with the little ones.
But gradually, even the grandchildren outgrew her care. The invitations grew fewer, the calls sparse. Visiting became an afterthoughtburied beneath work, their own families, their own growing children.
The last time theyd all gathered was for Fredericks funeral. Hed been such a strong man; shed thought hed live to a hundred. But life had other plans.
After the burial, the children dispersed. At first, they calledjust to check in. But in time, even that faded.
Margaret tried ringing them herself, but it didnt take long to sense she was an inconvenience. So she stopped. And for ten long years, she lived like that. Every now and then, one of them might remember and call, and for a week afterward, shed smile to herself as she went about her day.
One afternoon, as she sat lost in thought, a young mans voice broke the silence.
“Afternoon, Aunt Margaret!” He stood at the gate, grinning. “Remember me?”
She squinted.
“Nicholas? Is that really you?”
“It is!” He beamed, stepping into the yard.
Nicholas was the neighbors boyhis parents had been drunks, rowdy and reckless. For as long as Margaret could recall, hed been a hungry, neglected child. Out of pity, shed fed him, given him hand-me-downs from her own children, even let him sleep over when his parents shouting grew too loud.
They hadnt lasted long. One night, they didnt wake up. Nicholas was taken away, and Margaret had missed him terribly.
“Whereve you been all this time?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“Foster care first, then the army, then trade school. Now Im backgoing to put this village right!”
Margaret waved a hand. “Whats left to fix? Everyones gone.”
“Doesnt matter. Well make it work.”
And just like that, Margarets life changed. Nicholas found work with Mr. Harrison, the biggest farmer in the area. In his free time, he patched up his parents crumbling cottagenow hisand never forgot Margaret, helping her with chores and odd jobs. She brightened, calling him nothing less than “my boy.”
For three years, they lived like that.
Then one day, Nicholas hesitated at her door. “Ive got to go, Aunt Margaret. Harrisons turned into a right miserwont pay what he owes. Im heading up north for work. Dont be cross.”
“Cross? Not at all. God go with you.”
Once again, Margaret was alone. Some days, the loneliness ached like a wound. She waited, counting the days until her time would come. Yet something, inexplicably, kept her here.
****
“Afternoon, Aunt Margaret!” The familiar voice made her heart leap. She turned to see a well-dressed young man at the gate.
“Nicholas? Can it be?”
“It is!” He strode into the yard, grinning. “Im backfor good!”
“Oh!” She fussed, flustered with joy. “Come in, come in! Ill put the kettle on!”
“Tea sounds perfect,” he laughed. “Just let me pop home firstdidnt think Id find you here, so Ive not brought anything.”
Half an hour later, they sat at the table, steaming cups in hand, talking over each other in their delight.
“Id all but given up, Nicholas,” Margaret admitted, wiping a tear.
“Dont you dare!” He wagged a finger playfully. “Ive come back to take care of you. Made good money up northgoing to start my own farm. Youre not going anywhere!”
“Hello? Anyone home?” A bright voice shattered the moment. Margaret peered out to see a girl in a smart coat and heels standing in the yard.
“Who are you here for?” Margaret and Nicholas stepped onto the porch.
“Im here for Margaret Whitmore! Im her great-granddaughterAlexanders granddaughter. I rang, but your phone was off, so I thought Id chance it!”
“Well, come in then,” Margaret said, bewildered, while Nicholas darted forward to take her suitcase.
As the girlVeratucked into the spread before her, she chattered away. “I hate the city. Wanted to try village life. Granddad Alexander suggested I stay with yousaid if I lasted a few months, Id never want to go back. He called. So did Dad. And me. But your phone was always off. Sorry to barge in! Ive got money, and they sent gifts!”
“Stay as long as you like,” Margaret said softly. “Its no trouble.”
A month passed. Margaret watched from her bench as Vera worked the long-abandoned garden with surprising skill. With Nicholass help, theyd turned the soil, built raised beds, even put up a greenhouse.
Nicholas, too, was busyhis savings funding a new farm. Workers patched Margarets roof, replaced her old stove with proper heating.
Margaret smiled more than she had in years.
Only sometimes, when she remembered Vera would leave, did her heart ache. But time flew, and soon Vera packed for London.
“How will I manage the garden alone?” Margaret fretted, wrapping pastries for the journey.
“Just keep the water barrel filledNicholas will handle the rest! And Ill be back to weed!” Vera grinned.
“Youre coming back?”
“Of course! I cant stay away. I love it here. And Nicholas proposed! Weddings in autumncant leave my farmer behind, can I?”
A year later, Margaret rocked the pram of her sleeping great-great-grandson in the sunshine. Vera and Nicholas were at the farmnow thriving, bringing life back to the village.
Margaret gazed at the baby, then chuckled to herself.
“Not yet,” she murmured. “They still need me.”
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