For three days straight, Margaret had scrubbed every nook and cranny of her cottage as if dust werent the enemy, but the years that had kept her apart from her son.
Shed been awake since the crack of dawn, though the coach wasnt due in the village till afternoon. Sleep had been impossible anyway. James was coming home after five years in Spainfive years of brief video calls with dodgy Wi-Fi and the occasional photo sent through the post.
In the kitchen, dough for hot cross buns rose steadily under a crisp linen cloth. Shed prepped the mince for pasties the night before, rolling and crimping each one by hand until the small hours. The pasties had simmered gently all morning, filling the cottage with the scent of James childhood. Shed even baked a cheese and onion pie, just like hed loved as a boy.
Now, Margaret stood before her bedroom mirror, smoothing down her best floral dressthe one shed bought specially from the market. She studied the lines at the corners of her eyes. Fifty-eight years had left their mark, as had the farm work, the housekeeping, and the quiet ache for her only son.
“Will he even recognise me?” she wondered, then chuckled at the silliness of the thought. She was his mother. But himhad Spain changed him? Would he still speak with the same Yorkshire lilt? Would he be embarrassed by the old cottage, the dusty lanes of the village?
The neighbours had been passing by her gate all morning, pretending they had errands, but really just snooping. “Margarets lads coming home,” they whispered. “Made himself quite the gentleman with those Spaniards, so they say.”
Only those whove raised children and watched them leave know how each waiting day stretches into its own little eternity.
By noon, she set the table in the parlourthe good room, saved for special occasions. Embroidered tablecloth, polished silver, the fine china brought out from the cabinet where it gathered dust the rest of the year. In the centre, a vase of fresh-cut daffodils from the garden.
Finished, she stepped outside and settled onto the bench beneath the old oak. From here, she could see the high street and hear the coach when it pulled into the village square. Hours still to go, but she was ready to wait. Her heart fluttered like a girls before her first dance.
How many parents like her waited in villages across England? How many mothers counted the days between visits from children whod gone off to brighter lights? No sacrifice had been too great to give her boy a better lifebut the price of solitude could weigh heavy at times.
At quarter to four, the distant honk of the coach broke the quiet. She stood, straightened her dress, tucked a loose curl behind her ear. For a moment, she paused, drawing strength from the earth beneath her, then walked to the gate.
The coach pulled into the square, kicking up dust. A few passengers stepped downan elderly woman with shopping bags, two teenagers, a middle-aged man. Then, last of all, a tall young man in a navy suit, one hand on a suitcase, the other clutching a bouquet.
Margaret froze. It was himyet somehow not. Taller than she remembered, leaner, his hair neatly trimmed, his posture so polished he seemed out of place among the village lanes. For a heartbeat, doubt flickered through her.
Then the man in the suit looked up. His face lit up like sunrise, his smile transforming him in an instant. He dropped his suitcase and broke into a run.
“Mum!” he called out.
And just like that, the smart suit didnt matter. He was her little boy racing home from school, the teenager whod helped weed the garden, the young man whod promised hed return no matter how far he went. In his eyes, she saw the same warmth, the same love.
When he reached her, James hesitated for a secondas if to memorise her face, to be sure she was real. Then he swept her into a hug so tight it nearly stole her breath.
“Mum,” he murmured into her shoulder. “My mum.”
Tears streamed down Margarets cheeks. Words failed her. She held on tight, like she had when he was small and she feared losing him in a crowd. He smelled differentexpensive cologne and foreign sunshinebut he was still her boy.
“Come on home,” she finally managed, wiping her eyes. “Ive been waiting.”
James handed her the bouquetwhite roses. He picked up his case and offered his arm. Together, they walked down the village lane, toward the cottage with its windows thrown open and the table set for her sons return.
As they made their way along the dusty path, Margaret felt the years of loneliness melting away like frost in spring sunshine. It didnt matter how long hed stay. It didnt matter if he left again. He was here now, beside her, and in this moment, the world was just right.
