William hadn’t been home in years. During his first two years at university in another city, he still visited for the holidays. His mother, of course, would stuff him full of his favorite meals, cooking everything he loved. After a few days of indulgence, though, boredom crept in. All his old mates had moved away, and there was nothing to do.
The town was small, familiar down to every tree—in a few hours, you could walk the whole place. After a week of sleeping and moping, he’d start itching to leave. His mother would plead with him to stay another week, but he’d invent excuses—urgent, imaginary errands—and leave without a second thought. The big, bustling city called him. There, life was never dull, always brimming with excitement. He had mates there now. What was there for him here? Just endless tedium.
By his third year, he’d taken a job at a fast-food joint, working evenings until closing—right when the crowds of young people swarmed in. He loved it. The extra cash didn’t hurt either. A student grant wasn’t enough to live on. He refused his mother’s help, stubbornly proud. She’d ring, begging him to come home for Christmas. He promised, though he knew the café would be at its busiest.
When the holidays ended, lectures resumed, and the trip home was postponed until summer. But when summer came, he switched to full-time hours. The city pulsed with life; time slipped by unnoticed. Before he knew it, he had his degree. They celebrated for days—who would know when they’d all meet again?
Then his mate Dave proposed a job abroad in Spain.
“Come with me. You’re perfect for it. You’ve just got to decide now—we need to sort the paperwork. The bloke I was meant to go with just backed out. His girlfriend’s pregnant, and he’s getting hitched. So, what d’you say? You won’t regret it. One-year contract. Your English is decent, and you’ll pick up Spanish quick enough.”
See the world while they’re young. Once work and family start, they’d barely manage a week-long holiday every few years. “Dance while you’re young, lad,” Dave sang off-key.
William agreed. The next few days were chaos—doctor’s appointments, paperwork. The night before his flight, he called his mother and guiltily promised he’d be back in a year, that he’d visit.
“How can you just disappear for a whole year?” she pleaded. “Couldn’t you at least stop by for a day? I’m forgetting what you look like.”
“Sorry. Flight’s tomorrow—tickets in hand. Can’t let the lads down. Love you, Mum. I’ll call.”
In Spain, they lived at the hotel, ate there, spent little. Some rented flats, but they saved. They worked every job imaginable—no slacking, fines for the smallest slip-up. But William loved it.
He returned three years later, bought a flat on a mortgage, got a proper job. He called his mother—quick, distracted—always promising to visit, just as soon as work eased up. It never did.
One weekend, he and Dave hit a club—drank, danced, had a laugh. William woke up with a girl beside him. Pretty or not, he couldn’t tell—a thick lock of dark hair covered her face. He didn’t dare move her, not wanting to wake her. He couldn’t remember her name—or how she’d ended up in his flat.
He slipped out from under the covers and padded to the kitchen. After gulping tap water, he showered, standing under the hot spray, debating how to politely usher her out.
When he emerged, hair damp and smelling of soap, the girl was in the kitchen. Thankfully, she was stunning—wearing nothing but his shirt, teasing glimpses of long legs. The sight knocked the breath from his lungs, and his earlier resolve vanished. The scent of coffee filled the air, thin slices of cheese neatly arranged on a plate.
“Sorry,” she smirked. “Found nothing else in your fridge.”
After coffee, they ended up back in bed.
Her name was Tiffany. He doubted it was real but didn’t ask. Did it matter? She was easy, uncomplicated. She stayed a month.
He liked her—physically, at least. What more did a bloke need? She was fun, effortless. Cooking wasn’t her thing, so they lived on takeaways and café meals.
For that month, William barely slept. Tiffany had no job—”finding herself,” she said. He’d leave for work while she dozed, and by evening, she’d drag him back to the club, drinking until dawn.
He grew irritable, exhausted. He knew this wasn’t sustainable. His boss eyed him with suspicion. And he wasn’t fooled about Tiffany—she lived off blokes willing to pay for her looks. Time to end this before he lost his job. His savings were draining fast. Still, he couldn’t just throw her out.
So he escaped—home for the weekend, hoping she’d take the hint and leave. He bought his mother gifts and, from the station, called Tiffany to say he’d gone away. No idea when he’d be back.
“And what about me?” she whined, stretching the words.
He imagined her posed on the sofa, legs stretched, short robe barely covering her, phone in hand. But the image didn’t stir him like before.
“Do whatever,” he said and hung up.
All the way home, he pictured it—ringing the bell, hearing movement inside, the door swinging open. His mother’s gasp, arms wide for an embrace…
Guilt nagged at him for calling so little, visiting even less. She had every right to be cross. His father had died when William was fifteen. His mother was still young—she could’ve remarried. What if she had? What if a stranger sat at their table now? He shook off the thought.
Climbing the stairs, he resisted sprinting up two at a time like he had as a schoolboy—so long ago now. He paused outside the door, listening. Silence. What if—? No, rubbish. She was fine. He pressed the bell.
A muted chime sounded inside. No footsteps. The lock clicked, and the door cracked open. A wide-eyed girl, about seven, thin fair braids, a teddy bear clutched to her chest, peered up at him.
“Who are you here for?” she asked, businesslike.
“Hello. Are the grown-ups home?”
She blinked, offended. Clearly, she considered herself quite grown.
“Who d’you want?” she asked warily.
“Weren’t you taught not to open the door to strangers?” he countered.
“I thought it was Gran,” she explained.
“Gran? You mean Nana Margaret?”
“She’s not ‘Nana,’ she’s Gran.” The girl suddenly pulled the door, about to shut it.
“Hey, I’m not a stranger. This is my house,” William said hastily before it slammed.
“No, it’s not. It’s Gran Margaret’s and ours—me and Mum’s.”
Just then, a gasp sounded behind him—something dropped, clattering down the steps. He turned. His mother stood at the landing’s edge, a spilled bag of apples at her feet.
“Mum!” He rushed to her, pulled her into a hug, breathing in that familiar scent—she always wore lilac perfume.
“William…” she whispered into his chest.
He hadn’t realized how small she was. He couldn’t remember if he’d ever hugged her like this.
“Don’t cry. I’m here. Sorry it took so long.”
“William…” She pulled back to look at him. “You’ve changed so much. Come inside, love.”
He gathered the apples. As he climbed the stairs, he noticed the girl still watching from the doorway.
Spotting his glance, his mother shooed the girl inside—no standing in drafts. Reluctantly, she disappeared.
“Who’s that, Mum?” William asked, hanging his coat.
She gave him a strange look.
“Let’s talk in the kitchen. You must be starving.”
“Is there shepherd’s pie?” Just the thought made his mouth water.
“Of course. Made it yesterday.”
She bustled between cupboards and the microwave. Soon, a steaming plate of shepherd’s pie sat before him.
“Bloody brilliant,” he mumbled between bites.
“Why didn’t you come home sooner? No ring, so not married. That’s something.”
“Who’s the girl? Why’s she calling you Gran?”
“Because I am Gran.”
“You’re not old enough. You’re still young.” He almost added that he didn’t have kids, so she couldn’t be a grandmother—but something stopped him.
“Age has nothing to do with it. It’s about the title. Think—last time you were here, who were you with?”
“I wasn’t with anyone,” he said—then froze.
His last visit was after second year. None of his mates were around. He’d run into EmilyHe looked at his daughter’s expectant face, then at Emily—still waiting, still loving after all this time—and realized that home had always been right here, with them.
