28December
Dear Diary,
The old cottage on the edge of the Cotswolds feels as weary as we are, yet the thought of moving still makes me shudder. Every evening, as the hearth crackles, George and I replay the tapestry of our liveslaughs shared, milestones marked. Our children have long since stretched their own roots. Emma lives just over the lane in a tidy little town, so she drops by often, and the grandchildrens chatter keeps the house from ever feeling empty.
James, however, has been a ghost for five years. He set up his career in London, married twice, and now, after a recent divorce, is trying to rebuild. He called last week, promising a visit. The news lit a fire in our hearts. George hopped on his battered Bianchi and pedaled to the village shop; I made a list of all the comforts I could conjure for my sons arrival.
He turned up in his black Range Rover just after dusk, ate a quick supper and collapsed onto the couch. We perched beside him in silence, watching his breathing even out; the journey had left him exhausted.
This will be a proper nights sleep, George whispered, halftohimself. Tomorrow you can help us chop firewood, well clear out the stable muck, haul a fresh pine and dress the house for Christmasno tree has graced the mantle in years.
I added, And the pantry floor needs fixing before it gives way.
The next morning I lit the castiron stove early, hoping the cottage would be warm when James stirred. I whisked a batter for scones while George tended the garden. By noon James claimed hed never slept so soundly. After breakfast he flicked on the telly, settled in for a film, and I asked, Love, could you lend a hand with the wood?
He sighed, Im only here a few days, Mum. Let Dad fire up the hot tub instead. The two of us shuffled water from the well to the tub without a word.
After lunch George reminded him, The stable needs clearing, lad. Youve got the vigorplease.
James snapped back, Do you think Im not knackered from work in the city? I came to unwind, not to be put to labor.
Later, after a steamy soak, he uncorked a bottle of whisky and started rambling about his sleek flat, expensive furniture, his Labrador, and how the women in his life seemed clumsy, how the job no longer gave him any joy. We listened, drained, while he never truly opened up.
Feeling slighted, he muttered hed head to his sisters, complained about boredom, and I snatched his car keys, warning him not to drive. He stormed to his room, cranked the television to deafening volume, and the house rang with static.
When the night finally settled, George found James already snoring, switched the set off and slipped under the blankets.
The next morning James walked the nearby woods, shivering, then returned to the cosy warmth of tea on the sofa, oblivious to yesterdays tension. Emma had a throbbing headache all day.
We packed a bag of homemade jam, oatcakes and a tin of shortbread for his journey back. He accepted, saying, My exwife will love these; shes never tasted such proper Cotswold preserves. He confessed hed forgotten a New Years present, promising to bring one next time.
I whispered, Dont come back so often, love. We adore you, but you could be as snug at home watching your own telly, which is surely finer than ours.
He seemed to understand, gave a small wave, and drove back to the bustle of London, where the familiar chaos awaited.
It hurts to watch him leave, but Im grateful for the brief glimpse of family we managed to stitch together.
Emily.
