*The Shadow of Loneliness: A Son’s Return*
“My Oliver’s a good lad,” began Helen, keeping her voice steady. “Top marks at school, straight A’s. Chopped all the firewood for winter, stacked it neat as you please. But his *mood*… Changed, he has, Mary. Dunno if he’s sweet on someone or what. Used to moan about fetching water, skipped watering the veg patch half the time. Now? Takes on every heavy chore—logs, garden, the lot. Then stands at the mirror, squaring his shoulders, prodding his muscles like he’s training for *Love Island*.”
“And you’re surprised?” Mary dunked her biscuit in tea. “How old’s he now? Fifteen?”
“Sixteen next month,” Helen sighed. “Says he’s off to college: ‘Mum, I’ll qualify like Dan did, earn proper. Be a farmer, come back to the village, help out.’” She trailed off, dabbing her cheek with a hanky.
Mary hesitated. “And Dan? He rings at all?” She knew how raw the subject was.
Talk of Daniel always weighed on Helen like a sack of bricks. Her eldest had left for London at seventeen. Not that he’d been eager—but with bills piling up, choices were slim. Helen had raised both boys alone; her husband passed when Oliver was barely one. Heart gave out, and just like that, she was a widow with two sons.
So she’d nudged Daniel toward the city. Her cousin George worked at a factory there, promised to help with digs. Scraped together what she could—£200, a train ticket—sent him off with a hug and a sob.
But Daniel took it as exile. Convinced she favoured Oliver, that she’d shoved him out. London chewed him up at first, but he found his feet: landed a job, got into trade school. Later, he and a mate started a skip-hire firm. Business boomed—vans bought, profits rolling in. Yet with success came distance. “Did it all meself,” he’d say. “No debts to pay.”
Visits home were rare; calls with Oliver rarer—eight years between them, nothing in common. Helen bit her tongue. Then, last month, she’d slipped during a call: “House is falling apart, love. Porch is rotten, bathroom’s mouldy. Whole village has proper plumbing now, and we’re still lugging water from the well.”
Daniel just snorted. “You’ve got a bloke in the house now. Let *him* fix it.” The words near broke her.
Oliver trudged in from school, slumping at the table. Helen ladled out stew but stayed quiet, lost in thought. Mary bustled off with a pat on her arm: “Chin up, love. It’ll sort itself.”
A week later, the phone rang. Helen grabbed it, pulse racing.
“Mum. It’s me.” Daniel’s voice was softer than she’d heard in years. “We’re coming tomorrow—you’ll be in after lunch?”
“’Course, love,” she stammered, tears pricking.
“And keep Olly there. Need him.”
Her stomach knotted. *What’s he planning?*
Next afternoon, a van crunched up the drive. Daniel stepped out, a blonde beside him. Two lads hopped from the back. Helen froze on the crooked porch.
Her son hauled bags from the boot. The girl strode forward, beaming. “Helen! I’m Sophie.” Her grin was sunshine.
Daniel hugged his mother—first time in a decade. Helen’s throat swelled.
“Mum. This is Soph. My fiancée.” He cleared his throat. “She, uh… sorted my head out. Told me I’d been a prat. Said *you* made me who I am—got me through school, the lot. Raised us solo after Dad…” He scrubbed his face. “Brought the lads to fix the place up. New bathroom, plumbing, the works. And Olly—” He turned to his brother, chuckling. “Mate, you’ve *always* had me. Remember when I taught you to swim at Brighton?”
Oliver scuffed his shoes, nodding. Helen watched her boys, tears streaming.
“We alright, Mum?” Daniel grinned.
Two months on, the cottage gleamed. Fresh paint on the porch, pipes humming indoors. Oliver had hammered alongside Daniel, the pair swapping jokes like old mates.
One evening, Helen pulled Daniel close. “Love… I’m sorry too. Thought you’d left us behind.”
He hugged her tight. “Nah. Just took a while to grow up, didn’t I?”
Outside, oaks whispered in the wind. The smell of stew and second chances filled the house.