“I know you’ve been missing me too…”
“What are you two whispering about behind my back? Out with it—what’s your plan?” demanded Lydia Andrews, arms crossed.
Her son-in-law, James, exchanged a glance with their daughter, Emily.
“Stop dragging it out. Just tell me,” Lydia pressed.
“Mum, we thought we’d celebrate Old New Year at the cottage this weekend. Once the workweek starts, we won’t get another chance,” Emily explained.
“Wasn’t New Year’s enough? Go ahead. The weather’s mild, barely any snow, the roads are clear. Or is there something else you’re not telling me?” Lydia’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“It’s… *we*. You’re coming with us,” Emily blurted.
“Why on earth would I?”
Lydia noticed the desperate look her daughter shot James.
“What’s this all about? I’m not going anywhere. You two are young, eager to get out—I’m fine here. I’ve no interest in celebrating, least of all Old New Year. Go if you want. Just remember, the cottage will be freezing. You’ll need to heat it properly.”
“That’s what we wanted to talk about. James went yesterday—got everything ready,” Emily rushed to explain.
“Oh, clever, aren’t you? But I have a feeling this isn’t just about a weekend getaway.”
“We wanted a change of scenery. The holidays dragged on, and we never made it to the countryside. It’s peaceful there—fresh air, warmth inside,” James added.
“And when did you find the time? Lit the stove yourself, did you? Didn’t burn the place down?” Lydia scoffed.
“Took a day off. Emily wouldn’t stop going on about how you always spent New Year’s there. We thought…” James trailed off under Lydia’s glare as Emily nudged him sharply.
“*Mum*, please. Come with us. It’s a family holiday. We’ll be back Sunday.” Emily’s pleading eyes wore Lydia down.
“Fine. What else can I do with you lot?” She sighed.
“Pack what you’ll need. We’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven.” Before Lydia could reconsider, Emily and James said their goodbyes and left.
Lydia told herself a weekend away wouldn’t hurt. She packed a few things and went to bed.
Snow dusted the countryside along the motorway, thin and patchy. Winters used to be deeper. Back when Epiphany frosts still gripped the land.
They *had* celebrated every New Year at the cottage—just the two of them at first, then with Emily, for whom the trips were an adventure. Friends often joined. A tradition started by Lydia’s father.
On the 30th, they’d arrive, decorate one tree indoors and another outside the windows. Built snowmen. How long ago that felt. Where had it all gone? Emily grew up, celebrated with friends. The last two years, it’d just been her and William—until she threw him out.
She’d come home early once and found him with the neighbour. They weren’t naked in bed—that would’ve destroyed her. They sat at the kitchen table, sipping tea, but the intimacy of it stung just as deep.
Lydia lingered in the hallway, listening to their laughter, William’s occasional whisper. They didn’t notice her at first, shoulders brushing, heads close.
“What’s going on here?” Lydia’s voice cracked like a whip.
The pair startled apart. The neighbour—young, pretty, newly moved in—fled, flustered. William babbled excuses, swore nothing happened.
As if she’d believe that. How many times had they been alone? Enough time for everything. Unlikely they’d spent it swapping jokes.
Even now, the memory seared. She’d screamed, raged, acted like a fishwife. William dressed and left. She’d hurled whatever clothes she grabbed into a suitcase and shoved it into the hall.
Emily begged her to forgive him. Lydia couldn’t. She ached, wept, spiralled—but forgiveness? Impossible. She didn’t care where he went, so long as it wasn’t next door. She sneered at the neighbour in the lift, the car park, until the woman moved away. Out of sight soothed the fury—but not enough to take William back.
Twenty-six years together. The worst pain wasn’t the betrayal—it was *where*. *Their* kitchen. *Their* sofa. Could anyone forgive that? William insisted it was once, a mistake. How could she trust him? His sister visited, said he was staying with her, that he was miserable.
As if *she* wasn’t?
“Forgive him. It happens. If you don’t, someone else will snap him up—you’ll regret it.”
Truthfully, Lydia *had* considered it. Emily married, moved out. The loneliness gnawed at her. If William had called, come to her… But he didn’t. Pride and hurt kept her from reaching out first. So they’d lived apart six months. Emily saw him sometimes—said he’d lost weight, looked unwell. Urged reconciliation.
Lydia couldn’t fathom sharing a roof again, let alone a bed. Seeing him would dredge it all up anew. Or worse—living like strangers. No. Better nothing than that.
She unbuttoned her coat, loosened her scarf. The car’s warmth made her drowsy. Emily and James murmured up front. The engine’s hum lulled her to sleep until the car stopped at the cottage gate.
Stepping out, she inhaled crisp air—then froze. Tyre tracks and footprints marred the dirty snow. James *had* come earlier.
A fir tree glittered with baubles and tinsel by the windows. The one from her childhood had been cut down years ago—too overgrown. William planted a new one last year. It had flourished.
“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Emily joined her, slipping an arm around her shoulders.
James unloaded bags from the boot, stacking them by the door.
“Mum, take the eggs.” Emily pressed a small basket into her hands.
Lydia took it but didn’t move.
“Go on, you’ll freeze. We’ll catch up.”
She *was* cold. Emily and James lingered by the car, whispering. Noticing Lydia’s stare, Emily waved her on.
Lydia hesitated. A strange dread coiled in her gut—the past waiting inside, a ghost too painful to face. She glanced back. Emily and James followed. Reassured, she gripped the door handle. It was unlocked. She stepped into the narrow hallway—and froze.
The living room door stood open. A white-clothed table gleamed—wine glasses, candles in holders. Chairs circled it. The cottage *expected* them.
Then the lock clicked behind her. Lydia whirled, yanked the handle—*locked from the outside*.
“Emily! What kind of joke is this? *Open up!*” she shouted.
“We’ll fetch you Sunday, Mum,” Emily called through the door.
“Lydia?”
She nearly dropped the basket. *His* voice. She spun. William filled the doorway, blocking the light.
“What are *you* doing here? Was this your idea? Open this door *now*!” She stamped her foot like a child—then heard the car engine rumble to life in the distance.
“What is *this*? Some conspiracy?” she spat.
“Emily arranged it. Swear I didn’t know. She rang, asked me to come—said they’d be here too, told me to light the fire. Now they’ve left us to it. So—coming in, or sprinting after them?” His tone was light, teasing.
“Open it! Or I swear—” She glared at the basket in her hands.
“Relax. Warm up inside, then we’ll decide. If you want, I’ll drive you back.”
“So James never came? *You* did all this?” She nodded at the table set for three—proof he hadn’t expected her.
“Yes. Like I said, Emily called. Let me take your coat.” He reached out, but she stepped back.
“I’ll manage.”
She prowled the room. Nothing had changed. As if time had stopped.
“They brought food—bags by the door,” she said stiffly.
William fetched them.
“Champagne, fruit, sausage… Living large. Fancy a toast?” He grinned, setting the bottle on the table.
Soon, the table groaned with roast meat, salads, fruit. Lydia’s mouth watered despite herself.
William sat opposite, popped the champagne, filled their glasses.
“Glad Emily set this up. We can finally talk. To you.” He raised his glass.
“Wait—if you drink, how will you drive?” Lydia frowned.
“Do you *want* to leave? Stay. They’ll fetch you tomorrow. Look at all this food—waste not, eh?”
Silence.
“Lyd… can you ever forgive me?” William took a sip.
“Me being here means nothing. This was a setup.”
“Don’t*”It means everything,”* Lydia whispered, finally meeting his eyes as the weight of the past six months crumbled away, and she reached for her glass.
