“I know you’ve been missing me too…”
“What are you two whispering about behind my back? Out with it—what’s this scheme of yours?” demanded Margaret Bennett.
Her son-in-law and daughter exchanged a glance.
“Spit it out already. Don’t drag it out.”
“Mum, we thought we’d celebrate Old New Year at the cottage this weekend. Once the workweek starts, there won’t be another chance,” said Emily.
“Wasn’t New Year’s enough for you? Go ahead, then. The weather’s mild, not much snow, the roads are clear. Or is there something else you’re not telling me?” Margaret narrowed her eyes.
“We were thinking… well, *we* includes you. You’re coming with us,” Emily announced.
“What on earth for?”
Margaret noticed her daughter shooting a helpless look at her husband.
“What’s this all about? I’m not going anywhere. You’re young, you want adventure—I’m perfectly fine right here. I’ve no interest in celebrating Old New Year. Go if you like, but remember, the cottage will be freezing and damp. You’ll need to heat it properly.”
“That’s just what we wanted to say. James drove up yesterday and sorted everything out,” Emily rushed to explain.
“Look at you, so clever. But I’ve a feeling this isn’t just about a weekend away.”
“We fancied a change of scenery. The long Christmas break is over, and we never got out into nature. It’s lovely there—peaceful, fresh air. The house is warm and dry now,” James confirmed.
“And how did you manage that? Did you light the stove yourself? Without burning the place down?” Margaret asked skeptically.
“I took leave. Emily’s been going on about how you always spent New Year’s at the cottage. We thought…” James trailed off.
Margaret didn’t miss the way Emily tugged at his sleeve, giving him a pointed look.
“Mum, please. Come with us. It’s a family holiday. We’ll drive back Sunday.” Emily’s pleading eyes wore Margaret down.
“Fine. What else can I do with you lot?” she sighed in defeat.
“Great! Pack whatever you’ll need for the cottage. We’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven.” Before Margaret could reconsider, Emily and James said their goodbyes and left.
Margaret decided there was no harm in a weekend away. She packed a few things and went to bed.
Outside the city, patches of snow lined the motorway, though nothing like the winters she remembered. Back then, January meant bitter frosts.
They *had* spent every New Year at the cottage—first just the two of them, then with Emily, for whom the trips were an adventure. Often, they invited friends. The tradition had started with Margaret’s father.
On the 30th, they’d arrive, decorate a tree indoors and another outside the windows. Build snowmen. How long ago that seemed. Where had it all gone? Emily grew up and started celebrating with her own friends. The last two years, she and her husband had stayed home. Then he left. Or rather, Margaret threw him out.
She’d come back early once and found him with the neighbour. They weren’t naked in bed—that would have shattered her. But they sat at the kitchen table, drinking tea, heads bent together, shoulders touching. Intimate in its own way.
She’d lingered in the hallway, listening to their murmurs and laughter. They didn’t notice her at first. When they did, the neighbour fled, flustered. Pretty, young, having only just moved in. Her husband stammered excuses, swore nothing had happened.
As if. How many times had they been alone? Plenty of time for everything. Unlikely they’d spent all those moments telling jokes.
Even now, Margaret couldn’t think of it calmly. Back then, she’d screamed, made a scene, thrown his things into a suitcase and shoved it into the hall.
Emily begged her to forgive him, but Margaret couldn’t. She missed him, cried, raged—but forgiveness was impossible. She didn’t care where he’d gone, so long as it wasn’t to the neighbour. She made a point of ignoring the woman in the stairwell. Eventually, the neighbour moved away. Margaret settled, but forgiveness? Never.
They’d been married twenty-six years. The worst part wasn’t the betrayal—it was that he’d done it *in their home*, on their couch or bed. How could she forgive that? He swore it was a one-time mistake. How could she believe him? His sister visited once, said William was living with her, miserable. As if Margaret wasn’t?
“Forgive him. These things happen. If you don’t, someone else will snap him up. You’ll regret it.”
Truthfully, Margaret *had* considered it. Emily was married now, living apart. The loneliness was unbearable. If William had called, come to her… But he hadn’t. And pride kept her from reaching out first.
So six months passed. Emily saw her father occasionally. Said he’d lost weight, looked unwell. Urged her to reconcile.
Margaret couldn’t imagine sharing a roof—or a bed—with him again. Seeing him would only dredge up the pain. Or worse, living as strangers. No. Better alone than like that.
She unbuttoned her coat, loosened her scarf. The car had grown stuffy. Emily and James murmured up front. The engine’s steady hum lulled Margaret into a doze. She woke as the car stopped at the cottage’s picket fence. Stepping out, she inhaled the crisp air. Footprints and tire tracks marred the patchy snow. James must have been here earlier, she realized.
By the window stood a small tree, decked with baubles and tinsel. The one from her childhood had been cut down years ago—too overgrown. William planted this one years back. It had shot up since last winter.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” Emily joined her.
James unloaded grocery bags from the boot, ferrying them to the door.
“Mum, take the eggs.” Emily handed her a basket.
Margaret took it but didn’t move.
“Go on, you’ll catch cold. We’ll catch up.”
She *was* cold. Emily and James lingered by the car, whispering. Noticing her stare, Emily waved her on.
Still, Margaret hesitated. An odd dread gripped her at the thought of entering. Memories of lost happiness would ambush her. She glanced back. Emily and James were following. Reassured, she turned the handle—the door was unlocked. She stepped into the narrow hallway and froze.
The living room door stood open. A table draped in white, champagne flutes, candles in holders. Chairs circled it. The cottage was ready. Then the lock clicked behind her. Margaret whirled, jiggling the handle. Locked from the outside.
“Emily! What kind of joke is this? Open up!”
“Mummy, we’ll fetch you Sunday,” Emily called through the door.
“Margaret?” A voice from inside.
She nearly dropped the basket. William stood in the doorway, blocking the light.
“What are you doing here? Was this your idea? Not funny. Open this door *now*!” she demanded, stamping her foot like a child. The distant rumble of the car’s engine answered her.
“What’s this? You plotted this together?” she snapped.
“Emily wanted to reconcile us. I swear, I didn’t know. She called, asked me to come. Said they’d join us, to get the heating on. Now they’ve left us here. Will you come in, or would you rather chase after them?” he quipped.
“Open this door! Or I swear—” She glared at the basket in her hands.
“Calm down. Come inside, rest, then we’ll decide. If you want, I’ll drive you back.”
“So James didn’t come here? You did all this?” She gestured at the table set for three.
“Yes. Like I said, Emily rang. Come on, give me your coat.” He reached out, but she shied away.
“I can manage,” she said stiffly.
She paced the room. Nothing had changed. Like stepping into the past.
“Emily brought food. The bags are outside.”
William fetched them.
“Champagne, fruit, sausage… Feasting tonight! Shall we celebrate?” He set a bottle on the table.
Soon, platters of meat, salads, fruit covered the table. The smells made Margaret’s mouth water.
William sat opposite, popped the champagne, filled their glasses.
“I’m glad Emily arranged this. We can talk properly at last. To you.” He raised his glass.
“Wait. If you drink, how will you drive?”
“Do you *really* want to leave? Stay. They’ll collect you tomorrow. Look at all this food—we can’t waste it.”
Margaret said nothing.
“Meg, can you ever forgive me?” He took a sip.
“Me being here means nothing. The three of you planned this.”
“Don’t. After all these years? There’s no oneThe quiet hum of the cottage wrapped around them like an old, familiar blanket, and for the first time in months, Margaret let herself believe that maybe—just maybe—forgiveness wasn’t as impossible as she’d thought.
