**Longing for a Lost Home**
I woke at dawn. The cottage in Little Wetherby was quiet, save for the soft chirping of birds outside the window. I made a simple breakfast, brewed a strong cup of tea, and gasped when I glanced outside.
“Good heavens, look at all that snow!” I muttered, staring at the drifts piling up in the yard.
Pulling on my old winter coat, I stepped out to clear the path. The moment my foot touched the porch, a distant but familiar voice carried through the frosty air.
“Gran! Gran!” someone called.
“Must be the neighbours,” I thought—but my chest tightened with dread.
I hurried to the gate, peered down the lane, and stood frozen in disbelief.
“It can’t be!” I pressed a hand to my heart.
“You’re really taking her to the city?” My legs gave way, and I sank onto a chair, my hands trembling.
The news my daughter, Emily, had just delivered struck like a bolt from the blue.
“What’s so strange about that? Charlotte’s seven—it’s time for school,” she replied calmly, biting into a slice of shepherd’s pie.
A lump rose in my throat. My cosy cottage, my refuge, suddenly felt suffocating, as if the walls were closing in.
“There’s a good school here in the village—you went to it yourself!” I snapped, standing abruptly to busy myself with the dishes.
Emily set down her fork and sipped her tea.
“Mum, it’s not up for debate. I can’t leave her here. I’ve already enrolled her—just need to buy her uniform.”
“Seven years, and you never needed her before. What’s changed?” My voice shook.
She shrugged. “What do you mean? I visited every weekend.”
“Every weekend?” I gave a bitter laugh. “Once a month, if that.”
“Mum, I was working!”
“Did Charlotte need your job? She grew up without her mother—with me!”
Emily turned away. “You’re not a stranger. We agreed.”
“Agreed,” I repeated hollowly.
“But now I’ve got my own flat in London,” she said proudly. “No more dragging her from one rented room to another.”
There was truth in that, and I knew it. Yet the ache inside me only grew, like a snowball rolling downhill.
“That’s good, Emily. But Charlotte and I—what difference does it make to us? You did it for yourself, not her. Harsh as it sounds—you never needed her. Not then, not now.”
Emily shot up, her eyes blazing, but she swallowed whatever sharp reply was on her tongue.
“I’m taking her today,” she muttered, stepping outside with a heavy sigh.
I nearly followed, nearly shouted that the city had ruined her—but I held back.
Charlotte, playing in the yard with friends, stilled when she saw her mother. She studied her, trying to place the face. In her mind, Emily was always a blur—something like me, but sharper. Slender, with striking features, as if untouched by time. Her sun-bleached hair, unnatural against her roots, was the only thing linking her to the girl. Yet Charlotte couldn’t look away.
“Pack your things—the bus leaves at five,” Emily said flatly, staring past her.
Charlotte’s heart leapt. All those years dreaming of her mother holding her, saying she’d missed her—
“What should I bring?” she asked eagerly.
“Just what you’ll need. One bag.”
I watched as my granddaughter scurried about, gathering her things, my heart splitting in two. Charlotte was my light, my life—now she was slipping away. I pulled her close, stroking her hair, desperate to keep the moment.
“Come on, we’ll be late,” Emily said, checking her watch.
“Gran, I’ve got to go,” Charlotte squirmed, but her curls caught on my coat button—a sign, I thought.
“Visit on weekends!” I called, rushing after them.
Charlotte glanced back once, briefly, before hurrying on.
The grief that swallowed me then was worse than when I’d lost my husband. Then, I’d mourned, but I’d lived. Now, something inside me had snapped—the very backbone of my life was splintering.
Autumn brought a chill. I dressed warmer, barely noticing the unlit hearth. I harvested the garden, jarred preserves for winter, and realised—without Charlotte, only pain remained. Hours I spent by the window, watching the lane, tracking the village children coming home from school. Sometimes I waited for the bus, hoping she’d step off.
No telephone of my own. I’d rush to Mrs. Wilkins’, pay with a jar of chutney to call my daughter. But Emily always answered in clipped tones, distracted.
“Gran, will Charlotte come for half-term?” a neighbour’s girl asked one day.
I paused, raking leaves. “When is it?”
“Next week.”
“I don’t know. We haven’t spoken.”
“Shame. I miss her.”
“So do I, love,” I whispered, tears falling.
I abandoned the rake, retreated inside, and wept until my throat burned. “What kind of life is this?” I thought, splashing my face with cold water.
Then—an idea. I dug out an old notebook, scribbled Emily’s address on a scrap of paper. I’d never been invited to her new flat. But my mind was made up.
“Mrs. Wilkins, a ticket to London for Friday,” I said at the coach station. “Off to see my granddaughter—half-term. No return yet.”
The ticket in my hand felt like a lifeline. The coach crawled, stopping at every hamlet. The driver grumbled, passengers sighed, but I kept my gaze on the bare trees flanking the road.
The city had changed beyond recognition. Fields I once knew were now tower blocks. I unfolded the scrap, boarded a bus to the “Fairview Estate.”
The place loomed—two high-rises framing a long buildingCharlotte clung to me fiercely, whispering, “I’m home now,” and as I held her close, the quiet promise of a fresh start settled over us like the first snow of winter.