Longing for a Lost Home
Elizabeth Whitaker woke at dawn. The stillness in her little cottage in the village of Willowbrook was broken only by the faint chirping of birds outside. She prepared a simple breakfast, brewed strong tea, and gasped as she glanced through the window.
“Good heavens, look at all that snow!” she murmured, staring at the drifts covering the yard.
Elizabeth threw on her old coat and stepped outside to clear the path. No sooner had she set foot on the porch than she heard a distant but familiar voice calling from the snowy lane.
“Gran! Gran!” The voice seemed to come from nowhere.
“Must be someone visiting the neighbours,” she thought, though her heart clenched with foreboding.
Elizabeth hurried to the gate and froze, not believing her eyes.
“This can’t be!” she whispered, pressing a hand to her chest.
“You’re really taking her to the city?” Elizabeth sank onto a chair, her hands trembling.
The news her daughter, Anne, had just delivered struck like a bolt from the blue.
“What’s the matter? Lily’s seven now—it’s time she started school,” Anne replied calmly, taking a bite of her potato pie.
Elizabeth felt a lump rising in her throat. Her cosy home, once her sanctuary, suddenly felt cramped, as if the walls were pressing in.
“We’ve got a good school here in the village—you went to it yourself!” Elizabeth snapped to her feet, busying herself with the clatter of dishes.
Anne set down her fork and took a sip of tea.
“Mum, this isn’t up for debate. I can’t leave her here. I’ve already enrolled her—just need to buy her uniform.”
“Seven years Lily didn’t matter to you—what’s changed now?” Elizabeth’s voice shook.
Anne shrugged. “What do you mean? I visited every weekend.”
“Every weekend?” Elizabeth gave a bitter laugh. “Once a month, if that.”
“I was working, Mum!” Anne shot back.
“And was your job what Lily needed? She grew up without her mother—with me!”
“And what, you’re a stranger? We agreed to this,” Anne muttered, avoiding her gaze.
“We agreed,” Elizabeth repeated, the words like acid.
“Well, now I’ve got my own flat in the city,” Anne said proudly. “No more dragging her from one rented hovel to another.”
There was truth in that, and Elizabeth knew it. But the ache in her heart only grew, like a snowball rolling downhill.
“That’s good, Anne. But it doesn’t help me—or Lily. You did it for yourself, not for her. Harsh as it sounds, you never wanted her—not then, not now.”
Anne stood abruptly, eyes flashing. She bit back whatever sharp retort was on her tongue.
“I’m taking Lily today,” she said flatly and stepped outside, exhaling heavily.
Elizabeth barely stopped herself from following, from shouting that the city had ruined her daughter.
Lily, playing with friends in the yard, froze when she saw her mother. She studied Anne’s face, trying to place it. In Lily’s mind, her mother had always been a blur—someone like Gran. Anne was striking: slender, with sharp features untouched by time. Her honey-blonde hair was the only thing she shared with her daughter. Lily couldn’t look away.
“Get your things. The bus leaves at five,” Anne said, staring past her.
Lily’s heart leapt. How often had she dreamed her mother would hug her, say she missed her?
“What should I pack?” she asked eagerly.
“Just what you need. One bag.”
Elizabeth watched helplessly as her granddaughter bustled about. Lily was her light, her life—now slipping away. She held the girl tight, stroking her hair as if to memorise the feel of it.
“Hurry up, we’ll be late,” Anne said, checking her watch.
“Gran, I’ve got to go,” Lily wriggled, but her curls caught on Elizabeth’s coat button. Elizabeth took it as a sign.
“Come visit on weekends!” she called, chasing them down the lane.
Lily glanced back once before hurrying after her mother.
The grief that swallowed Elizabeth was worse than when her husband had died. She had mourned then, but lived. Now, something inside her had shattered—the very core that had kept her standing.
Autumn deepened. Elizabeth barely noticed the cold, forgetting to light the fire. She harvested the garden, jarred preserves, and realised—without Lily, only emptiness remained. She sat for hours by the window, watching the road, staring at children returning from school. Sometimes she waited for the bus, hoping.
She had no phone. She paid the neighbour with a jar of chutney to call Anne—who always answered in a rush, as if distracted.
“Gran, will Lily come for the holidays?” the neighbour’s girl asked one day.
Elizabeth, raking leaves, paused.
“When are they?”
“Next week.”
“I don’t know. We haven’t spoken.”
“That’s sad. I miss her.”
“So do I, love,” Elizabeth whispered, tears slipping free.
She dropped the rake and fled inside. The sobs came unbidden. “What kind of life is this?” she wondered, splashing her face with cold water.
Then—an idea. She found an old notebook and scribbled Anne’s address. She’d never been invited to the new flat. But her mind was made up.
“Mary, a ticket for the city—Friday,” she told the woman at the coach station. “Visiting my granddaughter. No return yet.”
The ticket felt like a lifeline. The coach crawled, stopping endlessly. The driver swore; passengers muttered. Elizabeth watched the bare trees pass.
The city had changed beyond recognition. Fields had become grey towers. She boarded another bus, clutching her scrap of paper.
The apartment block loomed—two high-rises flanking an arched building. Elizabeth found the right door but it was locked. Then—she saw Lily.
The girl flew into her arms. Both wept.
“There now, sweetheart,” Elizabeth murmured, stroking her hair. “You’ve grown.”
Anne’s flat was bright, spacious. Lily chattered about school, showing photos on a tablet—a word Elizabeth didn’t know.
“Mum at work?”
Lily nodded.
“What does she cook?”
“She’s hardly home. I make food. Spaghetti tonight, soup tomorrow.”
Elizabeth listened, heart breaking as Lily spoke of chores—mopping, laundry.
“Any after-school clubs?”
“No time. But I draw!”
She brought a sketchbook. Elizabeth praised each picture, pride and sorrow twisting together.
“For paints and paper,” she said, pressing money into Lily’s hand.
The girl hugged her, then admitted she had no friends—the block was small, and Anne was always busy.
“Are you alone at night?”
“Sometimes. Mum’s with Andrew.”
Rage rose in Elizabeth’s throat, but she swallowed it.
When Anne stumbled in near dawn, reeking of drink, she brightened momentarily—then scowled.
“Judging me?”
“No.”
The next day, Anne argued on the phone behind the running tap. Elizabeth made pancakes, pretending not to hear.
“Andrew?” she asked when Anne emerged.
“We’re seeing each other,” Anne muttered, wrapping her robe tighter.
“Seeing? Anne, you’re a mother! What’s the point?”
“You don’t get it. My wages barely cover rent. Andrew helps.”
“Better to struggle honestly than take money for—” Elizabeth bit her tongue.
“Who’d want me with a child?”
“You lived seven years without her—had time to settle. Now she’s here, cooking, cleaning, alone at night! She’s seven, Anne!”
“She copes!”
“Copes? You’re stealing her childhood! Remember when you were ten, terrified alone while we searched for the cow? You had family around—Lily’s in a strange city!”
Anne said nothing.
“I pray for you, daughter,” Elizabeth whispered. She shouldered her bag, kissed Lily goodbye.
The journey home was agony. Silent tears fell as the countryside blurred past.
She woke on the cold floor—the fire unlit. Snow fell by morning.
“Gran! Gran!”
Elizabeth stumbled outside. Lily was sprinting up the lane.
“I can’t be without you!” she sobbed.
“Did you come alone?” Elizabeth clutched her tight.
“Yes. Used the money you gave me. I’m sorry.”
“You called ‘Mum’ running here, didn’t you?”
“Yes. You’re my real mum, even if you’re Gran. You raised me.”
“Does Anne know you’re here?”
“No. She’s away with Andrew till Monday.”
“We’ll tell her. Then we’ll sort things properly.” Elizabeth led her inside.