Love has a funny way of turning headsso much so that everything else fades into the background. Thats exactly what happened to Oliver. He fell head over heels for Tilly and promptly forgot about everything elsecommon sense, duty, even his own mother. Choices between comfort and conscience are never simple.
“Ollie, where are we going to live?” Tilly batted her eyelashes sweetly, her tone dripping with faux innocence.
“Where else? At mine.”
“But… you live with your mum,” she pouted.
“So what? Shes lovely, quietyoull hardly notice her,” Oliver reassured his beloved.
Oliver wasnt some fresh-faced lad. He was well into his thirties, and this would be his second marriage. His first wife hadnt worked outtoo different, too ambitious. Shed assumed he was raking it in, expected him to dive into business, but without startup funds, hed floundered. She left, thankfully before kids entered the picture.
He met Tilly in a pub. He and his mate Liam had popped in after work to celebrate Liams newborn sona healthy lad weighing nearly nine pounds. A few pints in, they spotted a lonely-looking woman nursing a drink.
“Cheer up, love,” Oliver grinned, sliding into her booth. “Join usmy mate heres just had a bouncing baby boy.”
Tilly hesitated all of two seconds before joining them.
“Congratulations,” she said, raising her glass to Liam. “A sonthats proper, an heir and all.”
After last orders, Liam headed home, but Oliver walked Tilly back to her flat-share. She worked at a clothing factory and lived nearby, having moved from a tiny village up north. She was ten years younger. That very night, he stayed over.
They dated, strolled through parks, and somehowwithout Oliver even noticingTilly steered the conversation toward marriage and babies.
“Ollie, youre over thirty and childless. Time to sort that out, eh?” she laughed. The noisy flat-share was wearing thin; she fancied a proper home.
Oliver, smitten, proposed.
“Yes! Absolutely!” she squealed. “When do we sign the papers?”
“Soon. For now, move in with me and Mum.”
“No, Ollie. I wont live with your mother. Ive heard too many horror stories about mothers-in-law. Lets rent our own place.”
“Tilly, love, I cant afford rent and still feed us. Theres got to be another way.”
Meanwhile, Margaret sat by the kitchen window, watching snowflakes drift past. Retired after decades teaching maths, her health wasnt what it used to be. A few ambulance trips had seen to that.
That evening, Oliver brought Tilly home. Theyd met beforebrief, awkward visits where Tilly barely acknowledged Margaret before vanishing into Olivers room, laughter spilling out. She left without so much as a goodbye.
“Mum, Tilly and I are getting married. Shell move in… but…” Oliver hesitated. “She doesnt want you here. Ive found a lovely care homegreat staff, doctors on hand. You understand, dont you? We need our space.”
The world can be cruel. Its easy to shunt ageing parents asidecare homes exist for a reason. Easier still to forget the sleepless nights, the sacrifices, the unwavering belief in their child. Oliver didnt think of that.
“I… understand, son,” Margaret whispered, something inside her snapping.
She packed her meagre belongings into a battered suitcase, and off she wentto a care home on the outskirts of town.
Her life now revolved around a tiny room, a window, and a worn photo of Oliver on the bedside tableall that remained of her old life.
She hopedsome stubborn part of her still believedher son would come back. Widowed at thirty-six, shed raised Ollie alone, working two jobs just to keep him fed and clothed.
“Ollie,” shed murmur at the photo, tears slipping free.
Time passed. Oliver never visited.
Life with Tilly? Oh, it was grandfor about six months. Then she started rolling home tipsy, missing dinners.
“Tilly, where do you even go? Youre my wife!”
“Out with the girls, obviously. Sarahs birthday, yeah?” she slurred, shrugging. “Relax, youre not starving. You can cook.”
Exactly a year later, Oliver divorced herand remembered he had a mother.
“God, Ive been punished,” he muttered. “Sent Mum away and didnt even check on her…”
One day, Margaret sat in her armchair, staring at the grey sky, when the door creaked open.
“Mum…?”
She turnedand couldnt believe her eyes. There stood Oliver, gaunt, dark circles under his eyes.
“Ollie! Are you ill?” Her anger evaporated instantly.
“Mum, Im sorry… I was a right git. Tillyshe wasnt who I thought. Cheating, never home… She left me.”
Margaret stroked his hair as he sobbed into her lap.
“Its alright, son. You came back. Thats what matters.”
“Pack your things. Youre coming home.”
Back in her flat, the faintest trace of perfume still lingering, they settled into their old rhythm. Oliver poured his guilt into giftsa cosy blanket, a warm jumper, an orthopedic pillow.
“Mum, you spent your life on me. I wont waste another second.”
He found a better-paying job, even talked of buying a bigger place.
“But you should marry again,” Margaret insisted. “You need a family.”
“Fine. Meet Veronica.”
The next evening, Oliver brought her homea kind-eyed woman with a homemade apple pie.
“Margaret, I hope you like it,” she said softly.
“You darling girl!”
Later, Margaret asked, “Does she mind me living with you?”
Oliver flushed. “When I told her about the care home, she near throttled me. Said I ought to be ashamed.”
For the first time in years, Margarets heart felt light.
Soon, evenings were spent with tea and Veronicas piesapple, cherry, whatever took her fancy. When Margaret dozed off, Veronica tucked a blanket around her.
“Ta, love,” Margaret would murmur.
Oliver finally understood: home isnt walls. Its the people waiting for you.
One dinner, Veronica beamed.
“Margaret, Ollie… Im pregnant.”
Margaret burst into tears. “Oh, my darlings!”
Oliver, stunned, swept Veronica into his arms. “Youre brilliant!”
That night, he lay awake, grinning.
“Its never too late to fix things. Never too late to say sorry.”
Time passed. Veronica gave Margaret a grandson, Oliver a son. Their flat rang with laughter. Two years later, they moved somewhere biggera nursery, a room for Margaret.
Life, it seemed, had a way of working out.
