“I know it’s hard for you too without me…”
“What are you two whispering about behind my back? Out with it—what’s the plan?” asked Lydia Andrews.
Her son-in-law and daughter exchanged glances.
“Spit it out. Don’t drag it out.”
“Mum, we thought we’d celebrate Old New Year at the cottage this weekend. Once the workweek starts, we won’t get another chance,” said Emily.
“Wasn’t New Year’s enough for you? Fine, go ahead. The weather’s mild, not much snow, roads are clear. Or is there something else you’re not telling me?” Lydia narrowed her eyes.
“We—well, *we* includes you. You’re coming with us,” Emily announced.
“What do you need *me* for?”
Lydia noticed her daughter’s helpless glance at her husband.
“What’s this all about? I’m not going anywhere. You youngsters don’t want to stay home, but I’m perfectly fine here. I’ve no interest in celebrating, especially Old New Year. Go if you want. Just remember, the cottage will be freezing and damp. You’ll need to get the fireplace roaring.”
“That’s exactly what we wanted to tell you. James was there yesterday—got everything ready,” Emily said hurriedly.
“Look at you, so efficient. Though I have a feeling this isn’t just about a weekend getaway.”
“We fancied a change of scenery. The long holiday’s over, and we never made it out to the countryside. It’s peaceful, fresh air, and the cottage is warm and dry,” James confirmed.
“And when did you manage that? Did you light the fireplace yourself? Without setting the place ablaze?” Lydia asked skeptically.
“Took a day off. Emily kept going on about how you always spent New Year’s there. We thought…” James trailed off.
Lydia didn’t miss how Emily tugged his sleeve and shot him a sharp look.
“Mum, please. Let’s all go together. It’s a family holiday. We’ll be back by Sunday.” Emily’s pleading eyes wore Lydia down.
“Fine. What else can I do with you lot?” she sighed in defeat.
“Pack whatever you’ll need for the cottage. We’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven.” Before Lydia could reconsider, Emily and James said their goodbyes and left.
Lydia decided there was no harm in a weekend at the cottage. She packed a few things and went to bed.
Outside the city, patches of snow lined the motorway, though nothing like the winters of her childhood. Back then, the frost bit deep around Epiphany.
They’d spent every New Year at the cottage—first just the two of them, then with Emily, for whom the trips were an adventure. Friends often joined. The tradition had started with Lydia’s father.
Around the 30th, they’d decorate one tree indoors and another outside by the windows. Build snowmen. How long ago that was. Where had it all gone? Emily grew up and celebrated with friends. The last two years, it was just Lydia and her husband at home. Then he left. Or rather, she threw him out.
She’d come home early once and found him with the neighbor. They weren’t naked in bed—that would’ve been unforgivable. They were at the kitchen table, sharing tea. But the intimacy of it stung just as much.
Lydia lingered in the hallway, listening to their laughter, his occasional whispers. They hadn’t noticed her at first, sitting close, shoulders touching.
“What’s going on here?” she’d demanded.
The pair startled apart. The neighbor—young, pretty, new to the building—flushed and fled. Her husband stammered excuses, insisting nothing had happened.
As if she’d believe that. How many times had they been alone? Plenty of time for everything. Unlikely they’d spent it telling jokes.
Even now, the memory twisted her stomach. Back then, she’d screamed, behaved like a fishwife, lost all control. He dressed and left. She’d flung whatever clothes she grabbed into a suitcase and shoved it into the hall.
Emily begged her to forgive him, but Lydia couldn’t. She missed him, wept, raged, or sank into numbness—but forgiveness eluded her. She didn’t care where he’d gone, so long as it wasn’t to the neighbor. She’d glare at the woman in the lift or yard until, finally, the neighbor moved away. The sight of her gone brought some calm. But forgiving him? Impossible.
Twenty-six years together. The worst part wasn’t the betrayal—it was *where*. Their flat, their sofa, their bed. How could she ever overlook that? He swore it was a one-time mistake. How could she trust him? What stopped them from meeting again? If she hadn’t come home early, she might never have known.
His sister visited once, said George was staying with her, that he was miserable. As if Lydia wasn’t suffering too?
“Forgive him. It happens. If you don’t, some other woman will snap him up, and you’ll regret it.”
Truthfully, Lydia had considered it. Emily was married and living apart. The loneliness gnawed at her. If George had called, if he’d come by… But he didn’t. And pride wouldn’t let her reach out first.
So they’d lived apart for six months. Emily saw her father occasionally, reported he’d lost weight, looked unwell. Kept urging reconciliation.
Lydia couldn’t fathom sharing a roof—or a bed—again. Seeing him would only dredge up the pain. Or would they live like 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 hum lulled Lydia into a doze. She woke as the car stopped at the cottage gate. Stepping out, she inhaled the crisp air. Tracks—tires and footprints—marred the slushy snow. James *had* been here.
By the windows stood a tree draped in tinsel and baubles. The one from her childhood was long gone—too overgrown, blocking light. George had planted a new spruce years ago. It had shot up since last winter.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” Emily joined her.
James unloaded bags from the boot, ferrying them to the door.
“Mum, take the eggs.” Emily handed her a small basket.
Lydia took it but didn’t move.
“Go on, you’ll freeze. We’ll catch up.”
The chill seeped in. James and Emily whispered by the car. Spotting Lydia’s gaze, Emily waved her on.
Lydia hesitated. An odd fear gripped her—stepping inside meant facing memories of a happiness gone for good. She reached the door and glanced back. Emily and James followed. Reassured, she turned the handle. The door was unlocked. She stepped into the narrow hallway and froze.
The living room door stood open. A white-clothed table gleamed with crystal glasses and candlelight. Chairs circled it. The cottage awaited them. Then the lock clicked behind her. Lydia whirled, jiggling the handle. Locked from the outside.
“Emily! What’s this nonsense? Open up!” she shouted.
“Mum, we’ll fetch you Sunday,” Emily called through the door.
“Lydia?” A voice came from inside.
She nearly dropped the basket. George’s voice. She spun. He stood in the doorway, blocking the light.
“What are *you* doing here? Was this your idea? A rotten joke. Open this door!” She stamped her foot like a child. The car’s engine rumbled to life in the distance.
“What’s the meaning of this? You conspired against me?” she spat.
“Emily wanted to reconcile us. I swear, I didn’t know. She called, asked me to come, said they’d join us. Now they’ve left us here. Coming in, or will you chase them?” he asked wryly.
“Open it! Or I swear—” She glared at the basket.
“Calm down. Rest 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. Candles at either end. He hadn’t lied—he wasn’t expecting her.
“Yes. Like I said, Emily called. Let me take your coat.” He reached out, but she stepped back.
“I’ll manage.”
She paced the room. Nothing had changed. As if time had stopped.
“They brought food. Bags are outside,” she said.
George fetched them.
“Champagne, fruit, sausages… Living the high life! Shall we celebrate?” He set a bottle on the table.
Soon, the table bore a spread—roast meat, salads, fruit. The aromas made Lydia’s mouth water.
George sat opposite, popped the champagne, and filled their glasses.
“I’m glad Emily arranged this. We can talk properly now. To you.” George raised his glass.
“WaitShe hesitated, then clinked her glass against his, the past melting away like the winter frost outside.