«No! I said no! Do you hear me? Were not changing a thing. Dad built that veranda with his own hands, hammered every nail himself!»
«Christopher, love, its rotting away!» Emma sighed, pressing the phone so hard against her ear it ached. «The floorboards are giving way, the roof leaksits dangerous! Victor says we could carefully take it apart and»
«Victor! That Victor of yours again!» Her sons voice turned rough as sandpaper. «Whats it to him? Hed tear the whole place down if he could. Mum, its not just a verandaits *him*!»
«Chris, how is it remembering him if its about to collapse?» Her voice cracked. «We just want it safe for you and Lucy, for when the grandkids come»
«There wont *be* grandkids on your new veranda!» he snapped. «I wont set foot there if you touch so much as a plank. Ive got to go.»
The dial tone hit like a verdict. Emma lowered the phone to the kitchen table, the hollow ache in her chest tightening. Outside, yellowed leaves clung to the oak tree, the world as grey as her mood.
Victor peeked in, silver-haired, reading glasses perched on his nose, a book in hand. One look at her face told him everything. «Again?» he murmured, setting the book aside.
She nodded, words stuck in her throat. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and the warmth of himthe faint cedar of his cologne, the quiet steadinessfinally loosened her tears. She wept silently into his checked shirt.
«Em, love, dont» He smoothed her hair. «You knew how hed react.»
«But the cottage» She hiccuped. «Hell never forgive us. But we *have* to fix itits falling apart!»
«Bugger the cottage,» he said softly. «Well sort it. But *you* matter. Look what this is doing to you.»
Theyd met two years ago at a school reunion. Emma had gone reluctantly, dragged by her friend Olivia. Ten years had passed since losing James, her first husband, and every one had been for Christopher. School, uni, his first jobshe hadnt noticed the wrinkles or the quiet creeping into the house when he moved out with Lucy.
Then Victor, her quiet classmate from the back row, now a professor, also widowed, had struck up a conversation. Theyd talked all eveningshared films, autumn walks, the ache of loneliness. Their romance was slow, careful: theater dates, cafés, her heart thawing.
When she told Chris, hed surprised her. «Mum, youre happy. Thats all that matters.» Shed been overjoyed. They married a year laterjust family, no fuss. But at the reception, Chris had raised his glass to the wall, not Victor: «To Dad. A real man. No one replaces him.»
The room had frozen. Lucy tugged his sleeve, but he shrugged her off. Emma burned with shame; Victor squeezed her hand under the table.
After that, Chris stopped calling. Her messages went unread. On her birthday, a courier delivered chrysanthemumsno note. That night, shed confessed to Victor: «I dont know what I did wrong.»
«Hes grieving,» Victor said simply. «Grieving his dad, and you moving on.»
But time didnt help. The veranda argument was another blow. James had built it; to Chris, Victors repairs were sacrilege.
«Should I go to him?» she asked later, pulling away.
«Not now,» Victor cautioned. «Hes raw. Let him cool.»
Days passed. Olivia called: «Your boys being a selfish git. Ten years alone, and he begrudges you happiness?»
Emma tried Lucy next. «Hes struggling,» Lucy admitted. «Thinks youve forgotten his dad. We fought about it. Last night, I left.»
Emmas heart sank. Chris was alone.
The next day, she stood at his flat door, a pot of soup in hand. He opened a crackeyes bloodshot, face gaunt.
«Mum?»
«Let me in, love.»
The flat smelled of takeaway and loneliness. She set the soup down. «Why do you hate me?» she whispered.
«I dont!» He turned to the window. «I justhow could you move on? So *fast*.»
«*Fast?*» Her voice broke. «Ten years, Chris. Ten years talking to his photo, raising you. Was I supposed to stop living?»
«He built that cottage for *us*,» he choked. «Now some blokes rewriting it.»
«You think Id forget you?» She pulled him close, his stubble scratching her cheek. «Youre my *son*. No one replaces that.»
He crumpled against her, sobbing. They talked for hoursher loneliness, his fear of being left behind. When she left, he mumbled, «Sorry, Mum.»
«Me too, love.»
She knew it wasnt over. But the wall had cracked. Her boy was talking again.
