**A Longing for Home**
Helen was just past fifty when her only daughter, Emily, married a foreigner and moved far away to England, to the city of London, where towering bridges arched over the murky currents of the Thames.
Her husband, William, had opposed the marriage. He clenched his fists whenever the subject arose, but Helen and Emily persuaded him with visions of a better life—grand opportunities, a brighter future, grandchildren with open roads before them.
“Just don’t forget where you come from,” William told his daughter at the airport, hugging her tightly. “Keep our ways. Pass them on. God willing, we’ll see each other again…”
Ten years passed with only scattered phone calls and brief messages. Emily never once returned to her hometown in Manchester. It was too expensive, she said, their money hard-earned, and spending it on flights just for a visit—reckless.
When Emily had children—first a son, then a daughter—the talk of visits home faded entirely. Helen clung to her daughter’s promise, though it ached in her chest like an old wound:
“Just wait, Mum. When we’re steadier on our feet, we’ll bring you over. For good. You’ll live properly at last…”
Those words became her lifeline. She waited, endured, despite the longing that tightened around her ribs. William saw her sorrow but said nothing—Emily’s absence gnawed at him too.
Then, at last, the day arrived. Emily wrote that her parents could come. Rooms were ready. William scowled, uneasy about leaving, but Helen brightened instantly.
“Let’s go, Will,” she urged, her eyes alight. “Our Emily’s there, and the grandkids we’ve only seen in pictures. I want to hold them, to feel them close. How much time do we have left? It’s slipping away…”
William, as always, gave in.
Helen sold their cosy flat in Manchester, ignoring her husband’s grumbling. He only waved a hand: “Do as you like. If it goes wrong, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
With the money from the sale, they crossed the sea. Helen’s heart raced—finally, they would be together again, a family, like the old days. Happiness seemed within reach.
Yet from the very first moment, everything tilted sideways.
Emily and her husband met them at Heathrow, drove them to their home in the outskirts, showed them their rooms—and then left. “Work,” they explained briskly. The grandchildren watched from a distance, curious but wary. No embraces, no warmth—just silence.
Worse, the children barely spoke English. Helen and William, who had studied French in school, faltered through halting exchanges, smiling awkwardly.
That evening, Helen imagined a proper supper, long talks after years apart. But Emily’s husband ate quickly and excused himself. The children vanished early—”a busy day at school,” Emily said.
“At least sit with us awhile, love,” Helen pleaded. “Tell us about life here.”
“Mum, Dad, you’re exhausted,” Emily replied firmly. “Rest. We’ll talk later—plenty of time.”
But time never came.
Emily and her husband were always working, the grandchildren lived in their own world, and the language barrier made every conversation a struggle. Helen tried to help around the house, but Emily stopped her.
“Mum, don’t trouble yourself! We have a cleaner. Just relax.”
“Let us fetch the children from school, then,” Helen suggested, watching them with a pang. “Maybe we’ll bond. They look at us like strangers.”
“No, Mum, they’ve got a nanny. It’s her job.”
“Then send her away!” Helen nearly cried. “Why pay when we’re here?”
“That’s not how things work here,” Emily sighed. “People rely on those wages.”
“Oh, Emily,” Helen’s voice trembled, “I don’t understand your ways. None of it feels right…”
“‘Right’?” Emily laughed. “You’re not in Manchester anymore, Mum. Get used to it.”
“Trying, love,” Helen whispered. “But we’re strangers here. No one to talk to, no way to speak. Your father was right—we shouldn’t have come…”
“Mum, don’t be silly!” Emily insisted. “It’s only been a month. You’ll adjust.”
“We’re too old for adjusting,” Helen wiped her eyes. “I want to go home. Pity we sold the flat…”
“Enough,” William cut in. “We’ll buy another. Let’s go back. I’m sick of this place. Seen all we needed to.”
“What? No!” Emily faltered. “You can’t leave!”
“It’s all right, love,” Helen breathed deeply for the first time in weeks. “We’ll stay a little longer. I’ll write to Aunt Margaret—we’ll need somewhere to stay when we return…”
Back in Manchester, they were welcomed like returning heroes. Family laid a feast, old friends gathered. Everyone asked: why come back? Was England not what they hoped? Had they quarrelled with Emily?
Helen and William spoke warmly of Emily’s life, of the grandchildren, never complaining. But when someone asked, “If it was so grand, why return?”—Helen hesitated. William answered for her.
“East or west, home is best.”
They sat at the table till midnight, singing old songs, laughing, remembering. Helen, surrounded by familiar faces, wept with quiet joy.
Then came the tasks—finding a new flat, repairs, settling in again. They chose somewhere smaller, but it was enough. And with each passing day, Helen and William felt something new taking root in their hearts—real, warm, and unmistakably theirs.