I brew my morning tea at the same time each day. Habit, I suppose. There’s something comforting in the consistency, even if there’s no one to share it with. The old kettle rattles to a boil, steam curls upward like the past refusing to let go. I pour it, sit by the window, and watch the garden—overgrown now, but still defiant, still alive.

Sometimes I imagine James as a boy again. His laugh, bright and irrepressible, echoing through the trees. Sometimes I still think I hear it. But it’s just the wind, or the crows in the hedgerow. I catch myself glancing at the gate, half-hoping, half-dreading that one day he’ll walk through it again. But he never does.

It’s a funny thing, getting older. You become invisible in plain sight. The world grows faster, noisier, and you slow down—not because you want to, but because you must. People mistake that for irrelevance. Even family. Especially family.

I don’t blame Emily entirely. I know it must be hard, building a life with in-laws hovering too close. Maybe I reminded her of a grief she didn’t want to inherit. Maybe my silences felt like judgment. Or maybe she simply didn’t like me.

James… he was mine once. All scraped knees, endless questions, and arms flung around my neck after nightmares. I gave him what I could. Not money, not prestige—but time, steadiness, hands that always fixed what was broken.

Now, I fix my own hinges. Patch up my own fences. There’s dignity in that, I suppose. A quiet strength in self-reliance, though it’s lonelier than I ever imagined.

A couple from the village come by sometimes. Sally brings soup, her husband Paul checks the gutters. They don’t stay long, but they’re kind. They remind me I’m still part of something, however small. Last week, Sally mentioned a community group—“People like you,” she said. “People who’ve been left a little too long alone.” I laughed. But inside, something cracked open.

I haven’t decided yet. Maybe I will go. Just to see. Just to remember what it’s like to be part of a room, not just a shadow behind a curtain.

And if James ever remembers… if one day he walks through that gate with his son and says, “Dad, we’ve missed you,” I’ll be here. Not with anger. Just with a cup of tea. And maybe some old photos. I still have the den we built—its blanket roof faded, but sturdy. Like love that was never loud, but always there.

Until then, I brew my tea. And I wait. Not with hope. Not with despair. Just with the quiet kind of love that never left.