**A Well-Earned Joy**
In a quiet little town by the River Thames, a wedding was being prepared. Emily, a young choir conductor, was finishing music school. Her voice, polished by years of training, shone like a rare gem—clear and powerful. The school only took the best, those who could sing in a way that made hearts stop. And Emily was one of them—her voice, sharpened by masters, gleamed like a diamond.
From the early morning, the house buzzed with activity. Weddings are busy affairs—dresses, makeup, final touches. Then came the *bridal ransom*, a playful tradition no wedding here skipped, full of laughter and games. Emily, giggling, fended off her groom’s silly challenges while her friends cheered her on with lively voices.
After the ransom came the registry office, modest but decked with flowers. Then the young crowd set off, driving through town and beyond to the riverside where golden birches stood in autumn’s glow. But first, Emily insisted on stopping home—she had to show herself to her grandmother, Margaret Spencer, in her full bridal glory. At ninety-two, Margaret wouldn’t be joining them at the reception—age had its limits.
Margaret’s legs ached. As a girl, barely more than a child, she’d chilled them working in a factory during the war. Hard times stole childhoods, yet her heart stayed young, and her love for Emily was boundless. She loved her granddaughter fiercely, the way only grandmothers can—unconditionally, with every fibre of her soul.
Whenever Emily visited, Margaret couldn’t look away, as if gazing upon a marvel. Her parents never dared raise their voices around Margaret. The moment they began fussing, she’d cut them off: *“Hush! She deserves nothing but love!”* And they’d fall silent, chastened. Margaret believed Emily should be cherished—life was harsh enough without family adding to the weight.
And now, her beloved granddaughter was getting married. Despite the ache in her legs, Margaret decided to meet her outside. She wore her finest dress—deep burgundy with delicate embroidery—fastened an old pearl necklace she’d kept since girlhood, and tied a matching scarf. With effort, she hobbled to the bench by the door and sat, fluttering with nerves like a girl before her first dance. Two elderly neighbours joined her, one even dragging out her own chair. Together, the three women waited, reminiscing about their own long-gone weddings, their dreams and losses.
Then cars decked with ribbons pulled into the courtyard. Out stepped the newlyweds. Emily, in her white dress, looked like a swan—radiant, soft, her familiar face making Margaret’s heart clench. Beside her stood the groom, William, tall and sturdy as an oak in his crisp suit. Behind them spilled a boisterous crowd of friends, laughing and teasing.
When Margaret saw Emily, she couldn’t hold back tears—joy laced with the bittersweet weight of years. At ninety-two, she knew her time was short, yet here she was, still marveling at her Emily, her pride. Her granddaughter approached, glowing, then whispered something to her friends. They exchanged glances before forming a semicircle before the three old women. And they sang.
Their voices, honed in training, flowed like a river—rich and pure. This wasn’t mere singing; it was theatre, artistry beyond ordinary reach. They sang wartime tunes, the very ones that had carried those women through their youth, when the world crumbled but hearts still clung to love and hope. Emily stood at the center, her voice rising above the rest like a beam of light.
The courtyard stilled. Passersby paused, wondering at this sudden magic in an otherwise ordinary, scuffed little square. Who were these performers, singing so beautifully it stole breath? But this was youth singing for age—singing of childhoods lost, dreams unfulfilled, things gone forever. Singing of war, of loss, of love that outlasted it all.
Margaret sat, trying to keep composure. She wanted to show pride, to stay steady—but tears came unbidden. She wept, dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, then wept again. Yet inside, she felt warmth, lightness. Because youth was singing their songs—the ones from days when fathers left for war and not all returned. The songs that held their hearts when the world burned.
It meant youth still had a heart. Still had a soul. What was youth without them? And if the young hadn’t laid flowers at memorials—so be it. Memorials were cold, silent stone. Here, on this bench, sat three living souls shaped by fire and struggle. They’d earned this song. Earned this love. Earned this moment, where youth bowed before them, honouring all they’d lived.
