**Diary Entry – A Surprising Romance**
My mother-in-law, Margaret Elizabeth, has lived without a husband for many years. Her divorce from my father-in-law was difficult, and she essentially raised her son alone. She never lacked male attention—she’s a striking woman with a strong personality—but she never remarried. She always said she feared a stepfather might mistreat her boy, and with her temper, she wouldn’t have stood for it. So, her youth was spent working and raising her son. There was no time for dating—every thought was consumed by how to provide for him, how to raise him right, especially when his father didn’t contribute a single penny, let alone proper child support.
And I must say, she did brilliantly. For that, I’m endlessly grateful. My husband is reliable, caring, and I know that’s her legacy.
But time passed. Our son grew up, married, and we had a daughter—Margaret’s granddaughter, her new purpose in life. She adores spoiling the little one: walks in Hyde Park, baking scones, reading bedtime stories. You’d think she’d be content. But no—suddenly, life had other plans, and I’m still reeling from the shock.
Just before Christmas, she met a man. By chance, in a queue at Selfridges in central London. They got talking, exchanged numbers, and—well, it began. His name is Edward William, a retired lieutenant colonel, also divorced, living alone. According to Margaret, they have *so* much in common, it must be fate. They both love classic films, strolls along the Thames, even read the same books. They even take their tea the same way—no sugar, just a slice of lemon. Straight out of a rom-com!
Here’s the snag, though: Edward keeps asking her out. My husband and I work late most days, so our little girl is usually with her grandmother. Bringing a toddler on a romantic outing? Hardly appropriate. So yesterday, Margaret rang me with a request that nearly made me choke on my tea: *“Darling, could you look after Lily for an evening? I’d like to… pop out for a date.”*
Honestly, I barely stifled a laugh. A *date*? At her age? She’s over fifty, yet there she was, giddy as a schoolgirl, planning an evening stroll in Kensington Gardens, followed by—of all things—a modern art exhibit! I suggested, *“Why not have Edward over for tea? Lily would be safe here.”* But no, Margaret was adamant: *“That’s not the same. A proper date means walking, talking under the stars.”* Like something from a novel!
So, I had to beg off work early. My boss gave me a look like I’d gone mad, but he relented. Now I’m sitting here, realising—this won’t be a one-off. The way her eyes light up when she talks about Edward, this won’t stop at one outing. Soon, I’ll either be taking unpaid leave or scrambling to find a nursery for Lily. Because something tells me Margaret’s serious. She even hinted that Edward is *“a steady sort,”* and who knows—it might lead to marriage. *Marriage!* At her age!
Now, I’m all for happiness, but is romance really what brings joy at this stage? Shouldn’t it be about grandchildren, baking flapjacks, pushing swings at the park? Or am I wrong? Maybe love *doesn’t* care about age, and even in retirement, you can find *the one*. Still, I can’t wrap my head around it—the same woman I saw as the epitome of discipline and order, now glowing like a lovestruck debutante.
I’d never hurt her feelings. Let her try. Let her be happy. Maybe fate *is* knocking when she least expected. But I can’t help wondering—do grandmothers need love lives? Or is their lot just doting on grandchildren, knitting by the telly? What do you think—is there room for romance after fifty?
