When the bus broke down, life, on the contrary, began anew.
Margaret Whitaker was returning home from her cottage with her grandchildren. The August sun blazed mercilessly, the children grew restless, and the bus, unable to endure the midday heat, sputtered to a halt right in the middle of the road. A murmur rose through the cabin—passengers grumbled, fanned themselves with newspapers, and cursed the driver. But Margaret simply looked at her two weary little ones and knew: waiting for the next bus would be torture. She had to ring her son to fetch them. Just as she pulled out her phone, a car slowed to a stop beside them. The driver’s window rolled down, and when Margaret peered inside, her breath caught.
But this story had begun long before that sweltering afternoon…
Margaret had not married for love, nor even for practicality—but out of circumstance. At twenty-five, in her small village, she was already considered a spinster. Then came William—the village handyman, clever with his hands but fond of drink. Her parents pressed, her friends already had children… and so, she relented.
At first, they managed some semblance of harmony. She tried to love him; he never bothered to make himself lovable. Their marriage quickly settled into silent cohabitation. Soon, their son Andrew was born, followed two years later by their daughter Emily. With the children came William’s descent: odd jobs here and there, paid in goods or a few pounds, until they moved to the city—into an inherited flat—and everything unraveled.
William never held a steady job—a factory, then the market, then a workshop—nowhere for long. Margaret took work as a nursery assistant just to keep her own children fed. Money was scarce. The hardships of the eighties, the gnawing poverty… Their cottage in the village had long been sold. And William never missed a chance to remind her: the flat was his, and if she disliked it, she could leave.
But she had nowhere to go. Margaret endured—for the children. Not a shred of love remained for her husband, only bitterness. Yet as the years passed, things shifted. She found work in personnel management, earning properly at last. William tinkered in a garage. There was food on the table, but no joy.
When Andrew left for university and Emily was just fourteen, William was gone. A heart attack. Margaret wept—but not for loss. He had been a stranger to her heart. At forty-five, she buried him and carried on alone, feeling older than her years. No love, no dreams, no hope.
She poured herself into her children. Never intruded, never pried. She knew too well the weight of a loveless life. She never begged for grandchildren—time would tell. But when Andrew and Emily married, and in time, gave her little ones, her heart swelled with real happiness.
Her children cared for her, and she often minded the little ones. They pooled funds to buy her a modest cottage, and every summer, Margaret stayed there with her grandchildren, surrounded by peace.
Life settled into gentle rhythm—no great passions, no sudden storms. And she had long accepted that her chance for love had passed. Now and then, she tried to recall something warm from her marriage—and found nothing. She had never married for love…
Then came that sweltering day. The bus broke down. The children whined. Margaret reached for her phone—just as a car pulled up.
The man at the wheel was near her age. He lowered the window, glanced at the bus, and asked, *”Breakdown?”*
*”Yes, I’m afraid so. The heat’s dreadful.”*
*”You have the little ones with you?”*
*”Yes. I was just about to call for a lift.”*
*”I’ll take you. No arguments. No sense standing in this sun.”*
At first, she meant to refuse, then nodded—and was glad she did. His name was Roger. He, too, was returning from his countryside cottage, but in comfort. As they drove, they talked. A widower, with grandchildren of his own, a retired engineer who kept his own house.
And then—Margaret felt something she had never known. A flutter. A warmth. Perhaps those very butterflies she’d read about but never believed in.
When they arrived, Roger, seeing her bags, helped carry them inside. She invited him for tea. The children played while the grown-ups sat at the kitchen table, speaking of life, of the past, of their families. Time slipped away unnoticed—until her son arrived to collect the grandchildren. Only then did she realise how swiftly the evening had passed. Roger left with a shy farewell. And—they had not exchanged numbers.
She realised it only when alone, her chest tight with sudden longing. She felt foolish—how absurd, at her age. What if he had stayed only out of politeness? What if he never returned?
Days passed. She told herself to forget. A chance meeting, nothing more. Then, one evening, as she set the kettle boiling and reached for her favourite drama, the doorbell rang.
There stood Roger. A bouquet of dahlias in one hand, a box of cake in the other.
*”Forgive me for calling unannounced… But I hadn’t taken your number. And I couldn’t forget you.”*
Margaret smiled through tears.
*”I’m so very glad you came.”*
And though she was nearing sixty, though her hair was grey and her knees ached by evening, for the first time in her life, she felt truly seen—desired, beloved, cherished.
So it happens. When the bus breaks down—and the heart, against all odds, stirs to life. When years of hardship and disappointment suddenly yield a chance—for love. Tender, quiet, sweet as a summer dusk.
And if you believe all is behind you—wait. The best may yet lie ahead.
