HEARTBEAT AGAIN
Grace had her baby girl, Lily, with no one to name as the father. Call it a reckless slip before marriage.
Yes, there was a young man who courted Grace ardently—never proposed, of course, but he was impossibly handsome, charming, the sort you’d proudly show off. Grace would loop her arm through his and stride past the bench of gossiping pensioners outside her block of flats, the women turning their heads like sunflowers tracking the light.
He had no job, flitted through life like a butterfly. Grace fed him, housed him, let him share her bed, would’ve laid herself down as a rug beneath his feet. Then one day, he announced she bored him—that she didn’t appreciate him enough as a woman. And really, if she loved him, she’d have taken him on holiday at least once…
Grace wept for a week. Then she tore up his photos and burned them. A month of lonely misery followed—until she met Edward.
One morning, running late for work, Grace stood fidgeting at the bus stop when a taxi pulled up. The driver swung the door open and offered her a ride. Without hesitation, she jumped in.
He struck up a conversation—neatly dressed, clean-shaven, his shirt pressed. His politeness charmed her. The whole look screamed a woman’s care—his mother’s, Grace decided.
Edward (as he introduced himself) was the opposite of her first love. Without thinking, Grace gave him her number. She wanted to see him again—the one and only time she got a free taxi ride.
They began dating. Edward showered her with flowers, gifts, tenderness.
One spring day, strolling through the woods, Grace gathered snowdrops. Edward joined in, laughing. Bundles in hand, Grace settled into the car while he laid his own carefully on the back seat. *For his wife*, she thought but didn’t dare ask. Maybe he was married. After six months, she’d grown used to his kindness—too used to ruin it with questions. She swallowed the doubt.
Soon enough, Edward’s wife appeared at Grace’s door with two small children. “Here, love—raise them! They adore their dad!”
Stunned, Grace barely managed, “I didn’t know. I won’t break up your family—no nest-building under someone else’s roof.”
That evening, she ended things with the married man.
Next came James—a whirlwind romance. They met at a friend’s birthday. Charismatic, boundless energy, always planning adventures. For a year, he carried Grace on cloud nine—then left for Scotland, claiming the English weather didn’t suit him. Or maybe it was his sick mother calling…
Grace felt discarded. “Enough heartbreak,” she decided. “Better alone than in tears.”
Then came the news: she was pregnant.
Who was the father? How would she survive? The questions spun wildly.
Lily arrived—dark curls, bright eyes, James’ mirror image—and became Grace’s whole world. Exhaustion left no time for self-pity, though envy of married friends sometimes gnawed at her.
On Lily’s first day of school, she was seated beside Oliver. Instant mutual loathing—”curly-haired dolt,” he sneered. Fights broke out daily.
Grace marched to Oliver’s address after school one day, ready to defend her daughter. The door swung open to a man wiping his hands on a tea towel.
“Here for me? Come in—let me fetch coffee. Just need to feed my rascal first,” he said, vanishing into the kitchen.
The flat was a bachelor’s chaos—dust, scattered belongings, stale tobacco. But the coffee’s aroma—*that* Grace would never forget.
“You’re Lily’s mum,” he realized.
“Explains why she comes home scratched,” Grace countered.
“Odd—Oliver’s smitten with her,” he mused, promising to sort it.
Grace left, but the encounter haunted her. The flat, the mess, the coffee—she mentally rearranged it all, even fancied ruffling Oliver’s hair.
At the next parents’ evening, she confirmed: Oliver had no mother.
His dad—*Ben*—walked them home after. December darkness, hesitant steps. He invited her for New Year’s.
Grace, tired of waiting for princes, said yes.
Later, Ben confessed his ex-wife had left him for his best friend. He’d fought for Oliver, never realizing how much he’d miss a woman’s touch, how Oliver would ache for a mother.
Grace and Lily moved in, but only after the children (grudgingly) agreed.
Life bloomed—a bigger flat, a happy home. Grace doted on both children; Ben adored Lily.
Years passed. Lily and Oliver married—surprising everyone. The newlyweds jetted off to Paris; Grace persuaded Ben to the seaside.
Reluctant, he gave in.
A week of bliss—flowers, love letters, whispered devotion.
On their last morning, Ben kissed Grace softly by the shore. “I love you so much,” he murmured. “Be back in a minute.”
He never returned. The sea, eerily calm, took him. No body was found.
Grace came home shattered. Why him? Why at fifty-five? Why hadn’t she said she loved him too?
The grief never healed—just dulled.
Years later, holding her grandchildren’s hands in the park, Grace ordered coffee—*his* coffee—letting the smell conjure him beside her.
After unbearable sorrow, she thanked fate for twenty-five years of love.
Life ends. Love doesn’t.
