March 7th
This morning, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was about to happen. But what else could possibly happen? Love, family—all of it had come and gone. Now I was alone. My husband, with whom I’d spent thirty-six years, passed away two years ago. My son has his own family now—two children, all healthy and well. It’s just a premonition of a celebration, I realised. Tomorrow is Mother’s Day.
And then I thought of my husband. No one to bring me daffodils or roses anymore. Though, come to think of it—what about my son, Alex? He’ll stop by, surely. He always does.
We used to have a cottage—just a small place on a modest plot, bought after the financial troubles of the nineties. When I was still working, I’d visit on weekends and holidays. After I retired, I practically lived there all summer, returning to London only to stock up on groceries.
That summer was dry and scorching. I had to water the garden every day. My husband came down as usual after work on Friday. I noticed right away how pale he looked.
“Just tired, it’s stifling,” he brushed off when I mentioned it.
“Rest, then. I’ll finish up. Sit in the shade on the bench,” I told him.
He sat, leaning against the sun-warmed wall of the cottage, watching me water the plants. When I walked over after finishing, I knew something was wrong. He seemed to be dozing—but when I touched his shoulder, he slumped sideways. He’d died in his sleep on that bench.
I sold the cottage that autumn. I couldn’t bear to go back. I kept seeing him there, sitting on that bench. My son understood.
“Should’ve done it years ago. Why kill yourself over vegetables when you can buy them year-round?”
He and his family went on holiday to Spain instead. I gave him the money from the sale—he had two kids, after all. My pension was enough for me. I thought about going back to work, but Alex talked me out of it.
“You’ll earn pennies and spend pounds’ worth of nerves. If you miss teaching, tutor the grandkids. You’ve got me. I’ll help if you need anything.”
So I lived alone. Of course, I missed having a man around—but Alex called tradesmen whenever something broke or a tap leaked.
The last years with my husband had been peaceful. But in our youth? We’d fought so badly we nearly divorced. He’d strayed—carefully, but women always know. One day, I’d had enough. I told him everything, pointed to the door. Who knew what he might bring home?
He packed a suitcase, sat on the sofa to lace his shoes. Then Alex came home from school—thirteen years old, sharp as a tack. He took one look at his father’s suitcase and understood.
“Hate me?” his father asked.
“Yes,” Alex said, slamming his bedroom door.
“I can’t do this,” my husband muttered, slapping his knees. He stood, shoved the suitcase behind the sofa. “Dinner ready?”
I was tired of the fights. What difference did it make if he left today or tomorrow? Fine. Let him go while we were at school. I set the table, called Alex. We ate in silence.
The next day, I lingered after work. When I got home, I rushed to check behind the sofa. The suitcase was gone. My stomach twisted. Slowly, I hung up my coat—then spotted the suitcase on the top shelf. I flung open the wardrobe. His shirts and trousers still hung there. The knot in my chest loosened.
When he came home, I couldn’t resist: “Hope unpacking was worth it. Might have to pack again.”
He said nothing, but after that, he never stayed late without calling. The fights dwindled. Those last years? We were happy. Why couldn’t it have been like that from the start?
I try to remember the good times. What’s the point of dwelling on the bad? All those grudges died with him. Sometimes sadness washes over me, but it never lasts.
There are perks to living alone. I clean less—who’s here to make mess? Meals are simple. But I read more, binge TV shows. My husband hated them. He’d sprawl on the sofa watching football or the news while I craned my neck at the tiny kitchen telly until it went stiff. Now? I lounge like a queen, watching what I please.
I’ve thought about getting a cat. But the fur—and I’ve never been much for pets.
Tomorrow’s Mother’s Day. Maybe I’ll buy a cake. Who’d eat it? Alex will visit. I’ll bake something myself. I dug out my recipe book.
Flowers? I glanced around the flat. No—they’d just make me lonelier. Flowers should come from a man. And what’s the point? Tossing them out in two days?
I made chocolate-orange muffins—the grandkids love them. Alex can take them. Exhausted, I turned on the telly. A film I’d seen before. My eyes drifted shut.
The doorbell jolted me awake. My heart fluttered like a startled bird. No one visits anymore—I’ve forgotten how to have guests. It rang again, impatient.
Alex? No, he has a key. He always knocks first, then lets himself in.
I smoothed my hair at the hallway mirror and opened the door. A stranger stood there holding roses. Not handsome—around my age, well-dressed, silver-haired, stocky but not overweight. Nothing remarkable.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
“Could I speak to Lydia, please?” He smiled.
“There’s no Lydia here. Never has been. You’ve got the wrong address.” I moved to shut the door.
“Wait!” He looked puzzled. “This is High Street, number twenty, flat—”
“Right address, wrong person. No Lydia.”
His smile faded. “That’s impossible.”
“Very possible. I’ve lived here thirty years.”
“I must’ve made a mistake.”
“Clearly.” I shut the door.
Silence. I went to the living room. Dusk was falling—I flicked the light switch, and the room glowed. Calmer now. When the bell rang again, I checked the peephole first.
“You again? I told you—no Lydia.”
“Please, I’m not a thief,” came the muffled reply.
“How would I know? Leave or I’ll call the police.”
“At least take the flowers. No sense wasting them.”
I opened the door. He held out the bouquet.
“I’m not lying. Lydia gave me this address—I lost the note.”
“Call her, then.”
“Her number was on that paper too.” He shrugged. “I’ll go.”
“There’s a hotel round the corner,” I offered.
He thanked me and trudged downstairs.
Strange business. All evening, I studied those roses, wondering about the mysterious Lydia. I’d never know.
Next morning, I slept late. Rain mixed with sleet tapped the window. The rosebuds had bloomed overnight.
When the bell rang, I knew it was him. “Now I’ll get answers,” I told myself and opened the door.
“Sorry—I don’t know anyone here. Checked out of the hotel, but my train’s not till tonight.”
“Come in.”
He brightened. A gym bag thumped by the door.
“Hungry?” I asked.
“Wouldn’t say no.”
I bustled in the kitchen. Later, I asked about Lydia.
“What’s to tell? I’m from Brighton. Had a wife—we lived in York till she got sick. Doctors said move south. We sold our flat, bought a house. No kids. She… didn’t last.”
His voice thickened. “I was forty-eight, alone. Started renting a room—thought maybe I’d meet someone. But holidaymakers want young men. Then Lydia came with her daughter. We… connected. But she wouldn’t move south; I wouldn’t leave my garage job. She promised to return next summer. Left her address and number.”
“You never called?”
“Figured she knew I’d wait. Then I lost the note. Came to find her—but she’s not here.” He rubbed his face. “I’m Andrew. Andrew Lewis.”
“Pretty surname. I’m Margaret. Shame I’m not Lydia or Sophie.”
His smile reached his eyes, crinkling the corners.
“More tea?”
“No, but thank you. I know how this looks.” He fished out a train ticket. “See? Not lying. Passport too, if you—”
“Not necessary.” Still, I checked the ticket. Real enough. “Why not try finding her?”
He shook his head. “If she wanted me, she’d have called. I imagined it all.”
“You’ll meet another Lydia.”
“Not looking. Just… living.”
We sat awhile longer. Then he gathered his things.
“Too early for your train,”The next spring, I found myself standing on a Brighton beach, the sea breeze tugging at my hat, watching Andrew wave from the garden where Lydia’s roses now bloomed for me.
