“Could you get Lyudmila for me, please?”
From the moment he woke up, Geoffrey had a nagging feeling that something was about to happen. But then again, everything that was meant to happen already had. Love, family, and now—just himself. His wife, Margaret, with whom he’d spent thirty-six years, had passed two years ago. His son, James, had his own family now—two kids, all well and thriving. Just an odd sense of anticipation, he finally realised. Tomorrow was Mother’s Day.
And then Margaret came to mind. No one to bring him daffodils or tulips anymore. But, wait—what was he thinking? James would surely come round, wouldn’t he?
They used to have a little cottage—nothing grand, just a modest place on the outskirts of Essex, bought after weathering the financial storms of years past. While Geoffrey was still working, he’d visit on weekends or during holidays. After retiring, he spent nearly every summer there, popping back to London only for supplies and a proper shower.
That summer had been particularly dry. He’d had to water the vegetable patch every evening. Margaret arrived as usual after work on Friday, but Geoffrey noticed right away how pale she looked.
“Everything alright?” he asked.
“Fine. Just a bit stuffy,” she dismissed, waving him off.
“Go sit in the shade. I’ll finish up,” he told her.
She did, leaning against the sun-warmed cottage wall, watching as he tended the plants with the hose. When Geoffrey turned back to her, something felt wrong. She looked as though she’d dozed off—but when he touched her shoulder, she slumped sideways. Died in her sleep, right there on the bench.
That autumn, Geoffrey sold the cottage. He couldn’t bear going back—kept imagining her still sitting there. James agreed.
“Honestly, it was time. No point killing yourself over veg when you can buy it all year round at Waitrose.”
His son took holidays with his family, usually to Spain. Geoffrey gave him the money from the sale. Two kids—James needed it more. His pension was enough. He’d thought about going back to work part-time, but James talked him out of it.
“You’d earn pennies and lose years off your life. If you miss tutoring, help the grandkids with their maths. You’ve got me if you need anything.”
So Geoffrey lived alone. Of course, he missed having a woman’s touch—though James called in a handyman whenever the sink dripped or the boiler acted up.
Their last years together had been peaceful. Early on, though, things had been rough. They’d fought so badly once they nearly divorced. Margaret had her flings—quietly. But women always know. One night, he’d finally snapped, told her he was done, and pointed at the door. He didn’t need her bringing God knows what back home.
She’d packed a suitcase, sat on the sofa to catch her breath—then James walked in from school. Thirteen years old. Took one look at the suitcase and understood. He wasn’t a child anymore. The shouting had worn him down too.
“Will you hate me?” Margaret had asked him.
“Yes,” James said, storming off and slamming his door.
“I can’t do this. I just can’t,” Margaret muttered, slapping her hands on her knees. She stood, shoved the suitcase behind the sofa—out of sight. “Fancy some supper?” she’d asked, not meeting Geoffrey’s eyes.
He was exhausted from the rows. What difference did it make if she left today or tomorrow? Fine by him. Let her go while he and James were at work. He set the table, called James. They ate in silence.
Next evening, Geoffrey stalled coming home. When he finally did, he rushed straight to the sofa—the suitcase was gone. His stomach dropped. He hung up his coat slowly, then froze—the suitcase was still there, tucked up on the high shelf. He tore open the wardrobe—Margaret’s blouses and skirts still hung inside. Relief.
When she got back from work, he couldn’t resist a jab: “Shame you unpacked. Might have to pack it again soon.”
She hadn’t replied—but after that, she cut back on late nights. And if she did, she rang ahead. Over time, the rows stopped. The last decade had been peaceful. Why couldn’t it have been like that from the start?
Geoffrey tried to remember the good bits. What was the point dredging up the bad? All the hurt had gone with her. Sure, sometimes he felt it—a sudden pang—but it never lasted.
There were perks to living alone. Cleaning the flat less often—who was there to mess it up? Cooking simple meals. More time to read, binge telly. Margaret had hated his crime dramas. She’d sit in the lounge, glued to football or the news, while he perched on a kitchen stool, craning at the little telly on the counter until his neck ached.
Now he sprawled on the sofa like a king, watching whatever he liked. He’d thought about getting a cat, but the fur—and truth be told, he wasn’t fussed about pets.
Tomorrow—Mother’s Day. Maybe a cake? But who’d eat it? James would come, no doubt. He’d bake something himself. Geoffrey dug out his old recipe book.
Flowers? He eyed the living room. No—they’d just make him sadder. Flowers should come from a woman. And what was the point? Chuck them out after three days?
He baked chocolate and orange muffins instead—the grandkids loved them. James could take them over. Tired, he settled in front of the telly. Some film he’d already seen. His eyes drifted shut.
The doorbell jerked him awake. His heart hammered like a startled bird. Nobody ever visited—he wasn’t used to company. It rang again, impatient.
James? No, he had a key. He always rang first, though—only let himself in if Geoffrey didn’t answer.
He straightened his jumper in the hallway mirror, opened the door. A stranger stood there—holding daffodils. Not bad-looking. About his age. Well-dressed, grey at the temples, stocky but not overweight. Nothing remarkable.
“Can I help?” Geoffrey asked.
“Is Lyudmila in?” the man smiled.
“Nobody by that name lives here. Never has. You’ve got the wrong place.” He moved to shut the door.
“Hold on!” The man frowned. “This is Cherry Tree Lane, number twenty, flat—”
“Right address. Wrong person.”
The man’s smile vanished. “That can’t be.”
“It is. I’ve lived here forty years.”
“Must’ve got it wrong, then,” he muttered, deflated.
“Sorry.” Geoffrey shut the door.
He lingered, listening—silence. Back in the living room, he flicked on the lamp as dusk settled. Calmer now. Then—another ring. He checked the peephole first.
“Still you? Told you—no Lyudmila here.”
“Please—I’m not some con artist,” came the muffled reply.
“How would I know? Clear off or I’ll call the cops.”
“At least take the flowers. No point binning them.”
Geoffrey opened up. The man held out the daffodils.
“I’m not lying. Must’ve mixed up the address. She wrote it down, but I lost the scrap.”
“Call her, then.”
“Number was on the same bit of paper.” The man shrugged. “I’ll go.”
“There’s a Travelodge round the corner.”
He thanked Geoffrey and trudged downstairs.
Weird. All evening, Geoffrey kept picturing the man. Now he’d never know about this Lyudmila.
Next morning, he slept in. Showered, combed what little hair he had left. Wet snow tapped the window. The daffodils had bloomed overnight.
When the bell went again, somehow he knew. “Now we’ll see,” he muttered, opening up. Same man.
“Sorry—checked out of the hotel, train’s not till tonight. Nowhere else to go.”
“Fine. Come in.”
The man brightened, set down a duffel bag.
“Hungry?”
“Wouldn’t say no.”
Geoffrey puttered about the kitchen. Later, he asked about this Lyudmila.
“What’s to tell? Came down from Blackpool. Got a place there. Wife and I used to live in Norwich. When she got poorly, doctors said she needed sea air. So we sold up, moved. No kids. She wasn’t strong.”
He’d done up the house himself, planted flowers she loved. She died eight years later. Left him alone at forty-eight. “You’re on your own too—you understand.”
He’d started renting out a room—hoping to meet someone. But it was always young couples or women on holiday. “They wanted blokes on the beach. Not… well. You see.”
Then Lyudmila arrived. With her daughter. He’d liked her straight off. ThingsThen one evening, as Geoffrey sat by the window watching the last of the daffodils wilt, the phone rang—and when he heard Lyudmila’s voice on the other end, asking if he’d found the man who was looking for her, he simply smiled and said, “No, but I think he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.”
