A Break from Loneliness
Margaret woke late. Her first thought was that she’d overslept—her daughter and grandson would be up, and breakfast wasn’t ready. Then she remembered: they’d left the day before. She’d even waved them off at the train station herself. Groaning, she dragged herself to the bathroom. Normally, she’d plan her day right away—what to tackle first, what could wait. But today, her mind was stuck on them.
She missed them terribly. The last time they’d visited was two and a half years ago, for her husband’s funeral. Young Oliver had shot up since then, nearly as tall as her now. Next time they saw each other—if it even happened within three years—she might not recognize him.
If only they lived nearby. How many times had she begged Emily to move back? Now that her marriage was over, what kept her in that other town? Still, Margaret understood. Emily had grown used to independence, to running her own life. She never should’ve left in the first place.
She’d never liked her son-in-law from the start. Quiet as a mouse—never spoke unless spoken to. No telling what went on behind those blank stares. Just a waste of Emily’s time, really. All that fuss over a man, and now? Divorce. Another sigh escaped her.
Now they were stuck trying to sell their flat. If only that useless ex-husband would just pay Emily her share. They could buy a small place here—Margaret would move into it and give her own flat to Emily and Oliver. But the man was stubborn, his parents filling his head with nonsense. “Shouldn’t have lost Jack so soon,” she muttered. “He’d have sorted this in a flash.”
She washed her face, then stared into the mirror. Emily was right—she’d let herself go. Gray roots sprouted from her uncolored hair, and her face had lost its glow. She looked older, worn out. When Jack was alive, she’d made an effort. Now? Why bother? Only the neighbors ever saw her, and even then, barely. A ringing phone snapped her out of it.
Rushing to answer, it struck her—Emily and Oliver should’ve arrived by now. She must be calling.
“Emily, did you get home alright? Good… I knew you would. I’ll try not to mope, I promise. But do think about moving back—no, I’m not pressuring you! Just saying… time’s slipping by. I’m not getting younger, and it’d be easier for you both if—oh, don’t shout.”
Emily was bristling, and Margaret wasn’t in the mood for a row. Her spirits were low enough already. She forced a cheery note to end the call.
Tidying the bed, she kept up the silent argument in her head. “Always the same. She’ll do as she pleases, same as always. If only Jack were here…” Another sigh. “Ah well. She’s grown. Let her decide.”
After tea and her blood pressure pills, she resolved not to stall any longer—she’d visit the hairdresser today. Maybe it’d lift her mood. She’d grown used to solitude since Jack’s passing. But now, with the guests gone, the silence pressed in hard.
The young stylist took her time, snipping so meticulously Margaret nearly dozed off. The result? A sleek, modern cut and ash-blonde color to mask the roots. She looked ten years younger. She couldn’t stop staring. Should’ve done this ages ago. She vowed then and there to keep up with appointments.
Back home, she admired herself again in the mirror, then opened her laptop. Just before Christmas, she and Oliver had shopped for his new one. Emily had scolded her for splurging, but Oliver had been overjoyed—hugging her tight before handing over his old laptop. He’d helped set up her social media, even picked an old photo of her from twenty years back as the profile picture. She ought to replace it with a fresh selfie later.
Scrolling through newsfeeds, she spotted a message notification—or “DM,” as Oliver would say. Some bloke named Victor was thrilled to have found her and asked for a reply.
She zoomed in on his picture but didn’t recognize him. Probably a scheme—spotting a younger, prettier version of her and pretending to know her. Still, she bit. “How do we know each other?”
An hour later, they were deep in conversation. Turned out he was Victor Ashworth, an old schoolmate. As proof, he sent a class photo from Year 11, circling them both.
Only then did she recall the shy boy from back then. Embarrassingly, she’d only recognized herself thanks to the caption. Had it really been that long since she’d opened an album?
Soon, they were messaging daily. Then came Sarah—another classmate, her old desk partner. Her profile pic was just as flattering, clearly from decades past.
Back in school, during a maths test, Sarah had begged for help. Margaret solved her problem but ran out of time for her own. Sarah aced it; Margaret barely passed. Never helped her again. Sarah had sulked and retaliated. Their friendship never recovered.
Sarah had always been spiteful. Still, Margaret decided grudges were pointless and replied. Bit by bit, her circle widened. No time to wallow now. How had she ever lived without the internet?
A month flew by in chats. Then Victor suggested meeting.
“Living in the same city and not seeing each other in decades? Unforgivable. Ladies, name the place and time.”
Margaret hesitated. Imagining them all aged, unrecognizable—it felt awkward. Glad she’d freshened up, she suggested a quiet café. Fewer people, neutral ground.
She’d considered a dress. But winter made it impractical, and this wasn’t a date. Opting for smart trousers and a warm jumper, she touched up her makeup—just enough to feel presentable.
Approaching the café, nerves set in. Too late now. Pushing the door open, she scanned the room. A man waved from a corner. Behind him sat a plump blonde—Sarah, no doubt.
She’d bleached her hair in Year 11 to match her surname (White) and never looked back. Surprisingly, she carried the weight well. Margaret said as much. Then she turned to Victor.
Hard to believe this distinguished, silver-templed man was the same quiet boy from school.
“You haven’t changed a bit. Knew you straight away. Sit.” He pulled out a chair. Tactful—better Sarah gawped at her than him.
True to form, Sarah returned the compliment—though Margaret knew the game. Stay quiet if another woman outshone you in mixed company. A relief.
“Ladies, I’m thrilled. You both look stunning. Wine to celebrate?” Victor glanced between them.
The waiter came, and orders were placed. All three were single, it turned out. Shockingly, many classmates had passed. By the end, Sarah was hammered, clinging to Victor as they left.
“Call her a cab. You can’t take her on the bus like this,” Margaret said.
“Why me? What about you?”
“You want me to escort her home?”
“We could drop her off, then I’ll walk you—”
A cab arrived. Sarah flopped in, yanking Victor’s sleeve, slurring declarations of love. He barely freed himself before slamming the door and giving her address.
“You know where she lives?” Margaret frowned.
“I do.” A pause. “She was my wife.”
“I… didn’t know.”
Now Sarah’s coldness made sense. Those longing looks—not just flirtation. She wanted him back.
They walked to Margaret’s place, not far.
“Married in a rush two years after school. Divorced within a year. She’s had two husbands since but still circles back to me.” He stopped abruptly. “Truth is, I fancied you back then.”
“Here we are. Thanks for walking me,” she said quickly.
“Invite me up,” he blurted.
“What about Sarah?” She scoffed. “We’ve had coffee. Go home—better yet, take a cab.” Inside her building, she didn’t look back.
Undressing in the dark, she peered out. Empty street. What’d she expected? Him to linger like a lovestruck teen? At their age, he probably had arthritis, a dodgy heart. Hardly a catch. She resolved to ignore his messages. No need for drama—or vengeful Sarah.
Days passed. Curiosity won. Victor had written, apologizing for being pushy. Blamed the wine. Admitted his schoolboy crush—claimed Sarah knew and married him out of spite. If Margaret wasn’t interested, he’d back off.
He sounded hurt. Fine by her. Why bother? A mess, just as she’d feared. Maybe Emily and Oliver would visit soon—no time for ex-classmates, especially with baggage. Let him handle Sarah’s craziness.
Sarah, meanwhile, had sent a dozen venomous texts—accusing her of holding a grudge over that maths grade, of stealing Victor. “Dream on, heMargaret smiled as she closed the laptop, knowing that while some chapters had ended messily, the best one—with her family coming home—was just beginning.
