Rescue from Loneliness
Margaret awoke late, her first thought a jolt of panic—she’d overslept. Her daughter and grandson would be waking to an empty breakfast table. Then she remembered. They had left yesterday; she had waved them off at the station herself. She dragged herself to the bathroom, listless. Ordinarily, she’d plan her day over morning tea—chores first, the rest could wait. But today, her mind lingered on her daughter and grandson.
She missed them terribly. The last time they’d visited was for her husband’s funeral two and a half years ago. Young Oliver had shot up since then, nearly matching her height. If they waited another three years to return, she might not recognize him.
If only they lived nearby. How often had she begged her daughter to move back? What kept her in that distant city now that the marriage had ended? Still, she understood. Emily had grown accustomed to independence, to being mistress of her own life. She never should have left town at all.
Margaret had never warmed to her son-in-law. A quiet man, the sort who’d sit in silence unless prompted. Who knew what he was thinking? Secretive, perhaps. A waste of her daughter’s time, in the end. She sighed.
Now they were trying to sort out the flat. Better if that former husband had just paid Emily her share outright. They could’ve bought a small place here—Margaret would’ve moved into it, handed the family flat to them. But no, he’d dug his heels in, his parents whispering in his ear. “If only Arthur were still here,” she murmured. He’d have sorted this in no time. Another sigh escaped her.
She washed her face and studied her reflection. Emily was right—she’d let herself go. The grey roots had crept in, untamed, and she looked every bit the neglected widow. When Arthur was alive, she’d made an effort. Now, why bother? The neighbours hardly came by anymore. The phone’s ring pulled her from her thoughts.
Rushing to answer, she realized Emily and Oliver should have arrived home by now.
“Emily, you made it? Thank goodness… 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 reminding you—time passes, I’m not getting younger, and having me nearby would help… Don’t snap at me.”
Her daughter’s temper flared, and Margaret had no desire to quarrel. Her mood was low enough as it was. She ended the call on a lighter note.
Making the bed, she continued the silent argument in her head. “Always the same. She’ll do as she pleases. Made enough mistakes as it is. If only Arthur were here…” She exhaled. “Well, fine. Let her decide. She’s a grown woman.”
After tea and her blood pressure pills, she resolved not to put it off—she’d go to the hairdresser today. Maybe it would lift her spirits. She’d grown used to solitude after Arthur’s death, but with the guests gone, she was barely holding back tears.
The young stylist worked meticulously, nearly lulling Margaret to sleep. But the result was splendid—a chic short cut, ash-blonde to mask the roots. The transformation took years off her. She couldn’t stop staring. Long overdue. She vowed to return regularly.
At home, she admired herself in the mirror again, buoyed. She opened the laptop—a gift from Oliver after their New Year’s shopping trip. Emily had scolded her for spending so much on him, but Oliver had been overjoyed, showering her with kisses and handing over his old laptop. He’d helped set up a social media page, even used an old photograph of her from twenty years ago as the profile picture. She ought to replace it with a fresh one. Later.
Scrolling through updates, she noticed a message. Some man named Victor was delighted to have found her and asked for a reply.
She enlarged his photo—no recognition. Probably a trick, spotting her younger self and pretending to know her. His smile seemed genuine, teeth intact—old habits from her dental nurse days. She almost ignored him but relented, asking how they knew each other.
An hour later, they were deep in conversation. Victor Ashford, an old classmate, sent a circled photo of their Year Eleven class as proof. Guilt pricked her—she barely recalled the unremarkable boy, or even herself, identified only by the caption. The years had blurred those pages.
Soon, they messaged daily. Then came Sarah, another classmate—her old desk mate. Sarah’s profile had a flattering, decades-old photo.
Margaret remembered her too. During a maths test, Sarah had begged for help. Margaret had obliged, then run out of time for her own paper. Sarah got an A; Margaret scraped a C. She’d refused to help after that, and Sarah had turned spiteful. Friendship had crumbled.
Sarah had always been sharp-tongued. But grudges were pointless now. Margaret replied. Her circle grew; loneliness faded. How had she ever lived without the internet?
A month slipped by in messages. Then Victor suggested meeting.
“We’re in the same city and haven’t seen each other in decades. Unforgivable. Ladies, pick a time and place.”
Margaret hesitated. She imagined their laughter at each other’s aged reflections. Glad she’d spruced up, she proposed a quiet café—neutral ground, fewer people.
She nearly chose a dress, but winter demanded warmth, and this wasn’t a date. Trousers and a cosy jumper, a touch of makeup. She approved.
Approaching the café, her pulse quickened. What if her pressure spiked? Why had she agreed? But it was too late. She stepped inside, scanning the room. A man waved from the back. A plump blonde sat with her back turned—Sarah Whitmore, unmistakable.
In school, Sarah had bleached her hair to match her surname, playing the blonde ever since. She looked well, despite the weight, which Margaret noted aloud.
Then she turned to Victor. Hard to believe this imposing, silver-templed man was the shy boy from Year Eleven.
“You haven’t changed. Knew you at once. Sit.” He gestured gallantly. She appreciated the tact—better Sarah’s scrutiny than his.
True to form, Sarah returned the compliment. Women knew when to stay silent around a rival. Margaret relaxed.
“Ladies, I’m overjoyed. You’re both stunning. Shall we toast?” Victor’s gaze flitted between them.
The waiter came. Over wine, they shared their stories—all single now. Margaret was startled to learn how many classmates had passed.
By closing, Sarah was drunk, clinging to Victor as they left.
“Call a cab. You can’t take her on the bus,” Margaret said.
“Why me? Why not you?”
“You expect me to escort her?” Margaret scoffed.
“We could drop her off, then I’ll walk you—”
A cab arrived. Sarah flopped inside, dragging Victor with slurred professions of love. He wrestled free, shutting the door with her address.
“You know where she lives?” Margaret asked.
“I do.” A pause. “She was my wife.”
“I didn’t know.”
Now Sarah’s chilly reception made sense—those fiery glances weren’t for an old classmate but a lost love.
They walked to Margaret’s flat.
“Married foolishly two years after school. Divorced in a year. She’s had two husbands since, but between them, she tries to reel me back. And—I loved you back then.” He stopped.
“Here we are. Thank you.”
“Invite me up,” he said suddenly.
“What about Sarah?” Margaret smirked. “We’ve had coffee. Go home—better yet, take a cab.” She hurried inside.
In the dark, she peered through the window. The courtyard was empty. What had she expected? That he’d linger like a lovestruck boy? At their age, with creaking joints and weary hearts, romance was a folly. She resolved to ignore his messages. No need for Sarah’s venom either.
Days passed. Curiosity won. Victor had apologised—the wine, his boldness. He’d adored her in school. Sarah knew and had snatched him away. If Margaret wasn’t interested, he’d step back.
She sensed his hurt. So be it. What did she want with him? A muddle, just as she’d feared. Maybe Emily and Oliver would visit soon—no time for old flames. Let him untangle Sarah’s knots alone.
Sarah, however, had sent a dozen barbed messages, accusing Margaret of holding a grudge over that maths grade, of stealing Victor. “Over my dead body,” she’d written. Margaret bit back a scathing reply.
Silence followed. Two weeks later, unease gnawed. She messaged Victor—no reply. A week after, she tried Sarah.
“Happy now? He’s in hospital—nearly a heart attack,” came the reply.
“How is that my fault? I gave him no hope. Which hospital? I’ll explain.”
After pleading, Sarah relented. Victor brightened at her visit.She left the hospital with a quiet heart, knowing that while some doors had closed, others—like the return of her daughter and grandson—were finally opening, bringing warmth back into her life.
