Natalie woke a few minutes before the alarm clock rang. She lay still, steeling herself for the new day, just like yesterday, last week, last month—unchanged for years. Her life had moved steadily, predictably, without surprises.
Except—no. A few years ago, her son had sprung a surprise on her and her husband. He’d enrolled at university and announced he wanted to live on his own. She’d agonised, pleaded with him. But he’d threatened to drop out and join the army instead. What choice did they have? They relented, even paid his rent. After graduation, he found work and refused their help.
Natalie rose carefully, not to wake her husband, and went to the kitchen. Soon, the scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the flat—proper coffee, not the instant swill she sometimes settled for.
When her husband entered the kitchen, smelling of aftershave, a steaming cup and a plate of sandwiches waited for him. He scorned omelettes and porridge. He ate in silence, then left just as quietly.
“Running late today. Faculty meeting,” he called from the hall.
Natalie followed, straightened his tie, flicked invisible dust from his shoulder—a ritual, no different in winter when she adjusted his scarf, or summer when she smoothed his jacket.
After he left, she tidied up, sipped tea with lemon, and settled at her laptop. She worked from home, translating articles and books from French and German.
The work flowed easily—she liked the book. But then the phone rang.
“Natalie, hello. It’s Margaret from the faculty.”
The dull, colourless voice conjured an image: a tall, plain woman in her mid-forties.
“Is something wrong? With Leonard?”
“No, not him.” A pause. “I need to speak with you. I happened to be nearby. Could I drop in?”
“Of course,” Natalie said, though it puzzled her—what was Margaret doing here during lectures?
Five minutes later, the doorbell rang. She let her in.
“Tea? Coffee?”
“No need. This won’t take long.”
They sat in the parlour.
“What is it?” Natalie asked.
“Your husband is seeing a student. A girl of twenty. Lives with her disabled mother.”
“Spare me the details.”
“Very well. I overheard him on the phone. She’s expecting a child. He promised to stand by her.”
Natalie said nothing.
“It’s not the first time,” Margaret pressed. “There was Vera from the department, Nina from sociology… Three months ago, when he was supposed to be at that conference in Vienna? He never went. Rented a cottage instead.”
“How do you know that?” Natalie couldn’t believe a word. This was jealousy—bitter, lonely envy.
“You think I’m lying. That I want to ruin your life.” Margaret sighed. “A man his age, with a girl young enough to be his granddaughter. It’s absurd.”
Natalie stirred. “Thank you. Was there anything else?”
Margaret left. Natalie sat motionless, staring blankly. She couldn’t work. The calm had lasted too long. She’d expected something like this—faculty affairs, perhaps. But a student? How could he?
Years ago, her father had brought home an awkward, lanky student in ill-fitting glasses. He was supervising his dissertation. They’d talked for hours, then shared supper.
“A rare talent. Mark my words—he’ll go far,” her father had said.
The boy ate without looking up, stealing glances at Natalie. She’d been at university then, studying languages. His name was Leonard. Her father took him under his wing, secured him a lectureship, helped with his thesis. Soon, he was practically family.
One evening, after she’d started translating, he visited.
“Father’s at a symposium in Edinburgh. Didn’t you know?”
“I came to see you,” he said, blushing.
“Oh? Need a translation?” She’d smirked.
“An exhibition. Monet, Turner… Would you like to go?”
She had wanted to see it—none of her friends cared for art. She agreed.
To her surprise, he was fascinating. He spoke brilliantly about the paintings, told stories as they walked home. She barely noticed the glasses. Not love—but interest.
“Consider him,” her father urged. “He’ll do great things. I’ll see to it. He’ll give you the life you’re accustomed to.”
She trusted her father. When Leonard proposed, she accepted. But the wedding was delayed—her father died suddenly. Leonard took over his department, finished his thesis. They married a year later.
After her father’s death, her mother fell ill. She passed just as Natalie learned she was pregnant. Life changed overnight. She worked from home, raised their son, kept house. Yet she and Leonard had been happy. Or so she’d thought.
“You were wrong about him, Father. So was I.” She spoke aloud. “He used us—your name, your flat—then betrayed me.”
His lectures were legendary. Students never missed them. He was electric, dramatic. Even she loved listening. The thick glasses were gone, replaced by contacts.
She warmed her tea, added sugar—something she never did these days. Even fetched a roll from the bread bin. She’d been watching her weight, but today—why not?
Then she packed his things into a suitcase and left it by the door.
“Going somewhere?” Leonard asked, entering. “Why sit in the dark?” He flicked the switch. She blinked at the sudden light.
“No. You are. The flat is mine—my parents’. You’ll live with your… Laura, was it? She’s having your child. You promised to take care of her. Go.”
“Don’t be absurd. What nonsense is this?”
“Spare me the act. Just leave.”
He stormed out, slamming the door. She cried—for herself, her lost years. She’d believed in him, kept his home, spared him every chore. And this was her reward.
Days later, her son visited, urging her to forgive.
“Have you seen how they live? A shoebox flat with her disabled mother. And the baby’s coming.”
She cut him off. “He had everything—including a wife he didn’t love. Now he has nothing but a pregnant girl. Serves him right.”
“But you’ll be alone.”
“I’ll manage. Stay with me if you’re worried.”
He did—first to support her, then for good. Four months later, Leonard collapsed mid-lecture and died. A heart attack.
At the funeral, they praised him, tactfully avoiding his affairs. Natalie felt no guilt. Though exile had killed him. He wasn’t used to hardship.
A month later, her son brought Laura home. She peered nervously from behind him.
“Mum, she’s staying. The baby’s due soon. Her flat’s unfit. If you send her away, I’ll go too.”
Natalie said nothing. What could she say? She’d lost her husband—she couldn’t lose her son.
“Fine.” She walked away.
The next morning, she packed.
“I’ll stay at the cottage till winter. I can’t bear to see her. I need time alone. I won’t wait on her—understand?”
“Mum, I feel awful. Kicking you out of your own home.”
“My choice. No one’s kicking me out.”
At the cottage, she found peace. Slept properly for the first time in months. Working there was a joy.
“Hello!” A man’s voice called from beyond the fence. “Neighbour here. Staying long?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Well… Your plot’s overgrown. Mine’s tiny. Fancy letting me plant potatoes out back? I’ll pay you in kind come harvest.”
She agreed. Why not? She wouldn’t be here by winter.
Next morning, she watched from the window as he worked shirtless, tanned and glistening. He caught her looking, waved. She flinched.
Day after day, she watched him. Once, she asked how he slipped through the locked gate. He showed her the loose board, told her about his divorce—he’d left his wife the flat, taken the cottage.
“And you? Not here for the garden, I’d wager.”
“My husband ran off with a student. Left her pregnant. Then died. My son moved her in. I ran away.” She paused, surprised at her own honesty.
“Swap the flat. Problem solved.”
The simplicity struck her. Why hadn’t she thought of it? Too big for one, too small for all of them.
As he turned to leave, she called, “I’ve made dinner. Care to join me?”
They ate, talked. She laughed—really laughed—for the first time in years. Then her son called.
“Mum, come home. It’s not the same without you.”
The next day, she visited the flat. Laura hid in her room—afraid, Natalie realised.
“I’ll take a few things. I’ve spent my life as your fatherShe smiled then, watching the neighbour’s hands work the earth, and wondered if perhaps good things begin when you least expect them—just like all the rest.
