Everything Happens
Florence woke up a few minutes before her alarm clock would have chimed. She lay still, steeling herself for another day, just like yesterday, and all the ones before it—unchanging, predictable. Her life had settled into an unbroken rhythm, undisturbed by surprises.
But no—there had been one, years ago, when her son had thrown them all for a loop. He’d been accepted into university, then promptly declared he wanted to live on his own. She’d protested, pleaded—but he’d threatened to drop out altogether and enlist. What choice did they have? They relented, even covered his rent. After graduation, he found work and refused further help.
Florence rose carefully so as not to wake her husband and padded into the kitchen. Soon, the rich scent of freshly brewed coffee—none of that instant rubbish—filled the flat.
When her husband appeared, still fragrant with aftershave, a steaming cup and plate of buttered toast waited for him. Porridge and eggs had never been to his taste. He ate in silence, left in silence.
“I’ll be late tonight—faculty meeting,” he called from the hallway.
Florence followed, adjusted his tie and collar, brushed invisible lint from his shoulder—a ritual, performed with the precision of an artist’s final stroke. In winter, she straightened his scarf; in summer, his tie. The motion was the same, only the fabric changed.
Once he’d gone, Florence tidied herself, sipped lemon tea, and settled at her desk. She worked from home, translating articles and books from French and German.
The work flowed easily today, the text engaging. She paused now and then to consult a dictionary, weighing nuances. Then the phone rang.
“Florence, hello. It’s Margaret from the department.”
The colourless voice conjured an image of a tall, plain woman in her mid-forties.
“Hello. Is something wrong? Is it Edmund?” Florence tensed.
“No, he’s fine.” A pause. “I need to speak with you. I’m nearby—could I pop in?”
“Of course.” Florence frowned. What brought Margaret here during term time?
Exactly five minutes later, the doorbell chimed. Florence ushered her in.
“Tea? Coffee?”
“No, thank you. I’ve little time.”
They settled in the parlour.
“Well?” Florence prompted.
“This is unpleasant, but I must say it. Your husband is involved with a student—a girl of twenty, living with her invalid mother.”
“Spare me the details.”
“Very well. I overheard him on the phone. The girl is expecting a child. He promised her support.”
Florence said nothing. Margaret pressed on.
“This isn’t his first dalliance. There was Veronica from linguistics, Nina from sociology… Forgive me, but silence felt complicit. Three months ago, when he claimed to attend that conference in Vienna? He never went. Rented a cottage outside Oxford instead.”
“How do you know that?” Florence couldn’t—wouldn’t—believe it. Spite from a bitter spinster.
“You think this is envy.” Margaret sighed. “But consider—if this becomes common knowledge? He’s thirty years her senior. It’s absurd.”
Florence straightened.
“Thank you. If that’s all—”
“Yes, I’ll go.” Margaret stood hastily.
Alone, Florence stared blankly. Work was impossible now. The calm had lasted too long—she’d almost begun to expect this. Colleagues were one thing, but a student? How could he?
Years ago, her father had brought home an awkward, bespectacled undergraduate—his thesis advisee. Over dinner, her father had praised him relentlessly: “He’s a rare talent. Mark my words, he’ll go far.”
The “talent” had eaten without looking up, stealing glances at Florence. She’d been studying languages at university then. His name was Edmund. He’d come from some tiny northern town, and her father had taken him on—arranged a fellowship, guided his research. Soon, Edmund was practically family.
One evening, after she’d started translating professionally, he’d turned up unannounced.
“Father’s at a symposium in Edinburgh. Didn’t you know?” she’d said.
“I came to see you.” He’d adjusted his spectacles, blushing.
“Oh? Need something translated?” She’d teased him.
“I’d like to take you to an exhibition. Turner, Constable…”
She’d wanted to go, but none of her friends cared for art. So she agreed.
To her surprise, he was fascinating—not just insightful about the paintings, but brimming with stories as they walked home. She’d listened, barely recognising the shy boy from before. The glasses didn’t seem ugly anymore. Not love—just interest.
“Give him a chance,” her father had urged. “He’ll go far. With him, you’ll want for nothing.” She’d trusted her father.
When Edmund proposed, she accepted. The wedding was postponed—her father died suddenly. Edmund took over his department, finished his thesis. They married a year later.
Her mother had been ill after that, passing just as Florence was pregnant. Her life pivoted. She worked from home, translated, kept house, raised their son. It was a good life—until today. She’d believed Edmund loved her.
“You were wrong about him, Father. So was I.” Speaking aloud steadied her. “He used us—your name, your position, our flat. And all the while, he betrayed me.”
Edmund’s lectures were legendary. Students skipped others, never his. He performed more than taught. Florence had loved listening to him. The thick glasses were gone, replaced by contacts.
She reheated her tea, stirred in two sugars—a rare indulgence—and fetched a scone. Lately, she’d watched her weight. But today called for sweetness.
Then she packed his suitcase and left it by the door.
“Going somewhere?” Edmund flicked the light on as he entered. Florence winced.
“You are. The flat is mine—my parents’. You’ll live with your… Lara, is it? She’s having your child. You promised to care for them. So care.”
“What nonsense is this? What student?” He played dumb.
“Don’t. Just go.”
“You’ll regret believing gossip.”
When the door slammed, she wept—for herself, for lost years. She’d trusted him, built a home, spared him every domestic worry. And he…
She wandered the flat, dreading solitude. Days later, her son visited, urging reconciliation.
“You should see how he’s living. A cramped flat with her disabled mother. And the baby coming—”
“He should’ve thought earlier. He had everything—even an unloved wife. Now he has nothing but a pregnant girl.”
“But you’ll be alone.”
“I’ll manage. Stay if you’re worried.”
He did—first for her sake, then for good. Four months later, Edmund collapsed mid-lecture and died. A heart attack.
At the funeral, eulogies flowed. No one mentioned his affairs. Florence felt no guilt. His exile had hastened it—he’d never known hardship.
A month later, her son brought Lara home. She peered timidly from behind him.
“Mum, she’s staying. The baby’s due soon. Their place isn’t fit. If you send her away, I’ll go too.”
Florence said nothing. What could she say? She’d lost Edmund. She couldn’t lose her son.
“Fine.” She retreated to her room.
Next morning, she packed.
“I’ll stay at the cottage till autumn. I can’t bear to see her. I need time.” She met her son’s eyes. “Take me there.”
“Mum, I feel rotten. It’s your home.”
“My choice. No one’s forcing me.”
The cottage soothed her. For the first time since Edmund’s death, she slept deeply. Work was peaceful here.
“Hello!” A voice from beyond the fence startled her as she wandered the overgrown garden. “I’m your neighbour. Staying long?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Something to ask.” He hesitated. “Your plot’s large and unused. Mine’s too small. Could I plant potatoes behind your cottage? I’ll share the harvest.”
She agreed. The rows wouldn’t bother her. She’d be gone before winter anyway.
At breakfast, she glanced out the window. The neighbour, shirtless and bronzed, was digging. She watched, admiring his ease—until he looked up, waved. Flustered, she stepped back.
She found herself watching him daily. Once, she asked how he accessed her garden. He showed her the loose fence plank. He’d divorced, left the house to his ex, moved here.
“And you? Not here for gardening.”
“My husband strayed with a student. She got pregnant. Then he dropped dead. My son took her in. I… ran away.” She frowned. “Why am I telling you this?”
“Because I’m here. Sell your flat. Buy something smallerOne morning, as the first frost painted the garden silver, Florence found herself humming a tune she hadn’t thought of in years, and for the first time in a very long while, she realized she was content.
