**The Pink Scarf**
I buried my husband two years ago. He was seventeen years my senior. I was twenty-nine when we met.
Men never paid me much attention. Quiet, home-loving, I avoided parties and rowdy crowds. In school and university, boys saw me as a mate—someone to copy homework from, someone to lend notes. They dated the pretty, carefree girls, the ones unburdened by morals and conventions.
I met Edward on the street. It was a warm May evening, the cherry blossoms were out, and fresh green leaves shimmered under a generous sun. I decided to walk home, soaking in the spring air, squinting against the light, smiling at strangers for no reason.
Then I saw him—tall, handsome, wearing a black overcoat flapping open. As he passed, he smiled and said, *”Lovely weather. Almost like summer. And yet here I am, bundled up.”* His voice was warm and deep.
*”Then take it off,”* I laughed.
He did, draping it over his arm. For some reason, I lingered, transfixed.
*”Much better. Fancy an ice cream?”* He didn’t wait for an answer, bounding off to a vendor. I considered leaving, but it would’ve been rude.
He returned with a vanilla cone.
*”My favourite!”* I said. *”How did you guess?”*
*”Mine too,”* he replied.
We walked together, chatting about everything. I came home late, skipping dinner—too full of ice cream.
*”Your eyes are shining,”* Mum said, squinting. *”Something happen?”*
*”Nothing,”* I muttered, inexplicably blushing.
Edward called the next day, asking me out.
*”It’s raining,”* I sighed. *”I didn’t bring an umbrella.”*
*”Then let’s go to the cinema. Where do you work? I’ll pick you up.”*
In the darkened theatre, he told me his wife had died a year ago—heart complications. The doctors had warned her against pregnancy.
*”I loved her completely. Children didn’t matter. After she died, I barely survived. Thought I’d spend my days alone. But seeing you… Valerie…”*
*”Valerie?”*
*”You remind me of her. Not in looks. But your eyes—clear, untouched by modern nonsense. That’s rare these days.”*
The next evening, I found him in the kitchen with Mum, roses on the table.
*”Darling, Edward and I were just having tea,”* she cooed, her eyes flashing: *Don’t be a fool.*
Edward was refined, distinguished. Grey hair only added charm. Mum approved—his London flat, his car, his respectable salary. No children? A blessing. No stepchildren to win over.
*”Mum, it’s been a week!”* I hissed. *”He’s pleasant, but I don’t love him.”*
*”Love fades. A sensible marriage lasts. You’re not a girl anymore.”*
As he left, Edward stopped me at the door.
*”Tomorrow, I’d like you both to see my home. But let’s be clear—if you want children, I’ll understand. But I’m too old for sleepless nights.”*
Honest, at least. I never mentioned children again.
Life was steady. Colleagues envied me—no reckless younger husband, just a man who drove me to work, who waited by the kerb every evening. Mum called it a golden ticket.
I never regretted marrying him.
Three years later, he came home, ate supper, lay down to rest. An hour later, I found him cold.
After the funeral, I settled into routine. Mum’s hints about *moving on* grated. A child? *From who, for heaven’s sake?*
Edward hadn’t liked bright colours or makeup.
*”You’re married. Why fuss?”*
I tucked my old clothes away, pulled my hair back, dressed like a shadow.
Then, one April afternoon, I found a pink scarf in the wardrobe. Where had it come from? I looped it around my neck.
The bus was packed. As I squeezed toward the exit, the scarf snagged—tightening. People shoved. I fought backward, gasping.
A man’s bag had caught it. He yanked, exasperated. *”Careful!”* I snapped.
The doors closed. My stop sailed past.
*”Now I’ve missed it!”*
*”Not my fault. Wear proper clothes next time.”* Another tug. *”Husband’s gift, is it?”*
We bickered until the next stop. Outside, he freed the scarf.
*”Thanks,”* I muttered. *”Now I’m walking back.”*
*”I’ll come.”*
*”Don’t bother. Your mother must be waiting.”*
*”She’s dead,”* he said, keeping pace. *”Fifteen when it happened. Dad remarried. I rent now.”*
*”Sorry. I lost my husband. He didn’t buy this scarf. I did, years ago.”* Why was I telling him?
*”Funny, out of everyone, it snagged on *my* bag,”* he grinned. *”Fate, that.”*
I scoffed. *”Coincidence.”*
*”Suit yourself. I’m Jacob. Friends call me Jake. And you?”*
I turned into my building without answering. Glancing back, I saw him on the corner, waving.
At home, I scolded myself. *Rude. He seemed decent.* Next day, I searched the bus stop, hoping to apologise.
A week later, rain fell in sheets. At my door, he stood waiting.
*”Stalking me?”* I shook out my umbrella.
*”Just wanted to see you.”*
No joke in his eyes.
*”Your fate, remember? Fancy tea? I’m soaked.”* He sneezed theatrically.
His grin was boyish. Irresistible.
Inside, he talked—finishing his medical residency, how he’d dreamed of the army like his brother. Chose medicine after his mother’s death. Women would adore him. The thought stung.
He returned the next night, pulling me into his arms before I could speak.
*”Couldn’t wait.”* His breath scorched my neck.
I pushed, but my legs betrayed me. With Edward, I’d endured in darkness. This—*this*—was like melting.
*”Say stop,”* he rasped.
I didn’t.
Dawn came. He ate breakfast heartily, as if this were normal. Maybe love wasn’t the word. Just happiness, fleeting but real.
I waited evenings, pulse racing. Bought jeans, mascara, let my hair down. The mirror startled me.
Then, one evening, shadows under his eyes.
*”Residency’s done,”* he said.
*”Wonderful!”*
*”They offered me a place… in Manchester.”*
I fetched wine. *”Celebrate!”*
*”Val… I’ll send for you.”*
I searched his face. *”Why?”*
I wanted vows, pleas. Silence answered.
At the station, we clung. *”I’ll call every day!”* he promised.
The train departed.
At home, I drew the curtains, silenced my phone, wept. A week later, the test was positive.
Calls became texts. I never told him.
That autumn, a crowded bus. A man offered his seat.
*”Excuse me—did you drop this?”*
My pink scarf.
*”Thanks,”* I said.
*Fate*, I thought.
But by then, I knew better.
