The Pink Scarf
Valerie buried her husband two years ago. He had been seventeen years older than her. She was only twenty-nine when they first met.
Men had never paid her much attention. Quiet and home-loving, she avoided clubs and noisy crowds. In school and university, boys saw her as a mate—someone to copy homework from or borrow lecture notes. They dated pretty, lively girls unburdened by strict morals.
She met Edward on the street. It was a warm May, cherry blossoms filled the air, and young leaves shimmered under a generous sun. Valerie decided to walk home, enjoying the spring air, squinting at the brightness, smiling for no reason at passersby.
Then she saw him—tall, handsome in a black trench coat left carelessly open. As he passed, he smiled and said, “Lovely weather. Almost summer. And here I am in a coat.” His voice was deep and pleasant.
“Why not take it off then?” Valerie grinned.
At once, he shrugged it off and draped it over his arm. She didn’t walk away, mesmerised for no reason.
“Much better. Fancy an ice cream?” Without waiting for an answer, he darted to a nearby stall. Valerie almost left but thought it rude.
He returned, handing her a vanilla cone.
“Oh! My favourite,” she said. “How did you know?”
“Mine too,” he replied.
They walked together, chatting about everything. She got home late and skipped dinner—too full of ice cream.
“Your eyes are sparkling,” her mother noted, narrowing her gaze.
“Nonsense,” Valerie said, flushing inexplicably.
Edward called the next day, inviting her out.
“It’s raining. Did you notice? I didn’t bring an umbrella,” she sighed.
“No matter. We’ll go to the cinema. Where do you work? I’ll pick you up.”
On the way, she learned his wife had died a year prior—heart complications, no children.
“I adored her. The lack of children never bothered me. After she passed, I barely survived. Thought I’d spend my days alone. Then I saw you… Val—”
“Valerie,” she corrected.
“You remind me of her. Not in looks. Your eyes—clear as a spring. You’re… unspoilt. Rare these days.”
The next evening, Edward sat drinking tea with her mother. Roses adorned the table.
“Darling, Edward and I were just chatting,” her mother cooed, flashing pointed glances: *Don’t be a fool.*
Edward was refined—well-dressed, silver-haired, charming. Her mother adored him. His flat, car, and comfortable salary sealed the deal. No children? A blessing—no stepchild headaches. Valerie could have her own.
“Mum, I’ve known him a week, and you’re planning our future!” Valerie huffed. “He’s pleasant, but I don’t love him.”
“No love, no heartbreak. Practical marriages last. You’ll be safe with him. You’re not a girl dreaming of romance anymore.”
As he left, Edward asked her to walk him to his car.
“Tomorrow, I’ll invite you and your mother over. Let’s be clear—if you want children, I’ll understand. But I’m too old for sleepless nights.”
Honest, at least. She never brought it up again.
Life with him was steady. Colleagues envied her—no wild young husband, just reliability. Her mother called it a jackpot. Grandchildren would’ve been nice, but happiness is never perfect.
For three years, she never regretted marrying him. Respect, trust, stability—all mattered in a marriage.
One evening, he came home, ate supper, lay down to rest. She tiptoed around, not wanting to wake him—until she realised he wouldn’t.
After his death, she carried on mechanically. Her mother’s nagging—”Move on!”—irritated her. Have a child alone? *How?*
Edward had disliked bright clothes or makeup. “Why? You’re married. Only women hunting attention wear that.”
So she packed away her old things, dressed drably, tied her hair back—aging herself prematurely.
One April morning, summer teased the air. Birds sang, leaves rustled, sun melted even the coldest hearts.
Digging through her wardrobe, Valerie found the pink scarf from her past. How had it survived among the dull fabrics? She wrapped it around her neck.
Rush-hour buses were brutal. Nearing her stop, she shuffled forward—then felt the scarf snag, tightening. Passengers shoved; the scarf constricted. Panicked, she fought backward, earning curses.
The scarf was caught on a stranger’s bag. He tugged, trying to free it.
“Careful! You’ll rip it,” she snapped.
The doors closed; the bus lurched forward.
“Now I’ve missed my stop—thanks to you,” she muttered.
“My fault? Dress like that, you should take a cab,” he shot back, yanking harder. “What, a gift from hubby?”
They bickered to the next stop, alighting together. Easily, he freed the scarf.
“Thanks,” she said sourly. “Now I’ve a long walk back.”
“I’ll come,” he offered.
“Don’t bother. Your mother must be waiting.”
“She’s gone,” he said softly. “Fifteen when I lost her. Dad remarried. I rent a flat now.”
“I’m sorry. My husband died too. This scarf? Bought it at uni.”
“Funny it caught *my* bag,” he smirked. “Fate. Dozens of bags, yet it chose mine.”
She scoffed. “Coincidence.”
“Your choice. I’m Jack. Mum called me Jackie. And you?”
She walked off but glanced back—he stood at the corner, waving.
At home, she scolded herself. *He seemed nice. Why act like a schoolgirl?*
A week later, rain poured. Head down, avoiding puddles, she reached her building—and found Jack blocking the path.
“Stalking me?” she asked, shutting her umbrella.
“Just wanted to see you.”
His smirk was bold, but his eyes earnest.
“Come in, then. You’re soaked.”
Over tea, he shared—finishing medical training, dreams of the army (like his brother), switching to medicine after his mother’s death. Valerie listened, picturing nurses swooning over him, feeling an odd pang.
He returned the next night, pulling her into an embrace before she could speak.
“Can’t stop thinking about you,” he breathed.
She pushed weakly, but her legs betrayed her, heart hammering. With Edward, intimacy had been endured in the dark. Now, she melted.
“Tell me to stop,” Jack rasped.
She didn’t.
Afterward, she lay awake, replaying it all. By morning, she barely recognised herself—jeans, mascara, hair loose. Everyone noticed the change.
She felt young again, racing to the door at his knock, surrendering to his arms.
Logically, she knew it wouldn’t last. They were from different worlds.
Then, one evening, Jack arrived sombre.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“My training’s done.”
“That’s wonderful!”
“Work’s offered—top hospital. In London.”
She fetched wine. “A toast to your career!”
“But—how can I leave you?”
She searched his eyes. “Why would you take me?”
He said nothing.
At the station, they clung until the last moment. “I’ll call. I’ll come back!” he vowed as the train pulled away.
Home again, she drew the curtains, silenced her phone, and wept. A week later, she knew—she was pregnant.
He called often at first, then just texts. She never told him. The child would be hers alone.
That autumn, she rode a packed bus to the clinic, cradling her bump. A man gave up his seat. Gratefully, she sank down—then heard, “Excuse me, is this yours?”
Her pink scarf dangled from his fingers.
“Thank you,” she said, meeting his eyes.
*Fate*, she remembered Jack’s words.
Life’s twists aren’t accidents—they’re chances. Some we take. Some we leave. But every choice changes us.
