**About Cats, Men, and Daffodils…**
“Can you believe it’s raining out there?” said Lily, standing by the office window.
“Well, it’s spring—what do you expect?” replied pragmatic Emily.
“It *is* the first of March, though. I’m so sick of winter. The only good thing was Christmas.”
“March is unpredictable—snow one day, frost the next,” added Victoria, the eldest at forty-five, tossing in her two pence.
“This morning, I slipped on the way to the car. The bruise on my thigh is *horrendous*. Still hurts. Want to see?” Lily turned from the window.
“No!” the women chorused.
“Grace isn’t exactly thrilled about spring either. Look at her—working like a machine.”
“Leave her alone, Lily,” Victoria chided.
“Fine, fine. As if her problems are the end of the world. I’ve been dumped three times—still standing.”
Lily caught Victoria’s disapproving glare and stepped back.
“Honestly, though. A bloke leaves her. He’s not dead—alive and happy. She should move on,” Lily pressed.
Grace pushed back from her desk and left the room. No matter how much time passed, she couldn’t forget.
She’d focused on her studies early on, no time for boys. Thought she’d have plenty later. But time flew—friends married, divorced, remarried—while Grace never had anything serious.
Then she met Daniel. *Real* love, she thought. She couldn’t imagine life without him. Over the moon when he proposed. They booked the registry office for a winter wedding, dreamt of twinkling Christmas lights in every photo. She’d already picked her dress.
Then in early December, Daniel vanished. A week of silence. When he returned, he was a mess. She instantly knew—something was wrong. He confessed.
Two and a half years ago, before Grace, he’d had a fling while on a business trip. Maybe he’d made promises—he couldn’t remember. Then he met Grace and forgot her. Until she called. Said he had a son. Eighteen months old.
“He looks *just* like me.” Daniel dragged his hands through his hair. “Everything flipped inside me. It’s not that I still love *her*. But the child changes everything. I’m sorry, Grace.”
At first, she didn’t fight to keep him. Told herself love would conquer all. But then she realised—it wasn’t just the child. No man stays for a child alone. He must still feel something for the mother.
Two happy years. Plans, dreams, a future. Then his past reclaimed him. Grace knew she couldn’t live with it, even if he chose her. How long before demands for money, attention, more time, crept in?
So she let him go. But what about her? Her dreams were rubble now. And how could she trust men again? Every one seemed a liar, a cheat.
Work numbed her days. Nights were worse—memories tearing at her heart.
No matter how much women fought for equality, without love, children, they were unhappy. Careers didn’t replace family. Life’s meaning was legacy—raising it well, with a father. And Daniel already had his. Grace was the spare.
Why her? Thirty-two, unmarried, never properly lived with anyone.
Lily was on her second husband. Victoria’s eldest was at uni. Even Emily, plump and plain, married last year. Only Grace remained alone.
The girls tried setting her up with friends’ husbands’ mates. One was nice but dull—no spark. Another wanted a fling. A third wasn’t even divorced.
And now this daft spring holiday. Why the fuss over flowers and gifts? Roses could be given *any* day, not just a date on the calendar. At least it was a day off—no need to face smug men clutching daffodils tied with elastic bands to keep them from blooming too soon.
Wives at home, slaving over a feast, dolling up, then watching wilted flowers mirror their curls as husbands wolfed down roast beef, half-watching telly. Sons glued to their screens.
Yet Grace envied that chaos. She’d *kill* for it. A family, daffodils even just once a year…
She checked her reflection. Not bad-looking. So why no happiness? Everyone said she was too picky. But reckless love was for youth—when a shack felt like paradise, when mistakes could be unmade.
At thirty-two, starting over felt exhausting. And men past thirty? If they hadn’t built a life yet, how could they lead a family?
Grace splashed water on her face. The irritation cooled. She blotted her cheeks, smoothed her hair, smiled. Thirty-two wasn’t fifty, right?
When she returned, the room hushed. *Talking about me, then.* She sat, got back to work.
“Grace, love, we’re doing a little do on the eighth. Chipping in a tenner each. Fancy joining?”
Grace imagined the chatter—holiday, flowers, husbands.
“Sorry, promised Mum I’d visit. She’s expecting me,” she lied.
Nowhere to go. Dad died four years back. Mum had a new bloke—no time for her.
“Told you,” Lily crowed.
“Right, girls—back to work,” Victoria cut in.
On the eighth, the office was a whirlwind. Women dolled up, giggled, laid out food. The air was thick with spice and gossip.
“Grace, go home.” Victoria slid a box of chocolates her way.
“No, it’s fine—”
“Take them. Have a cuppa. You’ll find your happiness, love. Ignore Lily—her second marriage is on the rocks.”
“Thanks. Mind if I head off?”
Grace didn’t go straight home. She bought wine. Grapes. Cold cuts. No one to cook for.
In the shop, she almost believed she was part of it—the sisterhood prepping feasts, dazzling families. She overbought, caught in the frenzy.
Outside, she cursed herself. Why so much? No one waited. Pavements were slush and ice. Her winter coat stuck to her back.
At her building, she fumbled with keys. A meow sounded. Too tired to care.
Steps. The lift crawled down, mocking her.
The meow came again. A grey cat blinked up at her, green eyes bright. Well-groomed but muddy-pawed. She felt like Shrek—gruff outside, soft within.
“Seventh floor. You?”
The cat meowed, rubbed her leg, darted into the lift.
“Cheeky. Or a lady? Ah, makes sense.”
At her door, the cat paused.
“Polite, are we? Fine, help me eat this.”
Inside, the cat devoured ham, lapped milk, then hypnotised her for seconds.
She lifted him. “Definitely a lad. Greedy, bold. Fancy staying? Some male company. Behave, though.”
He endured a paw-wash, then flopped on the rug.
“Not claiming the sofa? Good.”
She drafted a *Found Cat* ad—grey, striped, shameless. Took a photo, printed flyers.
“Name? Whiskers? Tom? No? Maybe your owner’ll turn up.”
She posted flyers in the drizzle. Returned home.
“Back. Need the loo?” She held the door. The cat bolted *inside*.
“Smart. Pee on my rug, and you’ll regret it.”
He slept at her feet. She didn’t scold.
Morning brought a call.
“You found my Coconut!” a boy chirped.
Grace gave her address.
Minutes later—a man and boy at her door.
“Our cat,” the boy said.
“How do I know?” Grace eyed them.
“Coconut!” The cat sauntered over, rubbed the boy’s legs.
“He *knows* me!”
“You let him out?” Grace frowned.
“Mum hates cats. Said he ran off, but he wouldn’t—”
“Right. Indoor type.” She let them in.
The boy hugged the cat, who sagged like a resigned sausage.
“Thanks for saving him. Dogs could’ve— Come on, Oliver, home time.”
“Wait. What if your wife dumps him again?”
The man sighed. “She’s my sister. Divorced, moved in. Her ex bought her out—she’ll get her own place soon.”
“That’s what they all say. Then oh, *my* son, *not* divorced—”
“Someone hurt you bad,” he said.
“None of your business. Off you pop.”
That evening, wine in hand, grapes washed, cat beside her, Grace scoffed. “My little family.”
A knock interrupted.
Through the peephole—the man, holding roses.
“Yes?”
“Just wanted to thank you. For Coconut.” He offered the bouquet. “Not all blokes are pricks. Though plenty are. Hey, mate—settling in?”
She took the flowers, and for the first time in months, Grace let herself hope.