Of Felines, Men, and Blossoming Beauty…

**Of Cats, Men, and Daffodils…**

“Can you believe it’s raining out there?” said Rachel, standing by the office window.

“It’s spring—what do you expect?” replied the ever-practical Natasha.

“True, it’s the first of March. I’m so sick of winter. The only good thing was Christmas.”

“March is fickle—snow one day, frost the next,” chimed in Victoria, the eldest of them all at forty-five.

“This morning, I fell on my way to the car. A bruise the size of a dinner plate on my thigh—still hurts. Want to see?” Rachel turned from the window.

“No!” they answered in unison.

“And Lydia here isn’t exactly celebrating spring. Look at her—working like a machine.”

“Rachel, leave her alone,” Victoria cut in.

“Fine, fine. As if her heartbreak’s the end of the world. I’ve been dumped three times, and I’m still standing.”

Rachel caught Victoria’s disapproving glance and stepped away from the window.

“Honestly, though. A bloke leaves her. He’s not dead—just moved on. She should be happy for him,” Rachel muttered.

Lydia pushed back her chair and walked out. No matter how much time had passed, she couldn’t forget him. Couldn’t move on.

She’d spent her early years studying, never making time for lads. She thought there’d be plenty ahead, that love would wait. But time slipped by—her friends married, divorced, married again—while she remained untouched by anything real.

Then she met Paul. *This is it*, she’d thought. Real love. The kind she’d dreamed of. She fell so hard she couldn’t imagine life without him. The joy when he proposed—she’d glowed. They planned a New Year’s Eve wedding, twinkling lights in every photo. She’d promised to invite all the girls, even picked out her dress.

Then, in early December, Paul vanished. A week of silence, ignored calls. When he returned, he was hollow-eyed, guilty. She knew before he spoke.

Two and a half years ago, before they met, he’d had a fling on a business trip. Maybe he’d promised her something—he couldn’t remember. Then he met Lydia and forgot the other woman existed. Until the call.

*”You have a son. He’s eighteen months old.”*

Paul dragged his hands through his hair. *”He looks just like me. The second I saw him… everything changed. It’s not that I still love her. But the child… changes everything. I’m sorry.”*

At first, Lydia tried to convince herself love would conquer all. Then she realized—it wasn’t just the child. You can’t chain a man with guilt. If his feelings for the mother lingered, there was no future.

Two happy years—gone. Plans, dreams, the life they’d imagined. Now his past had reclaimed him. She knew she could never live with it, even if he chose her. For how long? His past would always intrude, demanding attention, money, time.

So she let him go. But what now? How do you rebuild when the future you pictured lies in ruins? And how do you trust men again? Every one now seemed a liar, a cheat.

Work numbed the days, but nights were torture.

No matter how fiercely women fought for equality, without love, without children, happiness eluded them. Careers couldn’t replace family. Life’s meaning was in leaving something behind—raising it well, with a husband. And Paul had already done that. His son was real. She was… excess.

Why was luck so cruel? Thirty-two, unmarried, never properly lived with a man.

Rachel was on her second marriage. Victoria’s eldest was at uni. Even plump Natasha had wed a year ago. Only Lydia remained alone.

The girls tried setting her up—friends of husbands, colleagues. But nothing clicked. One was decent but boring; another wanted a fling; a third wasn’t even divorced.

And now, Mother’s Day loomed. Why the fuss? Flowers could be given any day, not just when the calendar dictated. At least it was a day off—no need to face smug men clutching daffodils, tight rubber bands keeping the buds from blooming too soon.

Wives at home, slaving over a roast, dressing up, then watching their cheap flowers wilt as fast as their curls in the warmth. Husbands stuffing their faces, one eye on the telly. A son barely touching his food before vanishing into his room, into his online world.

Yet Lydia envied even that. She’d have taken it—just to have *something*.

She studied herself in the mirror. Not ugly, not lacking. So why no happiness? Everyone said she was too picky. But reckless love belonged to youth—back when *”love in a cottage”* was enough, when mistakes could be made and fixed.

At thirty-two, she couldn’t start from zero. And a man past thirty with nothing to his name? How could he lead a family?

She splashed water on her face, pressed damp palms to her cheeks. The tightness eased. She dabbed her skin, smoothed her hair, forced a smile. *Thirty-two isn’t fifty.*

When she returned, the office fell silent. *”Talking about me, then.”* She sat, resumed work.

“Lydia, we’re having a little do on the seventh. Cake, chatter. Chipping in £10 each. Fancy joining?”

She knew the talk—flowers, husbands, gifts.

“Promised Mum I’d visit,” she lied.

Her father had died four years ago. Her mother had a new man. She wasn’t expected.

“Told you,” Rachel crowed.

“Right, back to work,” Victoria cut in.

On the seventh, the office buzzed. Women floated in, dressed to the nines, prepping food. The air thickened with spices, melting chocolate.

“Lydia, go home.” Victoria slid a box of chocolates onto her desk.

“No, I’m fine—”

“Take them. Have some tea. And listen—you’ll find happiness. Rachel’s just bitter. Her second marriage is rocky.”

“Thanks… I’ll head off.”

She didn’t go straight home. She bought wine, fruit, deli meats. No one waited at her stove.

In the shop, she felt part of the sisterhood—stocking up, crafting a feast. She overbought, swept up in the frenzy.

Then the street. Heavy bag, endless puddles, icy patches. By the time she reached her building, her back was damp. *Why did I wear a coat?*

Fumbling for keys, the bag dragging, her bag slipping—she barely heard the meow.

The lift took forever. The meow came again. A grey cat, green eyes fixed on her. Domestic, clean but for muddy paws.

*”Which floor?”* she asked.

It rubbed her leg, darted into the lift, followed her inside.

“Bold, aren’t you? Girl, I bet.”

The cat sat politely outside her door.

“Manners? Fine. Help me eat this, then.”

She set out meat, milk. The cat devoured both, then demanded more.

“Definitely male. Greedy, shameless. Fancy staying? Better than nothing.”

She bathed him—he endured it—then he curled on the rug.

“Not on the sofa? Good.”

She posted an ad: *”Found—grey tabby. Bold. Answers to anything.”* Printed flyers, pinned them up.

Back home, she left the door ajar. The cat shrank away.

“Scared I’ll lock you out? Smart. But pee indoors, and you’ll regret it.”

He slept at her feet. She woke to find him there.

Breakfast done, her phone rang.

“You found Marmalade!” a child’s voice exclaimed.

She gave her address. Soon, a man and boy stood at her door.

The cat strolled over, rubbing the boy’s legs.

“Why’d you let him out?” Lydia asked.

“Mum hates cats. Said he ran off, but—”

“I see,” Lydia said, eyeing the man.

“Thank you,” he said. “Daniel, time to go.”

“But if your wife throws him out again?”

The man paused.

“Keep him here. Daniel can visit.”

The cat blinked, smug.

Reluctantly, the boy handed him over. The man returned later with a litter tray, toys, food.

“Where does this go?”

Lydia pointed. The cat inspected it, then used it.

“Your wife really dumped him?”

“Ex-sister-in-law. Daniel’s my nephew. She’s buying a flat, then they’ll leave.”

*”Likely story,”* Lydia thought.

“You’ve been hurt,” he said.

“None of your business. Goodbye.”

That evening, wine in hand, grapes washed, she settled on the sofa. The cat curled beside her.

*”My little family.”*

The doorAs the cat purred contentedly in her lap, she realized that sometimes love arrived unexpectedly—not in grand gestures, but in quiet moments and second chances.

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Of Felines, Men, and Blossoming Beauty…