**The Pink Scarf**
I still remember the day I buried my husband, two years ago now. He was seventeen years my senior. I was only twenty-nine when we met.
Men had never paid me much attention. Quiet, shy, I steered clear of parties and loud gatherings. At school and university, I was just a mate—someone to borrow notes from while the lads chased after the lively, pretty girls with carefree attitudes.
I met Edward on the street. It was a warm May afternoon, the cherry blossoms in full bloom, the fresh greenery dazzling under a generous sun. I’d decided to walk home, lost in the spring air, squinting at the brightness, smiling at strangers for no reason.
Then I saw him—tall, handsome, wearing an unbuttoned black coat. As he passed, he smiled. “Lovely weather, isn’t it? Feels like summer. And here I am, overdressed.” His voice was deep, pleasant.
“Then take it off,” I said without thinking.
He did, draping it over his arm. For some reason, I stayed rooted to the spot, watching as if enchanted.
“Much better,” he said. “Fancy an ice cream?” Before I could answer, he dashed to the kiosk. I wanted to leave, but it would have been rude.
He handed me a tub of vanilla fudge—my favourite.
“How did you know?” I asked.
“Because it’s mine too,” he replied.
We walked together, chatting about everything. I got home late, too full of ice cream for dinner.
“Your eyes are shining,” Mum said, narrowing her own.
“They are not,” I lied, flushing.
Edward called the next day to invite me out.
“It’s raining. I didn’t bring an umbrella,” I said glumly.
“Then let’s go to the cinema. Where do you work? I’ll pick you up.”
In the car, he told me his wife had died a year before—a heart condition, doctors had warned her against children.
“I loved her dearly. Never minded not having kids. After she passed, I barely survived. Thought I’d spend my days alone. Then I saw you… You remind me of her. Not in looks. There’s something pure about you. Unspoilt. Rare, these days.”
The next evening, I found him in the kitchen with Mum, sipping tea, roses on the table.
“Darling, Edward’s just keeping me company,” Mum said, eyes flashing: *Don’t mess this up.*
Edward was refined—silver in his hair, sharp suits. Mum approved. His flat, car, and salary didn’t hurt. Neither did his lack of children. No stepkids to win over, just the babies I’d give him.
“Mum, I’ve known him a week,” I protested. “He’s pleasant, but I don’t love him.”
“Love fades. A sensible marriage lasts. You’ll be safe with him. You’re not a girl anymore, dreaming of romance.”
When he left, Edward asked me to walk him out.
“I should say now—if children matter to you, I’ll understand. But I’m too old for nappies and sleepless nights.”
Fair enough. I never brought it up again.
Life with him was steady. Colleagues envied me—no reckless younger husband, just reliability. Mum called it a winning lottery ticket. No grandchildren would’ve been nice, but happiness is never perfect.
For three years, I never regretted marrying him. There was respect, trust—real things, solid things.
Then one evening, he came home, ate supper, lay down to rest. I tiptoed around, not to disturb him. By the time I realised something was wrong, he was gone.
After his death, I stuck to routine. Mum’s hints about *moving on* grated. Have a baby alone? *How?*
Edward hadn’t liked bright clothes or makeup. “You’re a married woman. Only women looking for attention bother with that.” I’d packed my old things away, wore dull colours, scraped my hair back. Aged myself.
Then, one April morning, summer teasing the air, I found the pink scarf—leftover from another life—tucked among my drab dresses. On impulse, I put it on.
The bus was packed. Edging toward the exit, I felt the scarf catch, tightening around my neck. Panic clawed as bodies shoved from behind. I fought against the tide, people scowling, until I saw the culprit—a bloke’s bag had snagged it. He yanked, nearly choking me.
“Careful! You’ll rip it!”
The bus doors hissed shut.
“Now I’ve missed my stop!”
“Not my fault. Wear proper clothes next time.” He tugged harder. “What, sentimental value?”
We bickered until the next stop. Outside, he freed the scarf.
“Thanks,” I muttered. “Now I’ve got to walk back.”
“I’ll walk you.”
“Don’t bother. I’m sure your mum’s waiting.”
“Don’t have one,” he said, falling into step. “Died when I was fifteen. Dad remarried. I rent a flat now.”
“I’m sorry. My husband’s dead too. He didn’t give me this. Bought it myself at university.” Why was I telling him this?
“That scarf didn’t just catch on anyone’s bag,” he smirked. “Fate’s got a sense of humour. Dozens on this bus, and it picks mine.”
I scoffed. “Fate’s just coincidence in a fancy coat.”
“Your loss. I’m Jack. Mum called me Jax. Suits me better. And you?”
I didn’t answer, turning into my building. Glancing back, I saw him still on the corner, waving.
At home, I scolded myself. He was nice enough. Why had I acted like a twit? The next day, I looked for him on the bus, ready to apologise.
A week later, rain lashing down, I hurried home, dodging puddles. Jax blocked my path at the door.
“Stalking me?” I asked, shaking out my umbrella.
“Just wanted to see you.”
His grin was cocky, but his eyes were serious.
“Come on, I’m your destiny. Fancy a cuppa? I’m soaked waiting for you.” He sneezed for effect.
Upstairs, thawing with tea, he told me he was finishing his medical residency. Had wanted to join the army like his brother, but after his mum died, chose medicine instead. I listened, thinking how nurses and patients would swoon over him—then hated myself for caring.
He came back the next night, dark falling. When I opened the door, he pulled me close.
“Can’t stop thinking about you,” he murmured, lips scorching my neck.
I shoved at his chest, but my legs betrayed me, heart hammering. I clung just to stay upright.
With Edward, I’d endured intimacy in the dark. No passion, just duty. Now, under Jax’s hands, I melted like chocolate.
“Tell me to stop,” he rasped.
I didn’t.
After, listening to his steady breaths, I wondered—*Is this love?* Maybe not. But I let myself feel it anyway.
I waited for him every evening, bought jeans, mascara, let my hair down. Colleagues noticed. No one doubted why.
I felt like a girl again, racing to the door at his knock. My head knew it couldn’t last. We were from different worlds, thrown together by chance.
Then, one evening, he arrived sombre.
“What’s wrong?”
“My residency’s done.”
“That’s brilliant!”
“Got an offer. Top hospital… in London.”
I fetched wine. “Celebrate! Huge step for you.”
“Yeah, but… what about you?”
“What *about* me?”
“I’ll sort things, bring you over.”
I searched his face. “Why?”
I waited for *I love you, I can’t leave you*. For a heartbeat, I let myself believe it. He said nothing.
At the station, we clung as the train doors closed.
“I’ll call every day,” he shouted. “I’ll come back!”
The train pulled away.
At home, I drew the curtains, buried my face in a pillow, and sobbed. A week later, I knew—I was pregnant.
At first, he called as promised. Then just texts. I never told him. I’d raise this child alone.
That autumn, on a crowded bus to the clinic, a man gave me his seat. Gratefully, I sank down, sighing.
“Excuse me—did you drop this?”
I opened my eyes. He held my pink scarf.
“Thank you,” I said, meeting his gaze.
*Fate*, Jax’s voice echoed in my head.
