**The Pink Scarf**
Valerie buried her husband two years ago. He had been seventeen years older than her. She was twenty-nine when they first met.
Men had never paid her much attention. Quiet, home-loving, she avoided pubs and loud gatherings. In school and university, boys saw her as a mate—someone to borrow notes from, never someone to date. They chased after lively, pretty girls, the sort unburdened by old-fashioned morals.
She met Edward on the street. It was a warm May afternoon, the cherry blossoms in full bloom under a generous sun. Valerie decided to walk home, squinting at the brightness, smiling at strangers for no reason at all.
Then she saw him—tall, handsome, in an unbuttoned black overcoat. As they passed, he grinned. “Lovely weather, isn’t it? Feels like summer. And here I am in this coat.” His voice was deep, pleasant.
“Well, take it off then,” Valerie laughed.
He did, slinging it over his arm. For some reason, she didn’t walk away. She stood there, spellbound.
“Much better. Fancy an ice cream?” Without waiting for an answer, he dashed to a nearby stall. Valerie considered leaving but thought it rude.
He returned and handed her a vanilla cone.
“Oh, my favourite,” she said. “How’d you know?”
“Same here,” he replied.
They strolled together, chatting about everything. Valerie got home late, skipping dinner—too full from the ice cream.
“What’s got you all bright-eyed?” her mother asked, narrowing her gaze.
“Nothing,” Valerie said, blushing 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. How about the cinema instead? Where do you work? I’ll pick you up.”
In the car, she learned his wife had died a year prior—a heart condition, doctors had warned against children.
“I loved her deeply. Never minded about the children. Spent years fussing over her. After she passed, I barely survived. Thought I’d spend the rest of my days alone. And then I saw you… You remind me of her, Valerie.”
Not in looks, he explained, but in her quiet warmth, her unspoiled nature. A rarity these days.
The next evening, she found him in the kitchen, sipping tea with her mother. A bouquet of roses sat on the table.
“Darling, Edward and I were just chatting,” her mother cooed, flashing a look that screamed, *Don’t be a fool.*
Edward was polished, distinguished—his greying hair only added charm. Her mother approved: the flat, the car, the steady income. No stepchildren to win over. Valerie could have her own.
“Mum, I’ve known him a week, and you’re already planning weddings,” Valerie huffed. “He’s nice, but I don’t *love* him.”
“Love fades; security lasts. You’re not a girl dreaming of romance anymore. He’s steady. A good match.”
Later, Edward asked her to walk him to his car. “I’d like you and your mother to see my place tomorrow. And Valerie—be honest. If you want children, I’ll understand. But I’m too old for sleepless nights. It’s fair to say so now.”
At least he was upfront. She never brought it up again.
Life with him was safe. Colleagues envied her—no reckless young husband, just punctual drop-offs and pick-ups. Her mother called it a golden ticket. A grandchild would’ve been nice, but happiness was never perfect.
For three years, Valerie never regretted marrying Edward. Respect, trust, reliability—that counted for something.
Then one evening, he came home, ate supper, lay down to rest… and never woke up.
After the funeral, life rolled on. Her mother’s hints about “moving forward” grated. *Have a child alone? With who, for heaven’s sake?*
Edward had disliked bright clothes or makeup. “Why bother? You’re married. Only women looking for attention primp like that.” So she’d boxed away her old wardrobe, pulled her hair back, dressed like a shadow.
Then, one April morning, she found it—the pink scarf from her past. How had it slipped among these drab dresses? She tied it on.
The bus was packed at rush hour. As she edged toward the exit, the scarf caught, tightening around her neck. Passengers shoved; she yanked at it, but it only dug deeper. Fighting upstream, she finally spotted the culprit—a young man’s bag had snagged 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, tugging harder. “What, husband’s precious gift?”
They bickered until the next stop, stepping off together. He freed the scarf with ease.
“Thanks,” Valerie said sourly. “Now I’ve got to walk back.”
“I’ll walk with you.”
“Don’t bother. I’m sure your mum’s waiting.” She turned to leave.
“Don’t have one,” he called after her. “Died when I was fifteen. Dad remarried. I rent a flat now.”
She paused. “Sorry. My husband’s gone too. And no, he didn’t buy this. I got it years ago at uni.”
“Funny it caught on *my* bag,” he smirked. “Fate, don’t you think? Dozens of people, and it picks me.”
“Don’t be daft.”
“Name’s James. Friends call me Jamie. And you?”
She didn’t answer, ducking into her building. At the door, she glanced back—he stood on the corner, waving.
*Idiot,* she chided herself. *Perfectly nice, and you acted like a child.*
A week later, rain poured as she hurried home. Jamie blocked her path at the door.
“Stalking me?” she asked, shaking her umbrella.
“Just wanted to see you.”
His grin was bold, but his eyes were earnest.
“Since I’m your *fate* and all—invite me up? I’m soaked waiting.” He sneezed for effect.
Her flat was warm. Over tea, he confessed he’d nearly joined the army like his brother, but after his mum’s death, chose med school instead. Valerie listened, imagining nurses swooning over him, and felt a pang of jealousy.
He came back the next night, pulling her into his arms the moment she opened the door.
“Can’t stop thinking about you,” he murmured, lips hot on her neck.
She pushed weakly, knees buckling, heart hammering. With Edward, intimacy had been dutiful, quiet. This was molten.
“Tell me to stop,” Jamie rasped.
She didn’t.
Afterward, she lay awake, replaying every touch. By morning, she barely recognized herself—buying jeans, mascara, wearing her hair down. Everyone noticed. No one doubted why.
Jamie’s visits became nightly. She’d fly to the door, melt into his arms. Her head knew it couldn’t last. They were worlds apart, thrown together by chance.
Then one evening, he arrived grim.
“My residency’s over.”
“That’s wonderful!”
“I’ve an offer. At the best hospital.”
“Let’s celebrate!” She fetched wine.
“It’s in London, Valerie.”
She froze.
“I’ll settle, then bring you over.”
She searched his face. “Why would you?”
He said nothing.
At the station, they clung until the whistle blew. “I’ll call every day!” he shouted as the train pulled away.
At home, she drew the curtains, silenced her phone, sobbed into the pillow. A week later, she knew—she was pregnant.
Jamie called at first, then just texts. She never told him.
Months later, on a packed bus to her check-up, a man offered her a seat. Gratefully, she sank down, eyes closed.
“Excuse me—is this yours?”
She looked up. He held out her pink scarf.
“Thanks,” she said, meeting his gaze.
*Fate,* Jamie’s voice echoed in her mind.
**Lesson:** Life knots us where we least expect. Sometimes, the tightest tangle leads us home.
