**She Said “Yes”**
Edith Margaret stood by the window, watching the neighbour hang laundry on the opposite balcony. The morning light softened her silver hair, neatly styled in the same way she had done for forty years. In her hand trembled a cup of cold tea.
“Edie, what are you staring at?” called out William James, stepping into the room. “Breakfast is getting cold.”
She didn’t turn. In the reflection of the glass, she saw her husband adjust his shirt collar. Seventy-three years old, yet he still took care of himself. His hair, though thinning, was combed neatly. His trousers pressed, his shoes polished.
“I heard you, Will,” she murmured.
William approached, standing beside her.
“What’s on your mind?”
“Oh, nothing much. Just a strange dream.”
Edith set the cup on the windowsill. In her dream, she was young again, perhaps twenty-five, wearing a white dress before a mirror. Her mother fussed beside her, adjusting the veil, whispering sweet nothings. She had woken with damp eyes.
“What dream?” William took her elbow, turning her gently toward him.
“Our wedding. Only, not like it really was. Something beautiful.”
He frowned.
“Not like it was? What was wrong with ours?”
“Nothing,” Edith agreed, but her voice was weary.
Their wedding had been at the registry office, followed by a simple meal at a café—just her, William, and his best man as witness. She’d bought a grey dress, practical, sensible. In the photos, she was smiling, but her eyes looked hollow, as if the face in the picture belonged to someone else.
“Come, eat,” William said. “You’ll be late for work.”
Edith had worked at the library for thirty years. The reading room, the lending desk, the catalogue cards. Quiet, peaceful. William had protested at first—why should his wife work when he could provide? But she’d insisted. She wanted to be among people, among books. The house suffocated her.
Breakfast passed in silence. William read the paper, occasionally commenting on the news. Edith ate her porridge, lost in thought. Rain tapped against the window.
“We’re having supper with Edward tonight,” William said, not looking up from the paper. “He rang earlier.”
“Alright.”
“Charlotte’s likely made something special. You know how she tries.”
Edward was their only son. Married three years ago to Charlotte, a quiet, sensible girl. Edith liked her, but seeing the young couple always reminded her of her own youth, passing unnoticed.
At the library, the day flowed as usual. Visitors came and went, books were lent and returned. During her lunch break, she sat in a corner with a book of poetry. A line caught her eye: *”And happiness was so near, so possible…”*
“Edith, might I have a word?” A young colleague, Beatrice, hovered by her chair.
“Of course. What is it?”
“I don’t know what to do. Harry’s proposed, but I’m not certain.”
Beatrice sat beside her, twisting the edge of her cardigan. Her eyes were red; she’d been crying.
“What’s the trouble? Don’t you love him?”
“I do! But Mum says he’s not right for me. His job’s nothing special, no prospects. And there’s Oliver Whitmore—he runs his own company, he’s keen on me too.”
Edith studied the girl. Twenty-two, pretty, life ahead of her. Facing the same choice she once had.
“What does your heart say?”
“My heart?” Beatrice sniffed. “My heart wants Harry. But Mum’s probably right. I should think with my head, not my heart.”
“Beatrice,” Edith took her hand. “Listen to me. A head is needed, yes. But if you shut out your heart entirely—you’ll regret it all your life.”
“You think so?”
“I know.”
After work, Edith lingered, strolling through the park where she’d walked as a girl. Here, she’d met William. He’d been on leave from the army, visiting his parents. Tall, handsome, dashing in his uniform. All the girls had looked his way.
And she’d been in love with Albert Dawson, the boy next door. Albert studied literature, wrote poetry, played guitar. They’d sit on the bench outside her house, and he’d read his verses to her. They dreamed of marrying, of a life together.
But her mother had disapproved.
“Edie, are you mad?” she’d said. “Albert’s got nothing! A student, no money, no proper work. William’s steady, an army man. He’ll provide, give you children. A reliable man.”
“But I don’t love him, Mum!”
“You’ll grow to. Love isn’t the heart of marriage—respect is.”
William had courted her persistently—flowers, trips to the cinema, talk of settling down. Albert? Albert was a dreamer. Believed love was enough, that the rest would follow.
The final conversation had happened on an autumn evening. William came to ask properly for her hand. Sat in their tiny parlour, discussing futures with her mother. Edith stood by the window, watching Albert linger by the lamppost, waiting as always.
“Well, Edith?” William had turned to her.
Her mother’s eyes pleaded—*say yes, don’t be foolish.*
Edith glanced out. Albert stood there still, smoking, gazing up at her window. She could feel his eyes even from a distance.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I will.”
Her mother sighed in relief. William smiled, kissed her cheek.
Albert lingered a moment longer under the lamppost, then walked away. He never came back.
They married a month later. A small affair, no fuss. She smiled, accepted congratulations, danced with her husband. All the time, it felt like someone else’s life.
Albert left town the day after the wedding. No one knew where. *Good riddance,* her mother had said.
Life with William was steady. He was a good husband—drank little, never roamed, brought his wages home. They had a house, a son. All as it should be.
But there was no happiness. Only habit, respect, mutual understanding.
The park was dark now. Time to go home. William would be fretting.
At home, he was indeed agitated.
“Where have you been? It’s past seven!”
“Walking. Needed some air.”
“You should’ve said! I thought something had happened.”
“Sorry. I forgot.”
They readied for supper in silence. Edith wore her best dress; William, his suit. As always for visits.
Edward and Charlotte’s home was warm, welcoming. Candles lit the table, wine poured. Edward raised a toast.
“To you both, for teaching me the value of family.”
Edith sipped her wine. What had she truly taught him? To endure? To settle?
“Mum, remember the fairy tales you told me?” Edward asked suddenly. “About princesses waiting for their princes.”
“I do.”
“I asked if all of them got their happy ending. You said no—not everyone is so lucky.”
“Did I?”
Charlotte squeezed Edward’s hand. “But we found ours.”
Edward kissed her, and Edith saw in their eyes what she’d never had—real love.
“We’ve news,” Charlotte said shyly. “We’re expecting.”
William beamed. “A grandson! Edith, did you hear?”
“Or granddaughter,” Charlotte corrected.
“Either way—our line continues!”
Edith congratulated them, hugging Charlotte. But her thoughts spiralled—what life awaited this child? Would they be happy? Would they repeat her mistakes?
On the bus home, William chattered about nurseries, prams. Edith gazed out at the city lights. Somewhere out there, Albert might be living. Or perhaps he’d left long ago.
That night, sleep wouldn’t come. William snored beside her. The clock ticked—steady, relentless—counting down a life half-lived.
By morning, her mind was set. Once William left for work, she dug out an old address book.
Lydia Hart lived a few neighbourhoods over. They’d been friends once, before marriage drew them apart. Lydia had known Albert—maybe she’d heard something.
Her fingers shook as she dialled.
“Lydia? Edith James. Well—Edith Wilson now.”
“Edie! My word, it’s been ages! How are you?”
“Alright. Lydia, this might sound odd… Do you know what became of Albert Dawson?”
A long pause.
“Of course. Why do you ask?”
“No reason—just reminiscing. Wondered how he’d got on.”
“Edie, don’t you know? He’s here. Came back four years ago. Teaches at the secondary school. Widowed now—his wife died of cancer.”
Her heart pounded so loudly it might have filled the house.
“Which school?”
“St. Andrew’s. Edie, why—?”
“Curiosity. Thanks, Lydia. We’ll talk again.”
She hung upShe met Albert in the park one last time, and as they sat together under the winter sky, she finally knew what it meant to live without regret.
