*She Said “Yes”*
Margaret Elizabeth stood by the window, watching her neighbour hang laundry on the opposite balcony. The morning light fell softly on her silver hair, neatly arranged in the same style she had worn for forty years. A half-empty cup of tea trembled in her hand.
“Peggy, what are you doing just standing there?” called her husband, Geoffrey, as he walked into the room. “Your breakfast is getting cold.”
She didn’t turn around. In the reflection of the glass, she saw him straighten his shirt collar. Seventy-three, and still so particular about his appearance. His hair, though thinning, was neatly combed, his trousers pressed, shoes polished.
“I hear you, Geoff,” she murmured.
Geoffrey stepped closer, standing beside her.
“What’s on your mind?”
“Oh, nothing important. Just a strange dream.”
Margaret set the cup down on the windowsill. In the dream, she had been young again—twenty-five, in a white dress, standing before a mirror while her mother fussed with the veil, whispering sweet nothings. She had woken with damp cheeks.
“What dream?” Geoffrey took her elbow gently, turning her toward him.
“Our wedding. Only not as it was, but as it should’ve been. Beautiful.”
He frowned.
“What do you mean? Our wedding was perfectly fine.”
“It was fine,” she agreed, but her voice was heavy.
Their wedding had been at the registry office, followed by a small meal at a café—just the two of them and Geoffrey’s best mate as witness. She had worn a sensible grey dress. In the photos, she smiled, but her eyes were empty, as if the face wasn’t really hers.
“You’d better eat,” Geoffrey said. “You’ll be late for work.”
Margaret had worked at the library for thirty years—among the books, the quiet, the steady rhythm of checking out and shelving. Geoffrey had protested at first—why did she need to work when he could provide? But she had insisted. She needed to be around people, around stories. Home felt stifling.
Breakfast passed in silence. Geoffrey read the paper, occasionally remarking on the news. Margaret ate her porridge, lost in thought. Rain tapped against the window.
“Edward invited us for supper tonight,” Geoffrey said without looking up.
“Lovely.”
“Charlotte’s probably made something special. You know how she likes to impress.”
Edward was their only son. He had married Charlotte three years ago—a quiet, homely girl Margaret was fond of, though visits with them always made her think of her own youth, which had slipped away unnoticed.
The library was its usual self that day. Patrons came and went; Margaret checked out books, reshelved them, lost herself in the rhythm. At lunch, she sat in a quiet corner with a book of poetry. A line caught her eye: *”But happiness was so near, so possible…”*
“Margaret, do you have a minute?” called her young colleague, Lucy.
“Of course. What is it?”
“It’s just… I don’t know what to do. Tom proposed, but I’m not sure.”
Lucy 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! So much. But Mum says he’s not good enough. His job’s not great, no real prospects. There’s Simon, too—he owns a business, he’s been courting me as well.”
Margaret studied the girl. Twenty-two, beautiful, her whole life ahead of her. Facing the same choice she once had.
“What does your heart say?”
“My heart…” Lucy sniffled. “My heart wants Tom. But Mum’s probably right. I should think with my head, not my heart.”
“Listen, Lucy,” Margaret took her hand. “Thinking with your head is good. But if you ignore your heart altogether, you’ll spend your whole life regretting it.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
After work, Margaret took the long way home, walking through the park where she and Geoffrey had met. He’d been on leave from the army—tall, handsome in his uniform. All the girls had noticed him.
But she had loved someone else—James Whitaker, the boy next door. James had been at university, writing poetry, playing guitar. They’d sit on the bench outside her house while he read her his verses, dreaming of marriage, of a life together.
Her mother had disapproved.
“Margaret, have you lost your mind?” she’d said. “What does James have? No money, no real job. Geoffrey’s steady—army man, will have a pension. He’ll provide. He’s dependable.”
“But I don’t love him, Mum!”
“You’ll learn to love him. Love isn’t the point of marriage—respect and stability are.”
Geoffrey had been persistent. Flowers, cinema trips, promises of a secure future. James… James had been a romantic. Thought love alone was enough.
The night of the proposal, Margaret had stood trembling by the window while Geoffrey spoke with her mother about finances, about responsibility. Outside, under the streetlamp, James waited—as always.
“Well, Margaret?” Geoffrey had turned to her. Her mother’s eyes pleaded—*say yes, don’t be foolish.*
She looked out the window. James stood there, head tilted toward her. Even at a distance, she felt his gaze.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I will.”
Her mother exhaled in relief. Geoffrey smiled, kissed her cheek.
And James? He lingered under the lamp a moment longer, then walked away. He never waited by her window again.
They married a month later—simple, no fuss. Margaret smiled through the motions, dancing with Geoffrey, accepting congratulations. It felt like someone else’s life.
James left town right after the wedding. No one knew where he’d gone. *Better that way*, her mother had said.
Life with Geoffrey was comfortable. He was faithful, reliable, a good father. They had a house, a son. Everything as it should be.
But happiness? That fierce, breathless joy? It never came.
At home, Geoffrey was pacing.
“Where have you been? It’s past seven!”
“Just walking. Needed air.”
“You should’ve called. I was worried.”
“Sorry. I forgot.”
They dressed for supper in silence—Margaret in her best dress, Geoffrey in his suit. Their son’s home was warm, welcoming. Charlotte had laid the table, lit candles. Edward raised a toast.
“To you both—for teaching me the value of family.”
Margaret drank, wondering what exactly she had taught him. Patience? Compromise? Sacrifice?
“Mum, remember the fairy tales you read me?” Edward asked suddenly. “About princesses waiting for their princes.”
She smiled. “I do.”
“I used to ask if all of them found happiness. You’d say, *Not all of them, love. Not everyone gets that lucky.*”
“Did I say that?”
“You did. It always made me sad for the ones who didn’t.”
Charlotte rested a hand on his arm.
“But we found each other.”
Edward kissed her, and Margaret saw in their eyes what she had never had—real, unguarded love.
“We have news,” Charlotte said shyly. “We’re expecting.”
Geoffrey beamed. “A grandchild! Finally! Peggy, did you hear?”
Margaret hugged them, congratulated them, all while thinking—*What kind of life will this child have? Will they know happiness? Will they choose differently?*
On the bus home, Geoffrey chatted excitedly about nurseries, cots, toys. Margaret stared out the window at the passing city lights. Somewhere among them, perhaps James still lived—or maybe he’d gone far away, raised a family, forgotten the girl who’d said *yes* to the wrong man.
That night, sleep wouldn’t come. Geoffrey snored beside her. The clock on the wall ticked steadily, counting down the minutes of a life that had passed her by.
In the morning, she made a decision. Geoffrey left for work. She dug out an old address book, found the name she needed.
Lillian Parker—her childhood friend. They’d lost touch after marriage, but Lillian had known James. She dialed with trembling fingers.
“Lillian? It’s Margaret. Margaret Ellis now.”
“Margaret! Good Lord, it’s been ages! How are you?”
“Fine. Listen, this might sound odd… Do you know what became of James Whitaker?”
A pause.
“Of course I remember him. Why?”
“Just curious. Wondered how he turned out.”
“Margaret… you didn’t know? He’s been back in town for years. Teaches literature at St. Mary’s Secondary. Widowed. His wife died of cancer.”
Her pulse roared in her ears.
“St. Mary’s?”
“Yes. Margaret, why are you asking?”
“No reason. Thanks, Lillian. Let’s talk soon.”
She hung up, sat heavily. James was here. All this time.
At work, she fShe took a deep breath, picked up her coat, and walked out the door toward St. Mary’s, finally choosing herself.
