Margaret Whitmore stared at the relocation notice with an expression usually reserved for final demands. A cramped dorm room at the local college—her new home after forty years in her own flat. And not just any room, but one shared with two other lecturers.
“Where on earth am I supposed to keep my things?” she sighed, turning to the caretaker, old Mr. Perkins. A kindly fellow with a bushy white mustache.
“Ah, Miss Whitmore, what can we do?” Perkins spread his hands helplessly. “The dorm’s bursting at the seams, and repairs on the faculty wing are delayed. Leaky roof, dodgy wiring—the builders promise it’ll be sorted by end of September. The head’s decided to move you in with Mrs. Evelyn Hart and Miss Dorothy Finch for the time being.”
Margaret shook her head. At fifty-seven, she hadn’t imagined she’d be sharing living space again. After the divorce, the flat went to her ex-husband—his name had been on the lease first. All she had left was her job, teaching literature at a small-town college. Her salary barely covered rent, so when the head offered her a spot in the dorm, she’d had no choice.
“Here’s the key,” Perkins handed her a small iron one. “Third floor, room three-twelve. Miss Finch and Mrs. Hart already know you’re coming.”
With a heavy heart, Margaret took the key and dragged herself toward the lift. One suitcase held her essentials; the rest sat in her old neighbor’s spare room.
The room wasn’t as tiny as she’d feared. Solid old furniture from another era: three beds, three nightstands, a wardrobe, and a writing desk by the window. Two beds were already made—one in floral blue, the other in deep maroon with tassels.
“You must be Margaret Whitmore?” came a voice behind her.
A woman stood in the doorway—neat grey hair, wire-rimmed glasses perched on a sharp nose. Her stiff posture and tailored suit screamed seasoned teacher.
“Yes,” Margaret held out her hand. “And you are—?”
“Dorothy Finch. Mathematics. Thirty-two years at the college.” The handshake was brisk. “Your bed’s by the window. Wardrobe’s split three ways—left section’s yours. Shower schedule’s on the door. Don’t be late—hot water’s on a timer.”
Margaret nodded, feeling like a fresher all over again.
“And Mrs. Hart?”
“Catering duty today,” Dorothy pursed her lips. “She teaches chemistry. Quite… unique. Loves loud radio in the mornings and drying herbs. The smell clings.”
*Here we go*, Margaret thought, unpacking. Living with two women her age, each with their own quirks, wouldn’t be easy.
She met Evelyn Hart that evening. A plump, cheerful woman with dyed auburn hair barrelled in, arms full of apples.
“Look what I’ve got! Fresh from my sister’s orchard!” She spotted Margaret and clapped. “Oh, you’re here! Evelyn Hart, lovely to meet you!”
Her handshake was alarmingly energetic.
“Apple?”
“Thank you,” Margaret took one, though she wasn’t hungry.
“Evelyn, clear your herbs off the sill,” Dorothy cut in. “We’re three now.”
“Oh, Dotty, don’t fuss!” Evelyn waved. “Plenty of room! Margaret, you teach literature, yes? Heard you write poems during lessons!”
Margaret flushed.
“Only to make the material stick.”
“Brilliant!” Evelyn beamed. “Look at these!” She thrust out hands dotted with chemical burns. “Occupational hazard. But my students know—chemistry bites back!”
Dorothy scoffed, opening a thick book. Silence seemed her highest priority.
“Tea, girls?” Evelyn produced a small electric kettle.
“I’ll pass,” Dorothy said. “Marking.”
To her own surprise, Margaret accepted.
Over tea, Evelyn chattered about her garden, her grandkids, how the college head had once been her student. She talked a lot, but warmly, and Margaret felt the day’s tension ease.
“How long have you lived here?” Margaret asked.
“Three years,” Evelyn sighed. “My daughter’s renting, no space for me. Not that I mind—young folk need their own lives. I escape to my sister’s orchard every weekend. Dotty’s been here seven years, though. Gave her flat to her son when he married. London man now.”
Dorothy’s stiff shoulders said she heard every word.
The first night was restless. Margaret tossed on the unfamiliar bed. Dorothy snored lightly; Evelyn muttered in her sleep. Students outside made sure quiet was impossible.
Morning arrived with Evelyn’s cheery radio.
“Rise and shine!” she sang, pouring tea.
Dorothy winced. “Evelyn, *please*.”
“Sorry, habit!” She turned it down.
The first week was adjustment—queues for the shower, dividing space, negotiating routines. Dorothy was meticulous—sheets tucked just so, shoes lined up. Evelyn was chaos incarnate, her jars of tinctures perpetually under the table.
One evening, Evelyn burst in, distraught.
“Test tubes shattered! Chemistry lab’s shut! The head’s furious!”
Dorothy looked up. “I *told* you not to store reagents in that cabinet.”
“The cupboard’s ancient!” Evelyn wailed. “No bonus this month, I’ll bet!”
“You won’t lose your bonus.” Margaret surprised herself. “I know someone at the council. Might get funds for repairs.”
Evelyn brightened. “Really? You’d be a lifesaver!”
Even Dorothy softened. “That would be… appreciated.”
That night, over tea, they talked properly. Dorothy confessed her son rarely called from London; Evelyn spoke of widowhood at forty, raising her daughter alone; Margaret admitted her divorce after twenty years.
“He left me for a younger woman,” she said bitterly. “Said I cared more for work than him.”
“Men,” Evelyn snorted. “Mine looked elsewhere too—only fate took him first.”
“Mine just… vanished,” Dorothy murmured. “Business trip, never came back. Called to say he’d met someone else. My son was eight.”
The walls between them thinned that night.
Margaret phoned her contact, and within a week, new lab equipment arrived. Evelyn baked an apple pie in thanks.
“Good heavens!” Margaret took a bite. “This is divine!”
“Old family recipe,” Evelyn glowed. “Secret’s the cinnamon and a dash of brandy.”
Even Dorothy approved. “Superb. You’ve hidden talents, Evelyn.”
So began their unlikely bond. Three different women, slowly fitting together. Margaret, who worked late; Evelyn, who talked to herself; Dorothy, who couldn’t stand clutter. They learned to accommodate.
By October, with repairs still unfinished, they were relieved, not annoyed.
“Drag it out till spring!” Evelyn laughed, arranging jam jars. “I’m happy here!”
“Never thought I’d say it,” Dorothy admitted, “but so am I.”
By November, their room had transformed. Dorothy’s geraniums bloomed on the sill; Evelyn’s vintage tablecloth covered the desk; Margaret’s watercolors brightened the walls.
Then came the conflict. The head strode in unannounced.
“Lovely news! Repairs are done—you can move back next week!”
Silence followed.
“Well,” Dorothy said finally, “we’ll each have our own space again.”
“Yes,” Margaret agreed, though it felt heavy.
Evelyn looked stricken. “But I’ve grown fond of our evenings.”
That night, tension lingered. No one wanted to admit they dreaded the separation.
The next evening, a surprise awaited—a cake reading *”Thanks for saving the chem lab!”* and a bottle of wine, from grateful colleagues.
“Shall we?” Evelyn grinned.
Over slices, they broached the unspoken.
“I’ve been thinking,” Dorothy said carefully. “My new room’s larger. Could fit three beds.”
Margaret and Evelyn stared.
“You’re suggesting… remaining together?”
Dorothy nodded. “If you’d like. It’s… lonely otherwise.”
“I’m in!” Evelyn cried.
Margaret smiled. “So am I.”
The head was baffled but agreed—their plan solved the new physics teacher’s housing crisis.
A week later, they moved into Dorothy’s bright room. That night, Evelyn baked another pie—”for our new home.”
“To us,” Margaret raised her cup. “To the most unexpected… family.”
“To family,” Dorothy echoed, smiling openly for once.
“To our room for three!” Evelyn added. “Let the world call us odd!”
The scent of apple pie, the view of autumn leaves through their window, and three women—each with their own scars—finally felt at home. Properly, for the first time in years.
