Margaret absentmindedly traced the petals of the exquisite bouquet delivered half an hour earlier. There was no mistake—the flowers were meant for her. The accompanying card bore just two words: *“To darling Margaret.”*
A secret admirer had emerged shortly after her divorce. The separation from Andrew had been bitter—not because of lost love, but the torrent of ugliness from her former mother-in-law, Evelyn, which her ex-husband had eagerly endorsed.
The first roses arrived the very evening Margaret returned home with her divorce papers. At first, she assumed it was Andrew’s cruel joke. Yet the arrangement was lavish—far too expensive for a man who’d only ever splurged on her once, years ago.
From then on, bouquets appeared twice, sometimes thrice weekly, each paired with a brief note. Margaret puzzled endlessly over the sender.
As she admired the latest blooms, she recalled the single time Andrew had brought her flowers—after a vicious row sparked by Evelyn. *“You’re wasting our money!”* he’d raged upon discovering her salon manicure. *“I earn my own keep,”* Margaret had retorted. *“We agreed to discuss big expenses!”* he’d snapped, parroting his mother’s outrage over the “absurd” cost.
Margaret smirked. Of course Evelyn was behind it. She’d despised Margaret from day one—criticising her housekeeping, her clothes, even insinuating impropriety with her male boss. Andrew never defended her. Instead, he’d echo Evelyn’s barbs, once screaming, *“You’re living in* my *flat, yet dare to throw money in my face?”*
The final straw came when Evelyn nitpicked Margaret’s figure—*“No one else would want her now!”*—and Andrew sneered, *“Look at the state of you.”* Margaret left for good.
Divorce papers in hand, she’d barely sighed with relief when another bouquet arrived. Mystified, she accepted them—little knowing the deliveries would continue.
Meanwhile, Evelyn screeched at her husband, William, after finding florist receipts in his coat. *“You’re cheating!”*
William admitted it quietly—*“I’ve loved another woman for years.”* He moved out, leaving Evelyn their plush London flat, taking only their cottage and car.
Later, Margaret learned of the divorce from Andrew’s cousin, Veronica. *“Aunt Evelyn found stacks of flower receipts. Uncle William confessed—he’s been sending them anonymously to some woman!”*
Margaret’s pulse spiked. Suddenly, she remembered: William had never joined Evelyn’s cruelty. He’d even defended her quietly. That evening, when another bouquet came, she called him.
*“It was you, wasn’t it?”*
A pause. *“Yes.”*
*“Why?”*
*“Because I love you,”* he said simply. *“I have since you first walked into our home. But you were Andrew’s. And I was married.”*
Margaret faltered. *“I don’t… feel the same.”*
William chuckled. *“I never expected you to. Let me send flowers anyway. Andrew never cherished you. I’d like to.”*
Touched, she hung up—yet soon relied on him when a pipe burst in her tiny flat. He fixed it, stayed for tea, and gradually, their friendship deepened.
Margaret realised, with quiet wonder, what ease and support in love felt like.
When their romance became public, outrage followed. Andrew ranted; Evelyn schemed. William shut both down—threatening legal reclaim of the flat if Evelyn spread slander. Even Margaret’s mother sneered, *“Dating a man twenty years older? Disgraceful!”*
But for the first time, Margaret felt unwavering support. William shielded her, spoiled her, made her happiness his priority. Slowly, critics faded.
They married quietly, bought a home, and built a life where kindness mattered more than years or whispers.
**Lesson:** Love isn’t measured by age or approval, but by the quiet strength of someone who chooses—every day—to cherish you.
