Mary never weeps, never waits, never longs. Her husband, Thomas, had always been steady, quiet, composed, and kind. Even twenty-three years ago, when he first asked for her hand, he was just the same.
One summer evening, as they strolled by the river just beyond the village, he suddenly stopped, took her hands, and spoke softly.
“Mary, my darling, let us join our lives together. We were meant to be—it’s fate.”
He gazed at her calmly, certain she would not refuse. She blushed with joy, her heart racing.
“Yes, Thomas, yes! I’ll marry you.”
They were both overjoyed.
“I’ll build us a new home,” he said. “Father will help. I’ve already chosen the spot—come, I’ll show you.” Hand in hand, they walked until they stopped beneath an ancient elder tree.
“Here. We’ll have to remove the old elder, though. It’s brittle—might collapse on the house someday. We’ll plant a new one if need be.”
“Oh, Thomas! From the windows, we’ll see the river.”
After the wedding, they stayed with his parents until the house was finished. Later, Thomas began building another wing with its own door.
“For our children,” he explained. “In case they stay in the village. They’ll need their own space.”
“How thoughtful you are,” Mary said, pleased and trusting.
They had but one daughter, whom they raised well until she left for university, startling them with her announcement.
“Mum, Dad—don’t count on me staying. I want city life. And there’s Peter there, too.”
So the second wing stood empty. Mary cleaned it, polishing the windows, while Thomas rarely stepped inside. Their own half was spacious and snug. For twenty-three years, he never raised his voice or wronged her. The villagers respected them.
Then, two days ago, that quiet, steady Thomas returned from work and said to his wife:
“Mary, this is difficult… but our life together has run its course. Love fades after twenty years—that’s how it is. I’ve met someone else. I’ll always be grateful for our years, though. I’ll support Lucy through university—don’t fret about money. The house is yours and hers.”
He kept speaking, but Mary sank onto the sofa, barely listening. Her temples throbbed. Then she heard:
“Forgive me. Goodbye.”
The door shut softly behind him, a suitcase already packed.
Mary wept.
“Why me? Though it happens to others, I never thought it would touch us. Where did I go wrong? If I close my eyes, perhaps this is just a dream. When I wake, all will be well again. But no—my quiet, steady Thomas is gone.”
For a week, or longer, she hoped he might return. Yet he never did. She did not seek him, nor ask where he’d gone. Time passed; her grief dulled.
“Fate gave me a husband, then took him. Now I must learn to be alone. Our life together is erased—perhaps he’s forgotten me. But I’ve let him go.”
She no longer cried, though thoughts of Thomas still came unbidden. By the window, she’d muse:
“He’s out there somewhere, with his new love. A bolt from the blue. He was never a rogue or a wanderer—who’d have guessed it?”
Six years slipped by. Though resentment had faded, she didn’t believe time healed wounds—only numbed them. At fifty, she was still striking, just as she’d been in youth. Lucy wed a city man and lived in the county, rarely bringing their grandson to visit.
One summer evening, Mary sat in the arbour, sipping tea. The house felt stifling. Her neighbour, Evelyn, a nurse, strode in, cheerful.
“Hello! Why so glum?”
“Just a passing mood,” Mary sighed.
“I’ve news!” Evelyn grinned, pausing for effect. “Dr. Stevens retired. The new doctor’s also a Stevens—Oliver. Needs lodging for a month. I suggested your empty wing.”
“What? Why mine?”
“Four rooms, a separate door—why not? If Lucy won’t stay, someone else might.”
“I don’t need lodgers.”
“Too late!” Evelyn laughed. “He’ll be here in an hour.”
With a sigh, Mary rose. Within the hour, a tall, pleasant man appeared in her yard.
“Good evening. Oliver Stevens—just Oliver.” He offered his hand warmly.
“Mary,” she replied.
She liked him. He was five years her junior. A fleeting thought arose:
“If I were younger… but I’m past fifty.” She dismissed it.
Soon they shared tea in the arbour, Evelyn popping by briefly. Mary noticed Oliver’s admiring gaze.
“Surely not. Loneliness plays tricks.” Yet their kinship was undeniable—shared views, kindred spirits.
Oliver parked his car in her yard, and one weekend, he suggested:
“Let’s drive into town—cinema, a café. Why not? We’re young and free.”
“Let’s.” She smiled. He was divorced, after all.
The outing was lovely. More followed. Villagers murmured.
“Mary’s lucked out! Though she’s older. He’ll find some young thing—why her?”
They spoke of life, love. One evening, Mary asked:
“Why is a fine man like you unmarried?”
“Medics train long. I married late—a nurse up north. She drank. Left after four years. Then this village called… perhaps I knew you were here, lonely.” He laughed.
A silence fell. Then, softly:
“Mary, marry me. We’re two halves of one whole.”
“I feel it too. But I’m older—”
“Four and a half years! Nothing. You’re radiant—the country air suits you.”
“Then… yes.”
Three happy years passed. Sometimes, Mary even thanked fate that Thomas had left. Then one day, a car halted at her gate. An aged, silver-haired Thomas stepped out.
He wandered in, cautious. Mary emerged, startled.
“Thomas? What brings you?”
“Passing through. I… missed home. Mother’s long gone, but I had to see the place. You’re as lovely as ever. Alone, or…?”
“Neither weeping nor waiting. I’m married—happily. And you?”
“Life’s been unkind. Third marriage now. I live in the county. I’ve long regretted hurting you.”
“It’s done.”
“I’ll go. No need to meet your lucky husband.” He turned, then paused. “Your eyes… you’re happy.”
The engine roared. Mary watched him vanish, unsure what she felt. Perhaps just pity.
