Mary’s husband had always been a quiet, composed man—gentle in his ways and measured in his speech. Twenty-three years ago, when he first asked for her hand, Clifford had been just the same.
They had walked, as they often did on summer evenings, along the riverbank beyond the village when he suddenly stopped, took her hands in his, and said softly, “Mary, my love, I want us to share our lives. It’s fate—we belong together.”
His calm gaze told her he already knew her answer, certain of her love. Her cheeks flushed with joy, her heart quickening. “Yes, Cliff, yes—I’ll marry you.”
They were both overjoyed.
“I’ll build us a new house,” he promised. “Father will help me. We’ve already chosen the spot—come, I’ll show you.” Hand in hand, they walked until they stopped beneath an old elder tree.
“Here. We’ll have to cut the elder down—it’s old, might fall on the house someday. We’ll plant a new one if we have to.”
“It’s lovely, Cliff,” she murmured. “We’ll be able to see the river from the windows.”
After the wedding, they lived with Clifford’s parents while the house was finished. Soon, he began adding another wing with a separate door.
“For our children,” he explained. “In case one of them stays in the village. They’ll need their own space.”
“How thoughtful you are,” Mary would say, always agreeing with him.
They only had one daughter, Margaret, whom they raised with care until she left for university. Then, one day, she stunned them.
“Mum, Dad—don’t expect me to stay. I want to live in the city, and Rob’s waiting for me there.”
So the second wing stood empty. Mary would clean it now and then, polishing the windows, while Clifford never set foot inside. Their half of the house was more than enough—tidy and cosy. For twenty-three years, he never raised his voice to her, never gave her cause for sorrow. The village respected them.
And then, two days ago, the quiet, composed Clifford came home from work and said, “Mary, this is difficult for me to say, but our marriage has reached its natural end. Love fades after twenty years, doesn’t it? I’ve met someone else, but I’ll always be grateful for our time together. I’ll see Margaret through university—don’t worry about money. The house is yours.”
He kept talking, but Mary barely heard him. Her temples throbbed as she sank onto the sofa. Then, at last, she caught his final words: “Forgive me.”
And he was gone, suitcase in hand, the door clicking softly behind him.
She wept. “Why me? I knew it happened to others—but never us. Where did I go wrong? If I close my eyes, maybe it’ll all be a dream. He’ll come back, and nothing will have changed.”
For a week—perhaps longer—she hoped he might return. But he never did. She never asked where he’d gone or who he was with. That part of her life was over.
Time passed. She grew calm, though sometimes she still wondered, “Why did fate give me such happiness, only to take it away? He’s forgotten me—but I haven’t forgotten him. Still, I’ve let go. God keep him.”
She no longer cried—she had wept enough. Yet there were moments, staring out the window, when she thought, “Clifford is out there somewhere, with a new love. I never saw it coming—he was always so steady. But life is full of surprises.”
Six years went by. Her bitterness faded—though she never believed time healed wounds, the pain dulled. She turned fifty, still a handsome woman, just as she’d been in her youth. Margaret had married a city man and settled in the county, giving Mary a grandson—though they seldom visited.
One summer evening, Mary sat sipping tea in the garden shed, unwilling to stay indoors. Her neighbour, Lucy, a nurse with a cheerful manner, bustled into the yard.
“Hello, love—why the long face?”
“Just a little melancholy,” Mary admitted.
“I’ve news for you,” Lucy said, eyes sparkling.
“Well?”
Lucy grinned, drawing out the moment. Then, finally: “Your roses are magnificent! How do you manage it? The whole garden’s in bloom, and hardly anyone sees it.”
“Lucy, get to the point. You didn’t come to talk about flowers.”
“No,” Lucy admitted. “Dr. Stephens retired. The new doctor’s also a Stephens—Oliver, though. He was promised lodgings, but there’s a delay. I suggested he stay with you.”
“With me? Why?”
“Why not? You’ve four rooms going spare—a whole wing! If Margaret didn’t want to live with you, someone else might as well.”
“I don’t need tenants.”
“Too late. He’ll be here within the hour.” Lucy laughed. “Let’s get his room ready.”
Sighing, Mary rose and followed her inside. True to Lucy’s word, a tall, pleasant-looking man soon appeared at the gate.
“Good evening,” he said warmly. “Oliver Stephens—but please, call me Oliver.” He offered his hand.
“Mary,” she replied, taking it.
She liked him at once. He was five years her junior, and for a fleeting moment, a reckless thought crossed her mind—”If only I were younger.” But she dismissed it.
Before long, they were sharing tea in the garden, Lucy flitting in and out between tending to her own family. Oliver’s admiring glances did not escape Mary.
“No,” she told herself. “It’s my loneliness playing tricks. He’s handsome, clever—why would he look at me?” Yet they were kindred spirits, their views and interests aligned.
Oliver parked his car in her yard with permission, and one weekend, he suggested, “Let’s drive into town—catch a film, have supper. Why shouldn’t we? We’re young and free.”
“Why not?” she agreed lightly, knowing he, too, was divorced.
The outing was a delight. They went again the next weekend, and soon it became their custom. The village took notice.
“Mary’s lucked out with that lodger,” they murmured. “Though she’s older. A doctor like him could have any young thing. What does he want with a woman past fifty?”
One evening, discussing life and love, Mary asked, “Oliver, why is a man like you unmarried? What happened?”
“I married late—medicine takes years. I had my share of romances, of course. After qualifying, I went north, wanting to test myself. Harsh conditions, real work. Married a local nurse—but she took to the bottle. Said it kept her warm. I knew it was illness. We lasted four years.”
“And why the village now?”
“I fancied another challenge—and perhaps I knew you’d be here, waiting.” He laughed.
They fell silent, smiling.
“Mary,” he said at last, “marry me. I feel as though we’re two halves of one soul.”
“I feel it too,” she admitted. “Only my age gives me pause—I’m five years your senior.”
“Four and a half,” he corrected gently. “And what’s that between us? With you, I feel younger than I’ve ever been. You’re radiant—country air suits you.”
“Mary—will you say yes?”
She did.
Three years on, they were blissfully happy. There were moments when Mary even silently thanked Clifford for leaving—had he not, she’d never have known this joy.
Then, one day, a car pulled up at the gate. Out stepped an older, greyer Clifford.
He hesitated before entering, glancing around. Mary, alone—Oliver was out—emerged, startled.
“Clifford? What brings you here?”
“Just passing,” he said. “I missed the place. Came from the next county—had to stop. Even though Mother’s long gone. You’re as lovely as ever. Alone? Or have you remarried?”
“Not alone. I’ve a wonderful husband now. And you? You’ve aged.”
“Life hasn’t been kind. Third marriage—likely my last. I live over the county line. Mary—I’m sorry. I regretted hurting you almost at once. I meant to visit, but—well, I knew you’d never take me back.”
“Best you go,” she said gently. “I’d rather Oliver didn’t see you here.”
He nodded, turning away. “I understand. Your happiness is written plain on your face.”
Back in his car, he drove off without another word. Mary watched him go, unsure what she felt—only that pity, perhaps, was the strongest of them all.
