In the twilight of her years, Granny received an unexpected call the evening before her birthday.
“Granny, I’m afraid we won’t make it tomorrow. Do forgive us,” said Anthony, her granddaughter Emily’s husband, his voice tinged with both worry and joy.
“Oh, Anthony, what’s happened?” asked Margaret Ignatievna, her heart leaping in alarm.
“It’s Emily—she’s just been taken to the hospital. Couldn’t wait for your birthday, decided to give you an early surprise. She hasn’t delivered yet. I’m calling from the ward,” he explained.
“Good heavens, what wonderful news! You gave me such a fright, ringing so late. But thank you for telling me. I’ll be praying for Emily and my grandson. Call as soon as he’s born, no matter the hour—I won’t sleep now anyway.”
“Of course, Granny.”
Two hours later, the phone rang again. Anthony’s voice was buoyant.
“Granny, your birthday gift has arrived—meet little Jacob. Emily’s doing just fine. So celebrate your day without us.”
“Thank you, Anthony! Pass on my love to Emily—she’s done marvelously.”
Margaret Ignatievna was turning sixty-five, but the gathering would be small. Her younger daughter, Alice, would come with her husband and son, Margaret’s grandson. And then there were her old friends, Victoria and Nina, dear companions since their days working together long ago.
Seven years had passed since Margaret buried her husband, Alfred. They had shared a happy life, but fate had other plans. He had passed before retirement, his heart giving way too soon. They had raised Alice, sent her to university, and now she lived in the city with her own family.
Margaret and Alfred had spent their years in a quiet village—a large one, really, built around a sprawling factory where most worked, including them. They met there, too. Alfred, a handsome young engineer fresh from university, had noticed Margaret in the canteen, her laughter catching his ear. One day, as she left with Nina, he stopped her at the door.
“Hello there—let’s introduce ourselves. I’m Alfred, though friends call me Alfie or Fred. Whatever suits you.”
She blushed. “Margaret.”
“Lovely name—Margaret, like hope itself. Might I wait for you here this evening, if you don’t mind?”
“I don’t mind,” she murmured before hurrying after Nina.
That evening, he was already waiting. “Fancy the pictures, or a stroll in the park?”
“A walk, I think—hard to talk properly in the dark,” she laughed.
They spoke of their lives—she worked in accounts, fresh out of college; he was a new engineer at the factory. He had grown up in a distant village but chosen this place for work. She had never left, her whole life rooted here.
Soon, they were courting. Then he met her parents, arriving with flowers for her mother and whisky for her father.
“Good evening,” he greeted warmly. “I’m Alfred. These are for you.”
Her parents liked him immediately. He was easy, familiar, as if they had known him forever. When he left—politely early—he kissed Margaret at the gate.
“Your parents are lovely. I think they approved of me.”
She laughed. “I’d say so. Father wouldn’t invite just anyone back.”
Not long after, they married. Her parents hosted a fine celebration, and his family came from the countryside, bringing baskets of fresh eggs, butter, and meat. Margaret’s mother gasped. “However will we eat all this?”
His mother chuckled. “You’ve got two men to feed now. I know how they eat.”
The young couple moved in with her parents—there was space enough. Years passed, a daughter was born, a happy home. But time took its toll. First her father, then her mother. And then, too soon, Alfred himself was gone.
The years rolled on. Margaret adjusted, as one does. The sharp grief dulled, though the longing never left.
On her sixty-fifth birthday, the small party ended early. Alice had obligations; the old friends lingered but soon departed. Margaret saw them off at the gate, then noticed an old Land Rover by the road, its hood raised. A man hunched over the engine, a torch in hand. He glanced up, spotting her.
“Excuse me—might you hold this torch for me? Ran out of hands, I’m afraid.”
“Of course,” she said, stepping closer.
He fiddled for a long while, but the engine wouldn’t start. With a sigh, he admitted defeat. “Thank you, but no luck. Looks like I’m sleeping in the car.”
Margaret turned toward home but paused, looking back. After a moment, she tapped the window.
“Changed my mind. You can’t possibly rest properly out here. Come inside—I’ve a sofa.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Inside, he noticed the remains of the celebration.
“You’ve had guests?”
“My birthday,” she admitted.
His eyebrows shot up. “Ah!” He slipped outside, returning with a large jar of honey.
“For the birthday girl. Meant for my mate, but he can wait.”
They talked late into the night. When morning came, he was gone—only the honeyjar proved he hadn’t been a dream.
That afternoon, a knock came. There he stood, with flowers, champagne, and chocolates.
“Couldn’t let the day pass without proper gifts.”
Three years later, they still lived together in her home. His beehives in the nearby countryside kept them busy.
Margaret had never imagined love could find her again, not at her age. But fate, it seemed, had other plans. And she was grateful.
