Twilight Years
“Gran, we won’t be able to come for your anniversary tomorrow, sorry,” Antony, the husband of her granddaughter Emily, had called the evening before.
“Tony, what’s happened? Are you all right?” Margaret Elizabeth asked anxiously.
“Gran, Emily’s just been sent to the hospital. Couldn’t wait for your big day, decided to give you an early surprise—though she hasn’t had the baby yet. I’m calling from the hospital,” he said, his voice a mix of worry and excitement.
“Good heavens, Tony, what wonderful news! You had me so worried—you never call at this hour. Well, thank you for letting me know. I’ll be praying for Emily and my grandson. Call me the moment he’s born, even if it’s the middle of the night—I won’t sleep now anyway.”
“All right, Gran, I’ll call.”
Two hours later, Antony rang again, sounding delighted.
“Gran, here’s your anniversary gift—your grandson, James. Emily’s doing fine. Sorry we had to miss the party.”
“Thank you, Tony, for James and the good news. Give Emily a big kiss from me—she’s done brilliantly.”
Margaret Elizabeth was turning sixty-five. There wouldn’t be many guests—just her youngest daughter with her husband and son, her other grandchild, and her old friends, Dorothy and Helen, with whom she’d worked most of her life. They’d been friends since their youth.
Seven years ago, Margaret had buried her husband, Geoffrey. They’d had a happy life together, but fate had taken him too soon. He had passed unexpectedly, his heart failing while he was still working. They’d raised their daughter, Sarah, sent her to university, and now she lived in the city with her husband.
Margaret and Geoffrey had lived in a large village with a thriving factory where most townsfolk worked—including them. They’d met there too. A young engineer, tall and handsome, Geoffrey had noticed Margaret in the canteen, laughing with her friend Helen. After lunch, he stopped her at the door.
“I’m Geoffrey—though you can call me Geoff if you like. I answer to anything,” he grinned with a bright, disarming smile.
“Margaret,” she answered shyly, lowering her gaze to hide the flush creeping up her cheeks.
“Beautiful name—Margaret, full of hope. May I wait for you here after your shift?”
“You may,” she said before hurrying after Helen.
That evening, as promised, he was waiting. “Fancy the cinema? Or a walk in the park?”
“Let’s walk—can’t talk much in the dark,” she laughed.
“Where do you work?” he asked.
“In the finance department, just started after uni. You?”
“Fresh out of uni too—mechanical engineering. Just moved here to work at the factory. And you, are you from around here?”
“Yes, my parents live here. My dad’s a foreman—built our house himself. Never fancied a flat, wanted space and a garden.”
“My folks are in the countryside. Didn’t move back after uni—no job for an engineer there. Liked this place when I visited on placement. Good mix of houses and green spaces.”
Soon, they were inseparable.
When Geoffrey met her parents, he arrived with flowers for her mother and a bottle of whiskey for her father.
“Good evening—Geoffrey. We work together. These are for you,” he said, handing the gifts to her beaming parents.
They adored him instantly. He spoke warmly of his family—his parents and two brothers. That night, as he left (making sure not to overstay his welcome), he said, “Your parents are wonderful, Margaret. So kind.”
“Good sign—Dad told you to come back.”
They married soon after. Their wedding was lively, Geoffrey’s country relatives bringing hampers of fresh produce—meat, milk, butter, eggs. Margaret’s mother gasped at the amount. “How will we eat all this?”
Geoffrey’s mother chuckled. “You’ve two men to feed now—they’ll manage!”
They moved in with Margaret’s parents, the house large enough for all. But happiness was fleeting. First her father passed, then her mother. Then, cruelly, Geoffrey.
Years passed. Margaret adjusted to widowhood—her grief dulled, though never gone. On her sixty-fifth, she celebrated quietly before her daughter and friends left early. As she saw them off, she noticed an old Land Rover pulled up outside, its driver—a man—fussing under the hood with a torch.
“Could you hold this for me? Can’t manage alone,” he asked.
She obliged.
After an hour of tinkering, he sighed. “No luck. Looks like I’m sleeping in the car tonight.”
Margaret hesitated, then knocked on his window. “You can’t stay out here. Come inside—I’ve a spare bed.”
“Would that be proper?”
“Perfectly fine. I’m alone.”
Inside, seeing the remains of her celebration, he paused.
“Anniversary party,” she explained.
His eyebrows shot up. “One moment.” He returned with a jar of honey. “Happy birthday. Meant for a friend, but priorities change.”
They talked late into the night. By morning, he was gone—only the honey proof he’d been there.
Yet that afternoon, he returned with flowers, champagne, and chocolates. “Had to properly celebrate the birthday girl.”
Three years on, Margaret and William now share her home. His friend’s farm nearby keeps them busy, their bees a shared passion.
Margaret never thought love could find her again in her twilight years. But fate, ever kind, had other plans.
