**October 12, 1987**
Margaret Elizabeth stood by the window, watching the neighbor hang laundry across the street. The morning light softened her grey hair, neatly styled in the same way she’d done it for forty years. A cold cup of tea trembled in her hand.
“Margie, love, breakfast’s getting cold,” called Geoffrey William from the doorway. He adjusted his shirt collar—seventy-three years old and still meticulous. His hair was thinning but combed neatly, his trousers pressed, shoes polished.
“I hear you, Geoff,” she murmured.
He stepped closer, joining her by the window. “What’s on your mind?”
“Nothing, really. Just a strange dream.”
She set the cup on the sill. In the dream, she was twenty-five again, in a white dress, standing before a mirror while her mother fussed with her veil, murmuring sweet nothings. She’d woken with damp eyes.
“What dream?” Geoffrey touched her elbow, turning her gently.
“Our wedding. But not how it was—how it should’ve been. Beautiful.”
He frowned. “What d’you mean ‘not how it was’? It was perfectly fine.”
“Fine,” Margaret agreed, but her voice was hollow.
Their wedding had been at the registry office, followed by a modest lunch at a café—just her, Geoffrey, and his mate as witness. Her dress was off-the-rack, grey, practical. In the photos, she smiled, but her eyes were empty, as if they belonged to someone else.
“Come eat,” he said. “You’ll be late for work.”
She’d been at the library thirty years—reading rooms, check-out desks, index cards. Quiet and calm. Geoffrey had protested at first—why should his wife work when he provided? But she insisted. She needed to be among people, among books. The house stifled her.
Breakfast passed in silence. Geoffrey read the paper, occasionally remarking on the news. Margaret ate her porridge, lost in thought as rain tapped against the window.
“We’re dining with James tonight,” he said without looking up. “He rang—invited us over.”
“Lovely.”
“Bet Susan’s made something special. You know how she fusses.”
James was their only son. Married three years ago to Susan, a quiet, homely girl Margaret liked well enough. But visits with the young couple always reminded her of her own youth, slipped away unnoticed.
At the library, the day dragged on as usual. Patrons came and went; she checked out books, shelved returns. At lunch, she sat in a corner with a poetry collection. A line leapt out: *”And happiness was so near, so possible…”*
“Margaret, got a moment?” A young colleague, Emily, hovered nervously, twisting her scarf.
“Of course. What’s the matter?”
“Harry’s proposed, but I’m not sure. Mum says he’s no good—no proper job, no prospects. But Timothy Carter’s got his own business, and he’s keen on me too.”
Margaret studied her—twenty-two, pretty, life stretching ahead. The same choice she’d faced.
“What does your heart say?”
“My heart?” Emily sniffed. “It wants Harry. But Mum’s right, isn’t she? Shouldn’t I think practically?”
“Emily,” Margaret took her hand. “Listen. Yes, be sensible. But if you ignore your heart, you’ll regret it all your life.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
After work, she wandered through the park where she and Geoffrey had met. He’d been on leave from the army then, handsome in his uniform, all the girls swooning.
But she’d loved Thomas Whitmore, the boy next door. Thomas wrote poetry, played guitar. They’d sit on the bench outside her house, planning their future.
Mum had disapproved.
“Margaret, are you mad? That boy’s got no money, no prospects! Geoffrey’s steady, a proper man. He’ll provide.”
“But I don’t love him!”
“You’ll learn to. Love isn’t what marriage is about—it’s respect, understanding.”
Geoffrey courted her earnestly—flowers, cinema trips, talks of settling down. Thomas was a dreamer, believing love enough.
The decisive evening came when Geoffrey formally proposed in their cramped sitting room. Mum beamed; Thomas waited under the streetlamp outside.
“Well, Maggie—what d’you say?” Geoffrey asked.
Mum’s eyes begged: *Say yes. Be wise.*
Margaret looked out. Thomas lifted his face to her window, his gaze piercing even from afar.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I will.”
Mum sighed in relief. Geoffrey kissed her cheek.
Thomas stood a moment longer, then walked away.
Their wedding was a month later—simple, no fuss. Margaret smiled through it all, feeling like a spectator.
Thomas left town shortly after. No one knew where.
Life with Geoffrey was steady. He was a good man—no drinking, no wandering, wages brought home. A flat, a son. Everything proper.
But no happiness. Only habit, respect.
Margaret startled from her thoughts—the park was dark. Time to go home.
Geoffrey was pacing. “Where’ve you been? It’s past seven!”
“Just walking.”
“You might’ve called! I worried!”
“Sorry. I forgot.”
They dressed for dinner in silence.
James and Susan’s home was warm, candles lit. James raised a toast.
“To you both—for teaching me the value of family.”
Margaret sipped her wine, wondering what she’d truly taught him—compromise? Resignation?
“Mum, remember those fairy tales you told me?” James asked suddenly. “About princesses waiting for their princes.”
She smiled. “I do.”
“You’d say, ‘Not all find happiness, love.’ It used to break my heart.”
Susan squeezed James’s hand. “But we found each other.”
Their eyes held what hers never had—real, alive love.
“We’ve news,” Susan said shyly. “We’re expecting.”
Geoffrey boomed, “A grandchild! Did you hear, Margie?”
Margaret congratulated them, but her mind raced—*Will this child be happy? Will it choose better?*
On the bus home, Geoffrey prattled about nurseries and prams. Margaret watched the city lights, wondering if Thomas lived among them—widowed, perhaps, forgotten.
That night, sleep wouldn’t come. The clock ticked on, counting lost years.
In the morning, she dug out an old address book, fingers trembling as she dialed.
“Lucy? It’s Margaret. Margaret Taylor now—yes, married name. Listen… do you know what became of Thomas Whitmore?”
A pause. “He’s here, actually. Came back four years ago. Teaches literature at St. Mary’s. Widowed—his wife died of cancer.”
Her heart hammered.
“Silly question—which school?”
“St. Mary’s Secondary. Why d’you ask?”
“Just curious. We must catch up properly.”
She hung up, dizzy. *Thomas was here. Four years.*
At work, she muddled forms. Emily noticed.
“Margaret, you’re miles away.”
“I’m fine.”
“About what you said yesterday—I’ve decided. I’ll marry Harry. Love *is* more important.”
Margaret studied her—young, brave.
“Good choice, Emily. You won’t regret it.”
“Did you? Have love, I mean.”
“Once.”
“And?”
“I listened to my mother. Married another.”
“Do you regret it?”
A long silence.
“Every day.”
That evening, after Geoffrey slept, she slipped out. The bus to St. Mary’s took half an hour. She lingered by the gates, watching lit windows. *Somewhere in there, Thomas grades papers.*
She returned the next day. And the next.
Then—she saw him.
Grey now, weathered, but the same gentle hands.
“Thomas?”
He turned, squinted—then, recognition.
“Margaret? Good Lord—it *is* you.”
They stood, awkward. Fifty years between them.
“Coffee?” he offered.
Over tea, he spoke of leaving after her wedding, teaching, marrying late, losing his wife.
“Are *you* happy?” he asked.
She stirred her cup. “Geoffrey’s a good man. James is grown. We’re comfortable.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Then no. Not happy. You know who I loved.”
He took her hand.
“We’re not old, Margaret. I’m sixty-eight, you’re sixty-six. There’s time. For friendship, at least.”
She agreed.
Wednesdays became theirs—theatre, museums, long talks. She felt alive again.
Geoffrey noticed.
“You’re cheerful lately. New dress, hairdo—what’s the occasion?”
“Just felt like it.”
But Emily spotted them at the theatre.
“Who was that gentleman with you?”
“An old friendTheir hands, wrinkled yet warm, entwined beneath the stars—finally writing the ending they’d been denied fifty years ago.
