Margaret prepared for her trip to the seaside retreat. Now retired, her eldest son, Edward, had bought her the holiday package, insisting, “Mum, you deserve a proper rest. You haven’t been yourself lately—tired, worn out. Don’t fret over Dad; he’ll manage. He doesn’t appreciate you, and I see that now. Since Michael and I left home, it’s clear he only lives for himself. Michael thinks so too.”
“Oh, Eddie, you’re so right,” she sighed. “I thought my boys never noticed anything. Thank you, love. Of course, I’ll go—when else will I get such a chance?” She smiled, grateful.
“Whenever you like,” Edward laughed. “Michael promised he’d pay for your next trip.”
“My wonderful boys! The best sons a mother could ask for!” She hugged him and kissed his cheek.
“And you’re the best mother,” he replied warmly. “Michael and I will always stand by you. Who else should you rely on? Just us.” He glanced at his watch. “Right, I’d best be off—no time to wait for Dad. Need to fetch little Tommy from nursery. Give Dad my regards.” With a wave, he was gone.
Margaret and George had lived in their village cottage for decades, married young and in love. Life had been steady—raising two sons, seeing them off into the world. Now, just the two of them, something had shifted—not their life, but George himself.
Retired for two years, Margaret had more time than before, when work and chores filled her days. They’d kept a pig and chickens, though George hardly lifted a finger now. He came home, ate, and slumped onto the sofa, only occasionally tending to odd repairs.
Before her trip, Margaret visited the high street, buying two dresses and a blouse. It had been ages since she’d refreshed her wardrobe—most of her clothes were old work wear she’d planned to wear out in retirement. But a seaside retreat called for better. As she admired herself in the mirror, George watched dismissively.
“Twirl all you like—won’t make you prettier. Who’d even look at you?”
“Not everything’s for others,” she said lightly. “It’s indecent to go about in rags.”
“Off to rub shoulders with the toffs, are we? Village lass through and through.”
“And you’re such a city gentleman. Why’d you marry me, then?”
“Youth and foolishness,” he muttered, aiming to sting.
But Margaret was used to his barbs. George had grown bitter with age, scowling at the world—and not just her. Yet he still eyed pretty women, and Margaret suspected infidelity, though she never spied. “A man who strays won’t be stopped,” she told herself.
Still, his words pricked as she put away her new clothes. She busied herself in the kitchen, letting chores distract her. Margaret had been pretty in her youth, and time had left a dignified grace. But she’d let herself go, thinking beauty was for the young.
George, once handsome, now seemed weary and withdrawn. He no longer handed her his wages, though she cooked, cleaned, and even bought his clothes. She might as well have been furniture to him. They even slept apart.
Neighbours whispered. “Your George was in town again,” said Vera one day. “Got himself a fancy woman at the office—young, pretty thing. Took her to lunch, and well…”
“What can I do?” Margaret shrugged, though her blood boiled.
“Cold as ice, you are! I’d have given him a piece of my mind!”
The jabs hurt, but George’s contempt cut deeper. They’d loved each other once.
At the retreat, Margaret thrived—new friends, leisurely meals, peaceful walks. For the first time in years, she didn’t think of George.
Then, on the third evening, a gentleman approached. “Good evening,” he said warmly. “I’m Henry. And you?”
“Margaret,” she replied, shaking his hand.
They strolled together most evenings after that. Henry, widowed five years, spoke fondly of his late wife. “Cared for her till the end. My daughter lives far off now.”
Margaret found herself confiding in him—her loneliness, George’s coldness. Henry listened, his kindness disarming her. Soon, she noticed his gaze lingering—admiring.
“My dear, you’ve kept your grace wonderfully. Lovely as ever,” he murmured.
For the first time in years, Margaret felt beautiful. Henry’s warmth revived her; she bloomed beside him.
Two weeks later, parting was hard. “Margaret, I’ve not loved since my wife,” Henry confessed. “Leave him. Marry me. Let’s be happy.” He pressed his number into her hand.
At home, her sons rejoiced at her glow—but George brooded, gaunt. “No one fed him proper,” she thought wryly.
Henry called daily, their talks secret. “I’ll come for you soon,” he promised.
Then, one night, George entered her room—uncharacteristically sombre. “I know about him,” he admitted hoarsely. “Heard you talking. Margaret… I won’t let you go. You’re my wife. I love you—no one ever will like I do.”
Tears welled as he knelt, pressing his face to her knees. “Forgive me. I thought… if I made you jealous… but you never cared.”
Her heart ached. She’d hidden her hurt all along—and he’d mistaken it for indifference.
Later, she called Henry. “Don’t ring again.” Perhaps some bonds were meant to last, flaws and all.
Now, George accompanies her on every trip. He’d nearly lost her—and learned too late what truly mattered.
