Margaret was getting ready for her spa retreat. Retired now, her eldest son Ian had bought her the trip, insisting, “Mum, you need this. You deserve a proper rest. Frankly, you’ve looked better—less worn down. Don’t worry about Dad, he’ll manage. He never appreciated you, not like I do. I see it now—he’s always put himself first, especially since me and Mike moved out. Mike agrees, by the way.”
Margaret’s smile was weary but grateful. “Oh, Ian, you’re so right. I thought my boys never noticed. Thank you, love. Of course I’ll go—who knows when I’ll get another chance like this?”
“Whenever you want,” Ian laughed. “Mike promised he’d get you the next trip.”
“You’re the best sons a mother could ask for.” She pulled him into a hug, kissing his cheek.
“Mum, you’re the best too. Always remember—me and Mike’ve got your back. You can always count on us.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “Right, best be off. No time to wait for Dad—got to pick Timmy up from nursery. Send Dad my regards.” With a wave, he was out the door.
Margaret and Gregory lived in a modest village cottage, married for decades, once deeply in love. They’d raised two sons, built a life. But now, alone again, something had soured—or rather, Gregory had.
Retired two years, Margaret had more time than ever. Before, it was work, chores—they’d kept pigs and chickens, though Gregory hardly lifted a finger now. He came home from his job, ate, then slumped on the sofa. Occasionally he’d fix a loose hinge, hammer a nail. But that was all.
Shopping for her trip, Margaret splurged on two dresses and a blouse. Her wardrobe hadn’t been updated in years—just old work clothes she’d planned to wear into retirement. But a spa called for something nicer. Standing before the mirror, she smoothed the fabric, unaware of Gregory’s bored stare until he spoke.
“Twirl all you like—won’t make you prettier. Who’d even look at you?”
She stiffened. “I didn’t buy these for attention. It’s just polite to wear decent things in public.”
“Oh, ‘public,’ is it? Village girl then, village girl now.”
Her jaw tightened. “And you’re so refined. Why’d you marry me, then?”
His smirk was cruel. “Young and stupid, wasn’t I?”
She was used to his jabs—Gregory had grown bitter with age, scowling at the world, at her. Yet he still eyed younger women, flirted openly. Margaret suspected infidelity but never spied on him. “If a man wants to stray, he’ll find a way,” she told herself. Still, his words stung as she folded the new clothes away.
Margaret had been lovely in her youth. Time had softened her beauty into something quieter, elegant—though she’d never pampered herself. Salons, facials? Unthinkable. She saw only a pensioner in the mirror. But to others, she remained striking.
Gregory, though—he’d aged poorly, weary and sour. As she cooked dinner, Margaret’s thoughts churned. “We’re strangers now. He doesn’t even hand me his wages anymore. Yet I cook, clean, mend his clothes. Does he even see me? Just part of the furniture.” She stepped outside to feed the pigs, heart heavy.
Gregory noticed nothing—not his wife’s hurt, not his own callousness. Other women, though? They held his gaze. Flirtation led to more, his conscience untroubled.
“Margaret, love,” her neighbour Vera said one morning, voice hushed. “Your Greg’s been off to town again. Got himself a fancy piece, I reckon.”
Margaret forced a shrug. “And how’d you know? Holding the candle, were you?”
Vera sniffed. “Don’t need to. Works with him, doesn’t she? Some Marina from accounts—pretty little thing. Greg strutted round her like a peacock, took her to lunch. Then… well.” She leaned in. “Ladies at work say he’s always ducking out early now.”
Margaret’s voice stayed flat. “Let him duck.” Inside, she burned.
Vera gaped. “You’re too soft! I’d have skinned him alive by now.”
The words lodged like glass in Margaret’s chest. But worse were Gregory’s barbs—after all these years, after the love they’d shared.
The spa was an escape. Margaret settled in quickly, befriending her roommates, joining them for treatments and meals. “I never imagined it’d feel this peaceful,” she thought, lying in bed. “Haven’t thought of him once.”
Three days in, a man approached her—tall, warm-eyed. “Evening,” he said. “I’m Matthew. And you?”
She smiled. “Margaret. No secret there.”
They took evening walks together, him speaking first. “I’ve been alone five years. My wife—illness took her. We were happy. My daughter’s far off now, visits seldom.”
Margaret found herself confessing too—about Gregory, the loneliness. Matthew listened, his kindness disarming her. Soon, they were inseparable. She realized with a start: he’d fallen for her.
“Margaret,” he murmured one night, “you’re stunning. How have you kept so lovely?”
She flushed. Gregory had convinced her otherwise. But with Matthew, she felt seen—her laughter lighter, her eyes bright.
Days later, Matthew took her hands. “I’ve not felt this way since my wife. Leave him. Marry me instead.” He pressed his number into her palm. “Call me. Let’s build a life.”
Leaving was agony. But home she went, glowing, renewed. Her sons visited, cheered by her radiance. Only Gregory watched from the shadows, gaunt and sullen. No one had cooked for him.
Matthew called daily. Margaret spoke in whispers, hiding from Gregory. “Come soon,” he urged. “Just settle things with him.”
She promised—until the night Gregory appeared in her bedroom, his face raw with unspoken pain.
“I know,” he rasped. “About him. The calls. I’ve heard.” He knelt, clutching her knees, voice breaking. “I won’t lose you. You’re my wife. My love. Forgive me—my cruelty, my neglect. I thought… if I made you jealous, you’d fight for me. But you just let me go.”
Margaret nearly confessed then—how she’d ached, how she’d wept. But his tears disarmed her. As he pulled her close, warmth flooded her chest. She still loved him.
Later, she called Matthew. “Don’t ring again.” Some bonds, it seemed, were unbreakable.
Gregory changed. Fear of loss humbled him. Now they holidayed together—no more solitary retreats. And Margaret? She stayed. Not out of weakness, but choice—a quiet, enduring love, weathered but unbroken.
