**The Last Carriage**
I watched as Evelyn strolled leisurely into the supermarket, observing the flurry of activity around her—especially the men, all rushing about ahead of Mothering Sunday. She had always loved this day, back when her husband, Thomas, would bring her a bouquet, and they’d make a little occasion of it. But now, years after his passing, Evelyn lived alone.
At fifty-eight, she’d seen enough of her friends’ misfortunes with love to bother starting over.
“All the decent men are long taken,” she’d tell her friend Margaret over tea at the café. “And I’ve no interest in settling for just anyone. The hassle isn’t worth it. Yes, it gets lonely, but the children and grandchildren visit. Honestly, Marg, I’ve grown used to life as it is.”
Margaret, happily married to her rock of a husband, always felt a pang of sadness for Evelyn—such a good woman, widowed too soon.
“You never know, love,” Margaret would say, nudging her gently. “Might still meet someone special.”
“Oh, don’t be daft,” Evelyn would laugh. “Where on earth would I find a decent man at this age? Let’s talk about something else.” And they’d chatter on about their families, their grandchildren, the usual.
Evelyn had indeed settled into solitude. But tonight, despite her weariness from the bustle, she needed groceries. Early spring clung to the air, and wet snowflakes stuck to her coat. Her son, James, had popped by earlier with flowers.
“Mum, here—I won’t make it Sunday. We’re off to the countryside with friends. You’re welcome to join.”
“Thank you, love, but I’d rather stay in. Besides, my head’s been bothering me—spring coming and all.”
Lost in thought, she wandered into the supermarket, picked up a few things, and joined the queue at the till. Amused, she eyed the frantic men around her.
“Suddenly, they all remember they’ve got wives,” she mused, watching them grab last-minute tulips or daffodils. “Lucky them—only one day a year they have to fuss. Women do this every week.”
Then she caught it—a rich, woody cologne from the tall, silver-haired man in front of her. His trolley was piled high.
“Expensive scent—must be handsome,” she thought idly, stealing glances at his profile. “Someone’s husband, clearly. Look at all that shopping.”
One hand gripped the trolley; the other held his phone. His answers were clipped.
“Yes, got it. Yes, that too. Be home soon.”
“Talking to his wife, no doubt,” Evelyn sighed.
As he tucked the phone away, it slipped. Without thinking, she snatched it midair before it hit the tiled floor. He spun around, and the look he gave her—well, it sent a jolt straight through her.
“Bloody hell, not now,” she scolded herself, flustered.
“Thank you,” he said, taking it back with a warm smile. “Now I owe you one.”
“Oh, it was nothing,” she murmured.
He paid and hurried off, trolley rattling toward the car park.
“That’s that, then,” she thought, exhaling as she checked out.
Bag in hand, she stepped outside—and nearly collided with him. He’d waited, hood up against the snow.
“Oliver,” he introduced himself.
“Evelyn,” she managed, pulse quickening.
“Truly, thank you for catching my phone,” he said. “Would you… give me your number?”
Hypnotised, she did. He thanked her, promised to call, and vanished into the snowy traffic.
“What on earth just happened?” she wondered, trudging home.
Later, changed into her cosy jumper and thick socks, she settled in with the telly. A favourite show was on—ordinary people singing their hearts out, their stories weaving tales of unexpected love and second chances.
Midway through, her phone rang.
“Evelyn? It’s Oliver. May I come over?” His deep voice nearly made her drop the phone.
“Y-yes, of course,” she blurted, then panicked. Had she just agreed without thinking?
“Lovely. Though… I won’t be alone.”
“Oh.” Her heart sank. “Right.”
He hung up before she could ask more.
“His wife, then. Coming to thank me properly,” she groaned, eyeing her reflection. “Should’ve changed. Put on some lipstick. I look like a sack of potatoes in these socks.”
The doorbell rang. She opened it—and a shaggy golden retriever barrelled into her.
“Goodness!” she laughed, steadying herself.
“Sorry—this is Charlie. I did say I wouldn’t be alone.”
There they stood, both dusted with snow—Oliver holding a bouquet of red roses, and Charlie, tail wagging furiously.
“I thought you meant your wife,” she admitted.
“Ex-wife,” he corrected with a wry smile. “Ran off to Spain with some bloke half her age.”
“But all those groceries…?”
“For my mum. She gives me lists—I shop, she cooks. Sister too, sometimes, when she’s minding the grandkids.”
Flustered, she ushered him in, cursing her frumpy appearance.
“I’ll put the kettle on,” she said, fleeing to the kitchen. “Just bought a cherry pie, as if I knew we’d have company.”
“Splendid. Family nearby?”
“My son, James—brought flowers earlier. Daughter’s up in Scotland, but we talk.”
She caught Oliver studying her, his gaze soft. Then he took her hands.
“You look even lovelier like this,” he murmured. “Evelyn, today I realised—you’re my last train. And I’m so glad I caught it.”
Her heart swelled. He was hers, too.
Over tea, Charlie nestled between them, watching with wise eyes.
“Tomorrow, we’ll celebrate properly,” Oliver said. “Dinner out. Tonight’s just a rehearsal.”
She agreed.
Now, Evelyn lives with Oliver in his countryside home—Charlie has acres to roam. They host often: Margaret and her husband, Oliver’s old friends. And every Mothering Sunday, without fail, they celebrate.
Funny how life works. Sometimes, the last carriage is the one that takes you home.
