In a quiet town nestled in the rolling hills of the Lake District, there lived a woman named Margaret, whose life had long been entwined with the local printing press. She knew every corner of her trade and cherished it dearly, but by the time she turned fifty, weariness settled upon her shoulders like a leaden weight.
With her husband, Edward, they had raised two daughters, both of whom had married and moved away to bustling cities, leaving Margaret to yearn for the sound of their laughter and the rare visits with her grandchildren. She called them nearly every evening, clinging to every scrap of news, but in recent years, her own stories had grown darker. Exhaustion gripped her heart, and joy slipped through her fingers like grains of sand.
Edward had retired before Margaret—he was ten years her senior. It was his second marriage, and for a time, their life had flowed smoothly. Yet in recent years, Edward had taken to the bottle more often, fraying Margaret’s patience. In those moments, he became a stranger—conversation was impossible, and even looking at him pained her. Edward, in turn, only grew angrier, brushing aside her pleas for a healthier life.
Margaret’s only solace came from her neighbours, Eleanor and Beatrice. Both a few years older, they had been enjoying their pensions for five years. Eleanor was a widow, Beatrice long divorced, and their children lived distant lives in far-off cities. Yet these women, despite their age, burned with a passion for travel.
“How do you manage to travel so much?” Margaret marvelled, watching their radiant faces.
“Live simply, dear Margaret,” Eleanor replied. “We always have. We take the coach, never splurge. Rent modest rooms, travel in spring or autumn when prices are lower. Together, it’s cheaper. We cook our own meals—salads, a bit of roast chicken—simple but filling.”
“Exactly,” Beatrice chimed in. “Our children and friends know what to give us for birthdays—not cakes or flowers, but travel money! We plan everything—routes, excursions, expenses.”
“How wonderful,” Margaret sighed, though her voice was tinged with longing. “And here I am, never leaving home. Edward sits like a storm cloud on the sofa, waiting for me after work. I must cook, listen to him, and I’m half-dead by the time my shift ends.”
“Take leave, convince him,” her friends urged. “Come with us to the Scottish Highlands! The air is bracing, the mountains glorious. Maybe bring him along?”
“You must be joking,” Margaret scoffed. “Edward won’t go anywhere. He has no friends, no desire to move. Since he retired, he’s been rooted to that sofa. Eats, sleeps, watches the telly.”
“Ask him,” they insisted. “Don’t decide for him.”
But Margaret never had the chance. Her world shattered when her mother suffered a heart attack. Every thought was of her. Though her father, despite being eighty, stayed by her mother’s side, Margaret rushed to the hospital daily, rejoicing at every small improvement.
Edward, instead of offering comfort, only seethed. He fumed when she returned late, and when Margaret announced she would stay with her mother after discharge, he exploded:
“Your father’s there—let him care for her! Why must you go? Think of yourself for once!”
“Would you rise from that sofa if I fell ill?” Margaret snapped. “Could you care for me?”
Edward said nothing, and that silence cut deeper than any words.
For a month, Margaret lived with her parents, returning home only on weekends. Knowing she would check, Edward kept his drinking in check. Meanwhile, Margaret cleaned, cooked meals to last him days.
“Eat, reheat, don’t live on crisps and tea,” she pleaded, but Edward only waved her off, resenting her for “abandoning” him.
Her mother improved, began walking, visiting the doctor. Margaret returned home, but the relief was short-lived. Three months later, her mother died of a second heart attack.
“Well, your mother’s eased your burden,” Edward said coldly. “Now we can live properly.”
The words sliced through her like a knife. Margaret collapsed onto the sofa, weeping.
“Properly?” Her voice trembled. “I’ve worked my whole life for this family! Raised our daughters, worked two jobs, sewed late into the night to pay for their schooling. Now I dream of retirement, just to live a little for myself—to travel, like my friends!”
“You only think of yourself!” Edward shot back. “I worked too, I was tired too. I thought we’d spend our pensions in seaside retreats, healing. My blood pressure, my headaches! And you abandon me for your parents.”
“Ever tried quitting the drink?” Margaret retorted. “Call a cab, see a doctor, go to a retreat—who’s stopping you? I’ve spoiled you, led you by the hand, and you couldn’t even help at home. I’m not made of iron! And my father’s barely hanging on—you saw how ill he looked at the funeral. My mother begged me to care for him—”
“So you’ll leave me again?” Edward snapped. “I’m not young either. Can’t we hire help? Do I even have a wife?”
Too weary to reply, Margaret retreated to the kitchen. Half an hour later, Edward followed, resting his hands on her shoulders.
“I spoke in anger. Forgive me. I want us to be together,” he murmured.
“I love my parents too,” Margaret said softly. “You were lucky yours went quickly, and your sister shouldered their care. Don’t forget that.”
A month later, her father collapsed from a stroke. Grief had broken him—he never recovered. Margaret brought him home, giving him her own bedroom. For two years, she cared for him, working until she could claim her pension. To her surprise, Edward helped—feeding her father, administering medicine while she was at work.
When her father passed, Margaret retired. She looked gaunt, dark circles beneath her eyes.
“It’s time for a retreat,” she told Edward firmly. “I’m falling apart.”
They went to Bath. There, among the limestone hills and healing waters, Margaret seemed to revive. Evening dances, tours, fresh air—it felt like a different life.
“I feel ten years younger,” she confessed to Edward on their return.
Her friends promptly invited her to Brighton. She broached it with Edward.
“I won’t go,” he said flatly. “But you should. I’ll refurbish your father’s room. Hire workers, oversee things.”
Margaret left for the seaside. She called Edward, gushing about the ocean, while he updated her on the renovations.
“What wallpaper should I choose?” he shouted down the line.
“Something light, not too bold. You decide—I’m in a sea-blue mood!” she laughed.
The month flew by. Margaret returned, rejuvenated. Her friends joked they were “folk physicians.”
“Persuade your husband,” Eleanor winked. “It’s merrier with him along.”
“Merrier?” Margaret smiled. “He’s grown lazy, put on weight. But I’ll try.”
At home, she gasped—Edward hadn’t just redone her father’s room but had also repainted the sitting room floors.
“Where did you sleep while the paint dried?” she asked.
“At Beatrice’s. She lent me her key to water the plants, so I stayed on her sofa,” he said.
Her friends hosted a celebratory dinner, praising Edward’s efforts, and announced:
“We’re all off to Cornwall! A cottage by the sea, through a friend. Edward—you’ll be our leader!”
“If I’m leader, then I’m in,” Edward nodded. “But you must obey!”
That autumn, they travelled to the coast. To Margaret’s astonishment, Edward didn’t drink, kept pace on their walks despite his bulk.
Returning, he stepped on the scales and gasped:
“Lost four kilos! Feels like a stone gone!”
“Well done,” Margaret beamed, hugging him. “Never thought I’d be proud of you. Wasn’t it splendid? The sea, the cliffs, the walks…”
“Never thought I’d enjoy it so much,” Edward admitted.
“Don’t age yourself before your time,” Margaret teased. “Retirement’s when life begins. Time for new clothes—I’ve dropped a dress size!”
The trip had rekindled something between them. They looked at each other warmly, as in their youth. A week later, Edward announced:
“Tomorrow’s our anniversary!”
“What?” Margaret blinked.
“Our wedding anniversary!”
“Nearly forgot,” she laughed. “What’s the plan?”
“A picnic in the woods! I’ll fetch meat—we’ll barbecue!”
That morning, their daughters called with congratulations. Edward presented Margaret with a bouquet hidden on the balcony. Arm in arm, they trekked into the forest with rucksacks and a thermos of tea, celebrating beneath whispering leaves and birdsong.
