**A Second Chance**
James wasn’t a looker like Cary Grant. He worked as an ordinary engineer at a tractor factory. He didn’t drink—well, maybe a pint now and then on holidays. Didn’t smoke. Married for twenty-two years, he never once glanced at another woman.
His daughter had married and moved to London with her husband. No grandchildren yet, and James wasn’t bothered. Kids meant noise, responsibility, and toys scattered everywhere. He preferred quiet evenings with the newspaper and telly. At his age? There’d be time for grandchildren later.
His wife, Margaret, suited him in every way—pleasant to look at, tidy, made sure the house was cozy, always had dinner ready. On special occasions, she’d bake a Victoria sponge or whip up a beef Wellington. In short, life was settled.
Driving home, squinting against the sunset, he looked forward to a hearty meal and an evening in front of the telly.
James stepped inside, kicked off his shoes in the hall, and listened. Usually, Margaret would call from the kitchen, saying supper was nearly ready. Tonight, silence. A knot tightened in his chest. He walked into the living room. Margaret stood by the wardrobe, pulling dresses off hangers and tossing them onto the settee beside an open suitcase.
“Where are you going? Off to see Emily in London? Is she expecting?” he asked.
Margaret didn’t look up, just folded a blouse into the case. It was already stuffed, the zip straining.
“Have you gone deaf? I’m calling from the kitchen, and you don’t answer. Where are you going?” His voice rose.
She gave the room a final glance, then tried forcing the lid shut.
“Could’ve helped instead of gawping and asking daft questions,” she snapped, blowing a strand of hair from her face.
“I asked where you’re taking all your clothes. Is that daft?” His patience was thinning.
“Where d’you think? I’m leaving you,” she shot back.
“Why?” His left eyebrow lifted.
“I’ve had enough. Now, are you going to help or not?” She jerked her chin at the suitcase.
“Had enough of what?” He strode over, slammed the lid down, and yanked the zip closed.
“Everything. You. Cooking every night. Staring at the telly till my eyes glaze over.”
“You could’ve said. We could’ve gone to the theatre, mixed things up.” The words tumbled out before he could stop them.
“And had you snoring through the second act? One day blurs into the next, and life slips by.” Her voice cracked—frustration, despair.
“That’s just how it is. Standing still or moving, time passes either way,” he said, like it was wisdom.
“Don’t get clever with me. I want something to look back on. What’ve I got? Saucepans? Washing-up? You buried in the paper?” Her voice rose to a shout.
“You think I’ve nowhere to go but Emily’s? There’s a man who sees me—really sees me. Calls me his queen, writes me poetry…” Her eyes drifted upward, misty.
“And me?” James asked, the truth dawning.
“You? Carry on as you were. Only now, you’ll cook your own dinners.” She smirked. “You stopped noticing me. I cut my hair two months ago—whole new style. Did you even see?”
She yanked the suitcase off the bed, wheels leaving faint tracks on the cream carpet.
As she shrugged into her coat, James stared at those twin lines. Felt like that case had rolled straight over his heart.
Only when the front door slammed did he flinch, tearing his gaze away. She was really gone.
He stumbled to the kitchen. The kettle was cold. The fridge held half a shepherd’s pie, leftover bangers, tinned beans, eggs, and sour milk. His appetite vanished.
Back in the living room, he sank onto the settee. No urge to read or watch telly. Those things only made sense when Margaret was there—humming in the kitchen, ironing in the corner, peeking at the telly. Home.
He sat for hours, staring at the blank screen, swallowing the silence like a stone. Finally, he grabbed his jacket and left. The emptiness followed.
Passing a pub, he heard laughter. Suddenly, he needed to be near people. Inside, he ordered a whiskey. Then another. The pain dulled.
He woke at noon, still dressed, head pounding. Saturday. The flat spun when he stood. A shower helped. Outside, sunlight glinted off the Thames. People strolled. A woman smiled at him—bright, unmissable.
“Lovely day for a walk, isn’t it?” she said.
“Erm—yes.” He blinked. “Sorry, do I know you?”
“You look pale. Something wrong?”
“Wife left me. For a poet. Writes her verses. I don’t.” He hadn’t meant to say it.
She guided him to a bench. “You need rest. Let’s get you home.”
Walking back, she vented—her son lived up north, her daughter’s fiancé was insufferable. “But if I boot him out, she’ll leave too. So here I am, wandering.”
“You work at the factory, don’t you? Accounts? The fact you don’t remember me says you’re a good man—never looked twice at another woman.”
“Good men don’t get left,” he muttered. “Fancy a cuppa? Place is dead quiet now.”
She hesitated. “Another time. You’re newly single—wouldn’t be right.”
“Then I’m not going back either.” His shoulders slumped.
After a pause, she linked her arm with his. “Come on.”
Over tea, they talked. Felt like they’d known each longer than they had. When she stood to leave, he asked for her number.
The next morning, life felt lighter. He rang her. “Erm—I forgot your name. Alice? Lovely. Fancy a walk? One hour, by the river?”
He hummed as he buttoned his shirt. Suddenly, there was a reason to hurry home from work. Alice waited by the factory gates. They’d stop at the grocer’s, cook together, talk for hours. In weeks, they’d said more than he and Margaret had in years.
One evening, chopping veg while she stirred the stew, he cleared his throat. “Why stay with that berk of a son-in-law? Move in with me.”
“Is that a proposal?” No shock in her voice.
“Yes. Still married, technically, but—”
She moved in that night. With her, he felt alive—eager, lighter. Like he’d been given a second chance.
Then, one evening, the front door clicked.
Margaret stood in the kitchen doorway. “Thought you’d be wasting away. Instead, you’ve replaced me already.” The air turned sharp.
“You left first,” Alice said evenly.
“And you are?” Margaret’s glare could’ve frozen lava.
James sat frozen. Margaret—familiar, steady, but the one who’d walked out. Alice—his fresh start.
“Well?” Margaret snapped. “Cat got your tongue?”
His voice steadied. “If you’d come back sooner, I’d have taken you. But Alice… she made me remember what happy feels like. If it’s the flat you want, we’ll sell it.”
Margaret’s lips parted—no words came. With a last scathing look, she turned on her heel. The slam echoed.
“You sure?” Alice whispered.
He took her hands. “She’s my past. You’re what’s ahead. I won’t let you pack a suitcase.”
“And I’ll make sure you never regret choosing me.” She rested her head on his shoulder.
**Lesson:** Love isn’t just comfort—it’s noticing, choosing, and tending the flame before someone else lights a match.
