A Second Wind
Oliver wasn’t exactly a heartthrob like Hugh Grant. He worked as an ordinary engineer at a tractor factory. Didn’t drink much—just the odd pint on holidays. Didn’t smoke. Married for twenty-two years, he’d never so much as glanced at another woman.
His daughter had married and moved to Manchester with her husband. No sign of grandchildren yet, but Oliver wasn’t fussed. Kids meant noise, mess, and responsibility—he was used to quiet evenings with the telly and the paper. At his age? Plenty of time for grandchildren later.
His wife, Margaret, was perfect in every way: pleasant-looking, well-kept, the house always tidy, dinner ready when he got home. Special occasions meant a homemade Victoria sponge or a beef Wellington. Life was… settled.
Driving home one evening, squinting against the sunset, he looked forward to a hot meal and a bit of telly.
Oliver stepped inside, kicked off his shoes in the hallway, and paused. Usually, Margaret would pop her head out of the kitchen and say dinner was nearly ready. But tonight—silence. A cold prickle of unease crept up his spine. He walked into the living room. There she was, yanking dresses from the wardrobe and flinging them onto the sofa, where an open suitcase lay waiting.
“Where are you off to? Manchester? Don’t tell me our girl’s pregnant?”
Margaret didn’t look up. Just kept folding clothes into the suitcase, which was now bulging at the seams.
“Deaf now, are you? I’ve been calling. Where are you going?” Oliver snapped, temper simmering.
She scanned the room, checking she hadn’t missed anything, then tried to zip the case. The fabric strained.
“Instead of standing there like a plank, you could help,” she muttered, pushing a loose strand of hair from her face.
“I asked where you’re going with all your clothes! Is that a stupid question?” His irritation boiled over.
“Where d’you think? I’m leaving you,” she shot back, chin raised.
“Why?” Oliver’s left brow twitched.
“Because I’m bored stiff. Now, are you helping or not?” She jerked her head at the suitcase.
“Bored of what?” He strode over, slammed the lid down, and forced the zip shut.
“Everything. You. Cooking every night. Staring at the telly till bedtime.”
“You could’ve said something. We could’ve gone to the theatre, mixed it up a bit,” he blurted, scrambling for an answer.
“So I could die of embarrassment when you start snoring in the stalls? Day in, day out—life’s slipping by.” Her voice cracked, raw with frustration.
“That’s life, isn’t it? Doesn’t matter if you’re moving or standing still—time passes,” he said, trying to sound wise.
“Stop being clever. I want something to look back on. What have I got? Sausages in the pan? Washing up? You glued to the telly?” Her voice rose to a shout.
“You think I’ve nowhere else to go? I’m leaving for someone who sees me—really sees me. Someone who writes me poetry…” Her eyes glazed over, staring past him.
“And me?” Oliver’s stomach dropped.
“You? Carry on like always. Only now you’ll have to cook your own meals.” She smirked. “I cut my hair two months ago. Changed the colour. Did you even notice?”
She yanked the suitcase off the sofa, wheels leaving twin grooves in the rug as she dragged it to the door.
As she shrugged on her coat, Oliver stared at those crushed lines in the carpet. It felt like the suitcase had rolled straight over his heart.
The slam of the front door jolted him. Only then did it sink in—she was gone.
He wandered to the kitchen. The kettle was cold. The fridge held leftovers: half a cottage pie, a few eggs, a pint of milk. His appetite vanished.
Back in the living room, he slumped onto the sofa, where the suitcase had been. No interest in the telly or the paper. Those things only mattered when Margaret was there, humming in the kitchen or ironing in the corner. The house had been alive. Now it was a tomb.
The silence pressed in. He grabbed his jacket and fled outside. But the emptiness followed.
Passing a pub, he saw laughter through the windows. Suddenly, he needed to be around people—anything to fill the void. He ordered a whisky. Then another. And another.
The walk home was a blur. He woke in his clothes, head pounding. The room spun when he sat up.
What day was it? He fumbled for his phone. Saturday. No work. He staggered to the loo, then collapsed back into bed.
Two hours later, he felt human again. A shower helped. Outside, the sun was shining, people bustling past. His stomach turned as he passed the pub. He hurried toward the river.
A woman smiled at him. He glanced around—no one else nearby.
“Lovely day for a walk, isn’t it?” she said, falling into step beside him.
“Uh-huh.”
She stopped, waiting for more.
“Sorry, do I know you? Bit out of sorts today,” Oliver mumbled.
“Something wrong?” Her eyes were kind.
“Yeah. Wife left me. For a poet.” He inhaled sharply. “He writes her sonnets. I… don’t.”
“You look peaky. Let’s sit.” She scanned the benches—all taken.
“Wife’s gone. Drank too much last night. Not that I’m a drinker, just—” He wiped his damp forehead.
“You ought to be home, resting. Come on, I’ll walk you.”
On the way, she vented about her own life—her son married and moved away, her daughter’s useless fiancé.
“You said you don’t know me? I work in accounts at the factory. That you don’t remember says a lot. Means you’re a good man.”
“Good men don’t get left. Fancy a cuppa? Place is dead without her.” He nodded toward his flat.
“Bit soon, isn’t it? You’re barely divorced.” She hesitated.
“Then I’m not going back either.” His shoulders slumped.
After a pause, she took his arm. “Come on.”
Over tea, they talked. Oliver felt like he’d known her forever.
“You’re leaving?” he blurted as she stood.
“It’s getting dark. You need rest.”
He asked for her number. When she left, he crashed into bed and slept deeply. Waking, the world felt lighter. He toasted leftover bread, boiled the kettle, and called her.
“Realised I never got your name. Emily? Lovely. Fancy a walk? The river, in an hour? Brilliant.”
He buttoned a fresh shirt, humming. Life had colour again.
After work, he’d wait for Emily by the factory gates, drive her home. More often, they ate out or cooked together at his place. She’d chat while stirring pans, and he’d hang on every word.
One evening, he said, “Why are we acting like kids? Dates, walks… I’ve got the flat to myself. Why put up with that son-in-law? Move in with me.”
“Is that a proposal?” She didn’t seem surprised.
“Yeah. Still married, technically. But that’ll change.”
She stayed. He adored her—or rather, who he was with her. A second wind. He raced home at six, helped chop veg, talked for hours. In weeks, they’d shared more than in years with Margaret.
Then, one night over dinner—a key turned in the lock.
Margaret stood in the doorway. “Thought you’d be starving. Instead, you’ve replaced me already.”
“You left first,” Emily said coolly.
“And you are?” Margaret’s gaze raked over her.
“Same question.” Emily stood, chin up.
Oliver froze. The air crackled. Margaret, back? And Emily—his new life. His pulse roared in his ears.
“Well? Cat got your tongue?” Margaret snapped.
“If you’d come back sooner, I’d have taken you. But Emily… she made me happy. If you want half the flat, we’ll sell it.”
Margaret’s mouth opened—then shut. She glared at Oliver, ignored Emily, and stormed out.
“Sure about this?” Emily whispered as the door slammed.
Oliver took her hands. “She’s my past. You’re my future. If you’ll stay, I’ll make sure you never pack a suitcase.”
“And I’ll make sure you never regret it.” She rested her head on his shoulder.
