Many years ago, in the quiet countryside of England, there lived a man named Edward Whitmore. He hired a cart the day his wife was discharged from the hospital, and with the help of a neighbor, he carried her into their cottage. “All will be well,” he whispered to her, his voice trembling. “Just stay with me, my dove. Sit with me, talk to meonly live. Ill manage everything. Dont leave me, my love”
Margaret, at thirty-five, had long believed she would never know a womans happiness. Yet fate had other plans. She and Edward found each other when both were nearing fortyhe a widower of three years, she never married but a mother nonetheless. In her youth, she had been swept away by a charming man named Thomas, who promised her the world, only to vanish like mist. Later, she learned he was married, his wife even pleading with Margaret not to tear their family apart. Heartbroken but resolute, she kept the childa son she named William.
William grew to be her pridewell-mannered, bright, and dutiful. After school, he studied at the London School of Economics. Edward, a steady farmer, had called on Margaret more than once, offering his heart. She hesitated, though fond of him, ashamed somehow of her past and fearful of hope. One evening, William spoke plainly: “Mother, Ill not be living here much longer. Mr. Whitmore is a good manonly see that he treats you well. Your happiness is all that matters.” Edwards son, too, gave his blessing.
So they married, a quiet ceremony with close friends. Margaret worked in the village library, Edward tended the fields. Together, they kept a modest farmhens in the yard, a cow, a vegetable patch. They loved and respected one another, though God never granted them children of their own.
In time, both sons married, grandchildren arrived, and holidays filled their home with laughter. They prepared baskets of fresh eggs, cream, and roast fowl for the family. As they sat at the table, surrounded by loved ones, they felt the warmth of a life well-lived. Yet at night, as the old couple lay side by side, each prayed silently to be the first to goto never know the ache of solitude.
Years passed, and sorrow came at last. One morning, as Margaret stirred a pot of stew in the kitchen, she collapsed. Edward, with the neighbors help, summoned the doctor. A stroke, they said. She would never walk again. William visited, left money for her care, and departed.
Edward hired the cart once more when she was discharged, carrying her home as gently as he could. “All will be well,” he murmured again, though his heart faltered. He cared for her tirelessly. Within a month, she sat in a chair, peeling potatoes, kneading breadstill together in every small thing. Evenings were spent planning, worrying over the winter ahead. “Perhaps the children will take us in,” Margaret wondered aloud.
Then William and his wife, Clara, arrived. After a glance around the cottage, Clara declared, “You must be separated. Well take Mother next weekIll ready a room.”
“And what of me?” Edward asked, voice breaking. “Weve never been parted.”
“That was before,” Clara said firmly. “When you could manage. Now its different.”
The children left, and the old couple wept. Each night, they prayed not to wake.
The following weekend, both sons returned. As they packed Margarets things, Edward sat by her bed, stroking her hand, remembering their youth. Tears fell as he leaned close. “Forgive me, Margaret We failed somewhere, with the children. To be cast aside like thisforgive me. I love you.”
She longed to touch his cheek but hadnt the strength. Edward left, wiping his sleeve across his facethen gave up, letting the tears come as he climbed into the cart.
Then the sons and neighbors wrapped Margaret in a blanket and carried her out feet-first. She thought it fitting, somehow. She did not struggle. By the time Edwards cart had rolled away, she was gonespared the evenings loneliness.
A week later, on a crisp autumn day, their prayers were answered. Margaret and Edward met again in another world.
