**Of Cats, Men, and Daffodils…**
“Fancy that, it’s raining outside!” said Maisie, standing by the office window.
“Well, it is spring—what did you expect?” replied the practical Eleanor.
“True enough, it’s the first of March. I’ve had enough of winter. The only joy in it was Christmas.”
“March is fickle—snow one day, frost the next,” chimed in the eldest of them, forty-five-year-old Victoria.
“This morning, I slipped on the way to the car. The bruise on my thigh is horrid—still aches. Want to see?” Maisie turned from the window.
“No!” they chorused.
“And our Lydia—spring doesn’t cheer her. Look how she’s working. Like a machine.”
“Leave her be, Maisie,” Victoria cut in.
“Oh, fine, fine. As if it’s the end of the world. I’ve been left three times, and here I am, still alive.”
Maisie caught Victoria’s disapproving glance and stepped away from the window.
“Honestly, though. A man left her. He didn’t die—he’s alive and happy. She ought to be glad for him,” Maisie pressed on.
Lydia rose from her desk and walked out. No matter how much time had passed, she couldn’t forget him, couldn’t accept it.
At first, Lydia had focused on her studies; men could wait. She’d thought she had time—plenty of lads to spare. But years passed. Friends married, divorced, remarried, while she’d never had a proper relationship.
When she met Daniel, she was sure it was real—the love she’d dreamed of. She couldn’t imagine life without him. The joy when he proposed! She’d glowed. They’d set the wedding for just before Christmas, so the tree would sparkle in every photo. She’d promised to invite all the girls, even picked out a dress.
Then, in early December, Daniel vanished. A week without a word. When he returned, he looked lost, guilty. Lydia knew at once. He gathered himself and confessed.
Two and a half years ago, before they’d met, he’d been on a business trip and had a fling. He might’ve made promises—couldn’t recall. Then he met Lydia and forgot her. But the woman had called. He had a son—eighteen months old.
“He’s the spitting image of me,” Daniel had said, running fingers through his hair. “When I saw him, something inside me turned. It’s not that I still love her. But a child changes everything. Forgive me—I’m at fault. I didn’t know…”
At first, Lydia didn’t try to keep him. Told herself love would conquer all. Then she thought—it wasn’t just the boy. You can’t hold a man with a child. Meaning his feelings for the mother weren’t gone.
Two happy years they’d had—plans, dreams, a future, children. Then his past returned, staking its claim. Lydia knew she couldn’t live with it, even if he chose her. For how long? Once revived, the past would intrude again, demanding attention, gifts, money for the child…
So she let him go. But what of her? How to go on? Her future had crumbled, and ruins don’t make a home. And now—how to trust men? Every one a liar, a cheat.
By day, she drowned herself in work. By night, memories gnawed at her wounded heart.
No matter how women fought for equality, without love and children, they were unhappy. Work couldn’t replace family. Life’s meaning was leaving something behind—raising it well, with a husband, a father. And Daniel already had that—a son, eighteen months old. Lydia was the spare.
Why such rotten luck? Thirty-two, unmarried, never properly lived with a man, never a real family.
Maisie was on her second marriage. Victoria’s eldest was at university. Even plump Eleanor had wed a year ago. Only Lydia was still alone.
The girls had tried setting her up with friends’ husbands’ mates. But nothing stuck. One was decent, ambitious—but no spark. Another wanted a fling. A third wasn’t even divorced…
And now this spring holiday. Why the fuss over flowers and gifts? Romance shouldn’t be calendared. At least it fell on a Sunday—no work, no need to face smug men clutching bouquets of daffodils bound with elastic to keep them from blooming too soon.
Wives at home, slaving over stoves, then dolling up to sit at table, eyeing the wilting flowers—like their curls, set that morning. Husbands shovelling roast beef, one eye on the telly. Sons nibbling, then vanishing to screens—lives buzzing online…
Yet Lydia envied it. She’d have traded places in a heartbeat. A family at table, a fistful of daffodils—just once a year.
She studied herself in the mirror. Not hideous—everything in order. So why no happiness? Everyone said she was too picky. But reckless love was for youth, when life stretched ahead—time for folly, for mistakes, for mending.
At thirty-two, starting over seemed too much. And a man past thirty was no boy. If he had nothing to his name, how could he be head of a family? Bear its weight?
She ran the tap, splashed her face, pressed wet palms to her cheeks. The anger cooled. Drying her face, she smoothed her hair and smiled. Thirty-two wasn’t fifty, was it?
Back in the office, the women fell silent. “Right—picking me apart.” She sat and returned to work.
“Lydia, we’re having cake on the seventh—chipping in a tenner each. Accounts are joining. You in?”
Lydia knew the talk—flowers, husbands, gifts.
“Promised Mum I’d visit,” she lied.
No plans. Dad had died four years back; Mum had a new beau. No room for her.
“Told you,” Maisie crowed.
“Right, ladies—back to work,” Victoria cut in.
Come the seventh, the office was aflutter. Women arrived dolled up, flitting about, laying out spreads. Work? On a holiday eve? The smells were dizzying.
“Lydia, go home.” Victoria set a box of chocolates on her desk.
“No, it’s fine—”
“Take them. Have tea. I wish you happiness—it’ll come. Ignore Maisie. Her second marriage is rocky—that’s why she’s sour.”
“Thanks. Shall I—?”
Lydia didn’t head straight home. She bought wine—it was a holiday, after all. Grapes, cold cuts… No one to cook for.
In the shop, she felt part of the sisterhood—loading baskets, conjuring feasts to delight families. Imagined daffodils on her own table. Swept up, she overbought.
Outside, hauling the heavy bag, she cursed herself. Why so much? No one waited. Pavements were either puddles or ice. By her door, her back was damp. Why had she worn a winter coat?
Fumbling for keys—caught in the lining—her bag dragging, purse slipping… She nearly set the groceries on the wet step when the keys came free.
A meow sounded, but she ignored it. Inside, she pressed for the lift. It crept down, mocking her. She just wanted rid of the bag.
The meow came again. Lydia looked down—a grey cat, green eyes lifted. Clearly a pet, sleek but muddy-pawed. She felt like Shrek—gruff outside, soft within.
“I live on the seventh. You?”
The cat mewed, rubbed her leg. The lift doors opened—it darted in.
“Bold, aren’t you? Or a girl? That explains it.”
It followed her out, paused at her door.
“Manners? Won’t enter uninvited? Fine—help me eat this.” Inside, it sniffed about. She gave it meat, milk. It devoured both, demanding more, staring unblinking.
She scooped it up. “Definitely a tom—greedy and cheeky. Stay, then. At least there’s a man in the house. But behave.”
In the bath, it twitched but endured. Then slept by the sofa.
“Not even claiming the furniture.”
She typed a found-cat notice—grey, tabby, bold. Not enough. She woke it, snapped a photo, printed flyers.
“Photogenic, aren’t you? Name? Whiskers? Marmaduke? No? Well, maybe your owner’ll turn up.”
Outside, she pinned flyers to boards. Back home, the cat flinched from the open door.
“Scared I’ll lock you out? Clever. But piddle here, and you’ll regret it.”
It slept at her feet. Come morning, she didn’t scold—should’ve bathed it fully. Over breakfast, her phone rangThe next morning, as sunlight spilled through the curtains and the cat purred beside her, Lydia realized that sometimes love arrives quietly—not in grand gestures, but in second chances, in the warmth of a shared glance, and in the soft weight of a creature who chooses to stay.
