Once, in the quiet countryside of England, life was simpler. The young folk would gather for dances, traveling even to neighboring villages for a bit of fun. There was no internet then—just music, laughter, and the joy of each other’s company.
Margaret fell in love with Edward, a lad from the next village over. He’d ridden in on his old motorbike one evening, spotted her at the village hall dance, and was smitten at once. She was gentle and shy, her cheeks flushing pink whenever he drew near.
“Tom,” Edward asked a friend, “is Margaret courting anyone here?”
“No, but half the village fancies her. Why, taken a liking to her, have you?” Tom grinned.
“Pretty girl,” Edward murmured, watching her. He wouldn’t let the chance slip.
Love stole his sleep that night. The music played loud, and Edward took Margaret’s hand, leading her to dance. They barely parted all evening, both sensing the other’s fondness. When the dance ended late, the moon hung bright overhead.
“Fancy a ride on the bike, Meg?” he offered. “Or we could just walk, if you’d rather.”
“I’d rather walk,” she admitted.
Hand in hand, they wandered under the moonlight, happier than anyone else in the world. Margaret had never known love like this. She’d caught glances from boys before, but her heart had stayed untouched until now.
That night, Edward walked her home, lingering at her gate before finally saying goodnight. She listened as his motorbike roared away, carrying him back to his village a few miles off.
“So this is love,” she thought, lying awake, her mind still alight with the evening. Edward was handsome—dark-haired, trim, with striking blue eyes. She’d never felt this way before, not even when she’d fancied Rob back in secondary school.
Time passed. Edward visited often, and one day he said, “What if I steal you away? We’ll marry.”
“Why steal me?” she laughed. “I’d say yes anyway.”
“Then expect my family to call on yours,” he said, hugging her close.
Soon he arrived with his parents, asking for her hand in proper tradition, just as it had been done for generations. Margaret adored him, though her mother fretted.
“Darling, he’s too handsome by half. Men like that think only of themselves.”
“Mum, we love each other. It’ll be fine.”
“God willing,” her mother sighed, eyeing Edward, who only had eyes for Margaret.
They lived in Edward’s village, but like many young couples, they longed for the city. Three years later, with a little son in tow, they moved away.
“Go on,” her mother-in-law urged. “I’ll mind young Michael. The boy’s on his feet now, and there’s nothing for you here. Factories need workers in the city—you’ll make a life there. Fetch Michael once you’re settled.”
And so they left. The city was crowded, teeming with young folk hungry for work. Edward found a job at a factory, Margaret at a textile mill.
“Meg,” he said one evening, “they’ve given me a room at the works’ lodging. We’ll have our own place!”
“Oh, Edward! I’m so glad. We’ll bring Michael—he’ll be three soon—enroll him in nursery. I miss him terribly.”
Months passed. Michael settled into nursery, and Margaret soon realized she was expecting again.
“I think we’ll have another, Edward,” she told him.
“Wonderful,” he beamed. “Where one goes, another follows.”
When little Henry arrived, they moved into a proper flat Edward secured through work. Bit by bit, they furnished it. Margaret tended the children; Edward worked. She trusted him completely—too completely, as it turned out.
She never suspected a thing until the whispers started.
“Margaret,” a woman at the mill said bluntly, “your Edward’s a flirt. Half the factory girls know him—and not just from work.”
“If a man loves you, he wouldn’t stray,” Margaret insisted.
The woman laughed. “Oh, you’re a proper innocent, aren’t you?”
That evening, she confronted him. He didn’t deny it.
“Yes, there have been others,” he admitted coolly. “But it’s your fault—always with the children, never time for me.”
“And when should I make time? You’re never home!”
They argued, then fell silent. Eventually, they made peace—or so it seemed. Years slipped by. Michael grew, then Henry. Then one evening, Edward announced:
“I’m leaving you. There’s a younger woman now.”
She wasn’t shocked. She’d known this day would come. She didn’t weep or beg. She simply nodded.
“Goodbye, then,” he said. “The flat’s yours and the boys’. I won’t claim it.”
*Good riddance*, she thought. *I’d never have left him—but I’m glad he’s gone.*
The pain came later. The betrayal stung. She’d loved only him. But worse was when he demanded his share of the flat. She knew his new woman had put him up to it.
“Edward,” she said tightly, “I’ll buy you out. Then leave us be.”
“With what money?” he sneered.
Somehow, she scraped it together—help from her mother, friends. She thanked heaven she was free of him at last.
“An unfaithful man is best left to others,” she’d say. “It’s worse when the one you trust most does the lying.”
Time healed her. The boys married, gave her grandchildren. Then one day, she bumped into Rita, an old acquaintance.
“You look well, Margaret. Over your ex, then?”
“Long since. Life’s good now.”
“Did you hear? That young thing tossed Edward out.”
Margaret shrugged. “No, and I don’t care to.”
“Serves him right,” Rita sniffed. “He’ll hop from one to the next till he’s old and alone.”
Margaret felt nothing for him now, not even pity.
Years later, Edward, aged and ailing, turned up with Michael. “Let him stay, Mum,” her son pleaded.
“Why? Send him back to the village. This is *my* home now. I owe him nothing.”
But for her sons’ sake, she relented—on strict terms. “He pays rent, buys his own food, cooks for himself. We’re strangers now.”
Winter passed quietly enough. Then a neighbor, Vera, stopped her.
“It’s good of you to take him back. Forgiveness is noble.”
Margaret frowned. “We’re not reconciled. He’s a lodger—nothing more.”
Vera blinked. “That’s not what *he’s* saying. Claims you begged him to return.”
Margaret was furious. *Still lying, even now.* She called Michael at once. “Come fetch your father.”
This time, she stood firm. “He’s your burden now, not mine.”
Michael took him in, but within a week, Edward was passed to Henry—whose wife soon threatened to leave unless he went.
Finally, Michael placed him in a nursing home. “He’ll manage there. We’ll visit.”
Margaret sighed. *So ends the grand Edward.* She felt no guilt, only relief. Some men never change—and some wounds never truly heal.
