Bethany always woke up before her alarm, as if she had an internal clock ticking away inside her. She rose, washed her face, and made breakfast. By the time her husband, Edward, stepped into the kitchen, freshly shaved and smelling of cologne, the table was set—scrambled eggs or soft-boiled, a platter of sliced bread, cheese, and ham, and a steaming cup of strong coffee. Bethany herself settled for just coffee and a bit of cheese, no bread.
They had been married for thirty years. In that time, they had learned to read each other so well that words were rarely necessary, especially in the mornings. “See you tonight,” “I’ll be late,” “Thanks…” They knew each other’s moods by a glance, a footstep, even silence. Why waste breath?
“Thanks,” Edward said, draining his coffee before pushing back his chair.
When they were newlyweds, he’d always kissed her cheek before leaving for work. Now, he just thanked her and walked out. He worked as an engineer at a railway factory, leaving early to beat the London traffic.
Bethany cleared the table, washed the dishes, and got ready. She taught at the university, just two stops from their house, and always walked, rain or shine. Tall, athletic, trim. She only wore dresses in summer. For lectures, it was always tailored grey trouser suits, paired with pastel blouses.
Her once-dark hair had silvered with age. She never dyed it, instead twisting it into a thin braid pinned at the nape of her neck. No makeup, no jewellery—just her wedding ring.
As a lecturer, she spoke all day. At home, she preferred quiet. Edward liked silence too. To outsiders, they seemed the perfect couple. No shouting matches, no arguments.
He was two years older and still handsome. Bethany had long accepted that women noticed him. She used to be jealous—now she barely batted an eye. “Where would he go? No one cooks for him like I do,” she’d think. And she *did* cook like a dream.
They had a daughter, married to a military man and living abroad since university.
Students feared Bethany a little. She rarely smiled, always composed. But she was fair—if someone admitted they didn’t know an answer but had studied, she’d guide them to a pass. Cheaters, though, were thrown out on the spot.
She never gossiped with colleagues or joined in department chatter.
One day, she overheard two first-years in the canteen.
“That lecturer—total spinster. If it weren’t for the wedding ring, you’d think she’d never married,” one muttered.
“She *has* a husband—handsome, too. And a daughter,” the other countered.
“What’s *he* doing with *her*, then?”
Bethany finished her lunch, stood, and fixed them with a look.
“Sorry,” they squeaked, flushing crimson.
*Spinster. Frump. So that’s what they think.* In the staffroom, she studied herself in the mirror. *What *does* Edward see in me?* The bell rang, and she headed to class.
At home, she started dinner—beef stew in clay pots, timed for his return. Everything was ready. She peered out the window. Edward always parked below. But his car wasn’t there. Then—a click from the front door.
Bethany frowned, stepping into the hall.
“Where’s the car? Broke down?”
“No, parked elsewhere.”
She didn’t ask why. Back in the kitchen, she pulled the stew from the oven. Edward sat at the table.
“Beth, sit down.”
She set aside the oven mitt and obeyed, folding her hands. Something was wrong. He wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“The thing is… I’m in love with someone else. I’m leaving.” He wiped sweat from his brow.
Her fingers clenched.
“Sorry. I’ll pack and go.” He stood.
She heard the wardrobe creak, hangers clinking, the zip of a suitcase. Then nothing. Wheels rumbling over carpet, then tiles. The slow rustle of his coat. *He’ll come back. He’ll say it’s a mistake.*
The door shut. The lock clicked.
She sat, numb. Then her hands unclenched, covered her face, and she wept.
*That’s why the car wasn’t there. So the neighbours wouldn’t see. Or was *she* waiting in it?*
She splashed her face with water. *The stew.*
Her first thought? Bin it—pots and all. Then she remembered the elderly couple downstairs and knocked on their door. A young woman answered.
“Hello, I—” Bethany faltered. She didn’t even know their names.
“The Wilsons? They sold up—their son moved them in with him. We just bought the place. I’m Sophie; my husband’s James. Wow, that smells amazing.”
“This is for you. Housewarming,” Bethany said, forcing a stiff smile. She handed over the pots and left.
That night, she cycled between tears and pacing, arguing with Edward in her head. *Why now? Why not years ago? What do *I* do?*
Morning came. Coffee. Walk to work. She skipped dinner, mindlessly flipping channels.
A knock. *Edward? He has a key. But the lights are on…*
Sophie stood there, holding a plate of pie.
“You fed us yesterday. That stew was *unreal*. James insisted I get the recipe. Thought I’d return the favour. First pie I’ve ever made.”
“Come in,” Bethany said. “Let’s try it.”
They settled at the kitchen table.
“So… just you? Husband at work?” Sophie asked.
Bethany shrugged.
“James and I just married. I’m thirty-six—first time. Last-chance saloon, really. Lived with Mum till now, so I can’t cook for toffee. James is divorced,” she prattled.
Noticing Bethany’s frosty look, Sophie blinked.
“You think I stole him? God, no. His wife left *him*—three years ago. Took their little girl. He was a wreck. Drank himself silly. Mum told me not to marry him, but… he’s kind. Quit the booze, too. Handy as well—if you ever need anything fixed…”
“Pie’s too sweet,” Bethany cut in.
“Yeah, I know. Teach me to cook? I’m a hairdresser—I could do your hair. A short cut’d suit you. Your face is—”
“No,” Bethany said sharply.
Sophie left.
Bethany studied herself in the mirror. *Maybe she’s right.*
Days later, she stopped Sophie in the courtyard. “Alright. Do my hair.”
“Brilliant! Weekend work?”
“Fine.”
“Don’t buy dye—I’ll bring everything.”
Saturday came. Bethany baked a pie. The doorbell rang just as she slid it into the oven.
Sophie burst in, bag in hand. “Ready?” She eyed the mirror in the hall. “This’ll do. Grab a chair?”
Bethany hesitated. “I’m not sure—”
“You *forgot*? Haircut, remember?”
“Oh. Right.”
“Something smells *good*,” Sophie said.
“Pie’s in.”
“Perfect. Colour first, then tea, then the chop.”
Bethany sat. The cape went on. Then—*snip*. Her braid fell to the floor.
“Trust me. Thin, grey hair—you won’t miss it.”
She surrendered, avoiding the mirror. Later, they ate pie, Bethany turbaned in a towel like some Victorian dowager.
Back in the chair, she shut her eyes. *What if Sophie had come sooner? Would Edward have stayed? Nonsense. He left because I grew old. This haircut’s a mistake.*
“Done,” Sophie announced.
Bethany barely recognised herself. Stylish. Younger.
“Brows next. Mascara. Lipstick—”
“*Now*?”
“Tomorrow,” Sophie laughed. “Like it?”
“More than I can say.”
They became friends. Evenings were spent on recipes, Sophie scribbling notes. Bethany hadn’t had friends since school—Edward had been enough. Now, Sophie filled the emptiness.
Bethany embraced her new look. No more avoiding mirrors. They went shopping—dresses, blouses, lipstick. Colleagues asked for her stylist. With Sophie’s blessing, she passed on her number.
“James adores me,” Sophie gushed. “Those meatballs of yours? He’s obsessed.” She paused. “Your husband… on business?”
Now, Bethany didn’t flinch. “He left.”
Spring arrived. Buds swelled. Bethany walked home in a dress, scarf fluttering. A car door slammed.
“Beth.”
She turned. Edward.
“I barely recognised you. You cut your hair?”
She studied him. His jacket hung loose. He’d aged.
“HereHe stood there, looking more like a stranger than the man she’d loved for thirty years, and she realized, with a quiet ache, that some doors—once closed—could never fully open again.
