June 12th
“Won’t Leave You, Don’t Worry”
Emmeline put on a bright summer dress for the first time this year, dabbed a touch of lipstick on her thin lips, and gave herself a critical once-over in the mirror. “Maybe I should dye my hair?” She sighed and left her flat.
Outside, it was the first properly hot day of summer. The sun shone brilliantly, the grass was lush and green, and puffy white clouds drifted across a blue sky. Finally—all through May and half of June, it had been chilly, windy, and rainy.
Emmeline often strolled in the small park across from her building when she wasn’t running errands. It wasn’t much of a park—just a few neatly trimmed hedges enclosing patches of lawn, crisscrossed by tiled paths lined with benches. She’d walk the paths and sit for a while on one of the benches near the monument to William Shakespeare outside the university. These benches had proper backs, unlike the usual ones.
She sat down, tilting her face toward the sunlight filtering through the leaves. A four-year-old girl with blonde pigtails giggled as she chased pigeons. Her mother sat on the next bench, eyes glued to her phone.
A man in light trousers and a navy jumper sat down opposite Emmeline and watched the little girl too. Eventually, the mother tucked her phone into her handbag and led her daughter away. As the spectacle ended, Emmeline caught the man’s eye. He stood and walked over to her bench.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked, sitting nearby. “I’ve seen you often. Do you live around here?”
*Hitting on me. Bit old for that,* Emmeline thought but said nothing.
Undeterred, the man stayed. “I live in that building over there. Seen you from my balcony. Studied at the university, worked there, spent my whole life near it.”
“Were you a professor?” Emmeline asked, curiosity getting the better of her.
“Retired now. Been a while.”
She nodded silently.
“Lovely weather at last,” he remarked. “Are you widowed? You always walk alone.”
*Persistent, isn’t he? Definitely flirting.*
But she was tired of silence. It wasn’t as if she could talk to the furniture.
“Now I am. My husband and I split years ago. Then he passed.” The words surprised her.
“My wife died two years back,” the man said, glancing skyward as if searching for her there.
The conversation drifted to children and grandchildren. Emmeline learned his son lived abroad, his daughter in London. When his wife was alive, they’d gather around the big dining table—crowded, noisy. Alone now, he’d refused to move in with the kids, not wanting to intrude.
“You’re so well put-together—I thought you lived with family,” Emmeline said.
“I manage well enough. Not difficult if you bother.”
“I should go. My programme’s about to start.” She stood, though she didn’t watch telly—just wanted an excuse to leave. What if he asked about the show? But he stood too.
“Prefer books myself.”
“Me too,” Emmeline brightened. “Though my eyes aren’t what they were. Need large print now.”
“I’ve plenty of those. Fancy me bringing you one next time? Big library. I’ll pick something good if you’d like.”
She shrugged and left. *Dream on. ‘Next time’…*
Yet she thought of him all evening. The next day, she dressed carefully and returned to the park. He was already waiting on their bench, a book in a bag beside him. At the sight of her, he stood, beaming. Her heart raced; she couldn’t suppress a smile.
Soon, Emmeline eagerly awaited their daily walks, dressing up, even applying lipstick. One fine day, they realised time was short—why waste it apart? She moved into his spacious flat.
From then on, they were inseparable—strolling in all weathers, shopping, theatre trips, reading together at night. At first, Emmeline worried about gossip. *Lost her mind, playing housekeeper for some old bloke.*
But Alfred could cook, clean, mend anything. They did everything together. Within years, she couldn’t imagine life without him. Never thought she’d find peace and joy so late.
“Emmie, we ought to make it official. Bit odd, living like this,” Alfred said one day.
“Don’t be daft. Who’d take us seriously? What if the kids object?”
“Kids… When did your daughter ask *your* permission to live her life? Mine didn’t either. We won’t ask theirs.”
“Suppose not,” she murmured.
Alfred kept bringing it up, but Emmeline stalled.
“Grit in our joints, dust in our hair, and you want a registry office? Ridiculous,” she’d laugh.
Then her daughter rang.
“Mum, still at Alfred’s? Not coming back? Things are tense between Daniel and my husband. Maybe he could stay at yours for a bit? Got a girlfriend—nice girl. You don’t mind, do you?”
Helen had divorced Daniel’s father when the boy was eight. Now he was at uni. A year ago, she’d remarried. Daniel clashed with his stepdad.
“Course he can stay. No point it sitting empty. Not getting married, is he?”
“Mum, eventually, sure. But couples live together first nowadays. He’ll move in tomorrow?”
Emmeline agreed. What else could she do? Her own grandson.
A year later, she was dusting while Alfred vacuumed. He bent to unplug it—then collapsed. Muttering, unable to rise. The paramedic’s verdict: stroke.
In hospital, his pleading eyes met hers.
“Won’t leave you, don’t fret. I’ll help. You’ll be home soon. Should we call the children?”
His eyes widened in panic. She understood.
“Fine. No need to trouble them.”
And they managed. Emmeline cared for him as he weakened—feeding, washing, reading aloud. Sometimes she took him to the park, his shaky steps leaning on her arm. But he worsened. One rainy night, he died.
After weeping quietly, she called his children. They came for the funeral.
“You did this to him. Love at your age? Nowhere to live? After his flat?” his daughter snapped, pacing.
“Liz, stop. Dad was happy with her,” his son cut in. “Thank you, Emmeline… but you weren’t married. You’ll need to leave. Hope you’ve somewhere to go.”
She scanned the flat—her home for years. New curtains, her dishes…
“Can I keep this?” She pointed to their first book together, his portrait.
“Take them.”
She packed her things and returned home. Her grandson’s scowl at the door said it all. Overheard later:
“Your gran staying forever? So old. Gave me such a look when I wore shorts, wanted the floor to swallow me.”
*Old? I’m only sixty-five!*
She rang Helen.
“Mum, I’ve just started living. Daniel’s grown, I’ve remarried. And now you? Why didn’t you secure your future? Marry him? They couldn’t have thrown you out. Want me to take you in? How’d that even work?”
“The flat’s *mine*! Or should I go to a home? With a living daughter?”
Silence.
A solicitor confirmed her rights—no one could evict her. Best settle with Daniel. If not, court… or try to swap the tiny flat.
“Court? Sue my own grandson?”
Daniel sulked, ignoring her. Finally, she gave them a choice: coexist politely or leave.
The girlfriend left for student housing. Next day, Daniel did too, hurling insults.
Emmeline bit her tongue. He was young; this flat was hers and her late husband’s. If they wouldn’t live civilly, let them go. Relieved it hadn’t gone to court.
“Well, Alfred… Your children tossed me out, mine… Miss you.” His photo’s faint smile offered no answers.
Lonely days returned. She’d sit on their bench, remembering. Sometimes he visited her dreams—chatting away, though she’d forget his words by morning. Eventually, she shooed him off.
“Go. Don’t rush me—it’s not time yet.”
Best when couples who’ve weathered life’s storms depart together, or close, before frailty wears out their welcome. But often, one’s left—self-sufficient until they’re not, then a burden.
Illness, quirks, neediness—none endear the elderly. Many end up in homes, resented by kin. At worst, they die heartbroken, unwanted.
I won’t let that be me. Learned my lesson—too late.
