Katherine strolled leisurely towards the supermarket, watching the flurry of activity around her—especially the men, rushing about in anticipation of the next day’s celebration. She’d always loved Mother’s Day, back when her husband was alive. He’d bring her flowers, and they’d make a little occasion of it. But it had been years since she’d had anyone to share it with.
At fifty-eight, after seeing the messy relationships of her friends, she wasn’t keen on starting over.
“All the decent men are long taken, firmly married. And I’ve no interest in settling for just anyone. Too much hassle. Sure, it gets lonely sometimes, but the kids and grandkids visit,” she’d tell her best friend, Emma, over tea at their usual café. “Honestly, love, I’ve grown used to life on my own. Don’t fancy changing it now.”
Emma, happily married to a dependable man, always felt a pang for Katherine—such a good woman, widowed too soon.
“Maybe you’ll still meet someone,” Emma would say, offering hope.
“Oh, come off it, Em. Where’d I find a good man at this point? Let’s talk about something else.” And they’d chatter for hours about their children, grandchildren, and all the little dramas of life.
Katherine had truly settled into solitude. The bustle of the supermarket tired her, but she needed groceries. It was early evening, that damp, drizzly sort of spring weather where the snow clung wetly to everything. Her son had popped by earlier with flowers.
“Mum, here—happy Mother’s Day. Won’t make it tomorrow, we’ve got plans at the cottage with friends… You’re welcome to join, of course.”
“Thanks, love, but I’d rather stay in. Bit of a headache coming on, spring allergies and all,” she’d replied politely.
Lost in thought, she wandered through the supermarket, picking up a few things before joining the long queue at the till. She watched the last-minute shoppers with mild amusement.
“Suddenly, all these men remember they’ve got wives and mothers,” she mused, eyeing the tulips and daffodils in their arms. “Lucky them—only one day a year they have to fuss. Women do it all the time—shopping, cooking, picking the right outfit…”
Then she caught a whiff of expensive cologne from the man ahead of her. Tall, greying, pushing a trolley piled high with groceries.
“Bet he’s handsome, all dressed up like that,” she thought, stealing glances at his profile.
He was on the phone, answering in short, distracted bursts. “Yes, got it. That too. Be home soon.”
“Talking to his wife, no doubt,” she figured.
As he went to slip his phone into his pocket, it slipped from his fingers. Without thinking, Katherine lunged forward, catching it just before it hit the tiled floor.
He spun around, and the look he gave her sent a jolt straight through her.
“Bloody hell, not now—not at my age,” she thought, flustered.
“Thank you,” he said, taking the phone with a warm smile. “Now I owe you one.”
“Don’t mention it,” she replied.
He paid and hurried off with his trolley, presumably to his car.
“Well, that’s that,” she sighed, shaking her head at her own silliness.
But as she stepped out into the drizzle, there he was—waiting for her, hood up against the damp.
“Oliver,” he introduced himself.
“Katherine,” she said, pulse quickening.
“Really appreciate you saving my phone,” he said. “Fancy giving me your number?”
Almost without thinking, she recited it, smiling despite herself. He thanked her, then vanished into the swirl of traffic.
“What on earth was that?” she wondered, walking home in a daze.
Later, as she settled in for the evening—cosy in her jumper and socks, telly on—her phone rang.
“Evening, it’s Oliver. Mind if I pop round?”
Her heart leapt. “Of course,” she blurted, then immediately panicked. “Though—he did say he wouldn’t be alone.”
“Oh no. Bringing his wife to thank me? Some glamorous young thing, no doubt.”
She glanced down at her worn socks, groaning. “Should’ve changed. Put on some lipstick, at least.”
The doorbell chimed. She opened it—and nearly toppled over as a shaggy golden retriever barrelled into her.
“Goodness—steady on!” she laughed, bracing against the wall.
“Meet Charlie,” Oliver said, snow dusting his shoulders, a bouquet of red roses in hand. “Told you I wouldn’t be alone.”
“I thought you meant your wife,” she admitted.
“Ex-wife,” he corrected. “Ran off to Spain with some bloke half her age.”
“But all those groceries…?”
“For my mum. She gives me a list. And sometimes my sister—she’s got her hands full with the grandkids.”
She ushered them in, suddenly self-conscious. “Sorry for the state of me—wasn’t expecting company.”
Oliver stepped closer, taking her hands. “You look lovely,” he said softly. “Truth is, Katherine, today I realised you’re my last train home. And I’m damn glad I caught it.”
Her cheeks flushed. “Funny… I was thinking the same about you.”
They sat drinking tea, Charlie resting his head on Oliver’s knee, watching them with a doggy grin.
“Tomorrow, let’s go to that little café by the river. Celebrate properly,” he said.
She nodded. “Tonight’s just a rehearsal.”
Not long after, Katherine moved into Oliver’s countryside home—plenty of space for Charlie to roam. They host dinners now, Emma and her husband among their regular guests. And every year, without fail, they raise a glass on Mother’s Day. Together.
