The Last Carriage
Kathleen strolled unhurriedly toward the supermarket, watching the bustle around her—especially the men, frantic ahead of tomorrow’s Mother’s Day. She’d always loved this holiday, back when her husband would bring her flowers, and they’d make an effort to celebrate. But for years now, since his passing, she’d lived alone.
At fifty-eight, with the cautionary tales of her friends in mind, she had no desire to start over with someone new.
“All the decent men are taken, firmly married. And I won’t settle for just anyone—I don’t need the drama. It gets lonely, yes, but my children and grandchildren visit,” she’d say to her friend Margaret over tea at the café. “You know, Maggie, I’ve grown used to life without him. I don’t want to change a thing.”
Margaret, happily married to a devoted husband, pitied Kathleen—a good woman widowed too soon.
“Maybe you’ll still meet someone,” Margaret offered hopefully.
“Oh, don’t be silly, love. Where would I find a decent man at this stage? Let’s talk about something else,” Kathleen would deflect, and they’d chatter for hours about their families and the little dramas of life.
Kathleen truly was accustomed to solitude. But the noise and rush of the supermarket wearied her. Evening settled in, early spring clinging stubbornly to winter’s chill, with wet snowflakes sticking to her coat. Her son had stopped by earlier with a bouquet.
“Mum, here—early Mother’s Day flowers. I won’t make it tomorrow; we’re all gathering at the cottage… You’re welcome to join.”
“Thank you, love, but I’d rather stay in. My head’s been bothering me—spring weather, you know,” she’d declined politely.
Lost in thought, she entered the supermarket, grabbed a few items, and joined the queue. Around her, men scrambled for last-minute flowers—roses, daffodils—their faces pinched with urgency. It amused her.
“Men—flustered over one day a year. Women do this every week: shopping, cooking, juggling life.”
Then she caught it—a rich, woody cologne drifting from the man ahead of her. Tall, silver-haired, pushing a trolley piled high.
“Probably handsome too, with a scent like that,” she mused, watching him sidelong.
He held the trolley with one hand, his phone in the other, answering someone tersely.
“Yes, got it. Yes, that too. Be home soon.”
“Talking to his wife, no doubt.”
As he tried to pocket the phone, it slipped. Kathleen lunged, catching it just before it hit the tiled floor. He turned sharply, and the look he gave her sent a jolt through her chest.
“Bloody hell—sparks at my age?” She stood stunned.
“Thank you,” he said, taking the phone with a smile. “Now I owe you one.”
“Don’t mention it.”
He paid and wheeled his trolley away.
“Stupid to get flustered,” she chided herself, checking out.
Outside, she collided with him again—he’d waited, hood up against the snow.
“Edward,” he introduced himself.
“Kathleen.” Her pulse jumped.
“That phone—you saved it. Could I have your number?”
Almost hypnotized, she recited it. He thanked her, then vanished into the snowfall.
“What just happened?” she wondered, walking home.
Later, curled up with the telly, she barely heard her phone ring.
“Kathleen? It’s Edward. May I come over?” His deep voice nearly made her drop the phone.
“Y-yes, of course,” she blurted, then panicked. “But… I won’t be alone.”
“Neither will I.”
Her stomach sank. “His wife. Coming to thank me.”
She imagined her—polished, youthful. “Should’ve changed, put on lipstick…”
The doorbell rang. She opened it—and a shaggy golden retriever barreled into her.
“Steady there!” she laughed, catching herself.
“Meet Charlie,” Edward said, snow-dusted, holding red roses. “I did say I wouldn’t be alone.”
“I thought you meant your wife.”
“Ex-wife. Ran off to Spain with some bloke.”
“But the shopping…?”
“For my mum. She lives alone. And sometimes my sister—she’s got her hands full with grandkids.”
She ushered him in, mortified by her fleece socks and unbrushed hair. “Tea? I’ve got cherry cake.”
“Perfect.” He studied her. She fidgeted.
“Sorry for the state of me—wasn’t expecting company.”
Edward stepped closer, taking her hands. “You look lovely like this.” His voice softened. “Kathleen… today, I realized you’re my last chance. My last carriage on a departing train. And I’m so glad I caught it.”
Her breath hitched. “He’s mine too.”
They drank tea, Charlie nestled between them, his tail thumping.
“Tomorrow, we’ll celebrate properly—lunch at the pub,” Edward said. “Tonight’s just the rehearsal.”
Kathleen moved into Edward’s countryside home. Charlie has acres to roam. Now, they host dinners—Margaret and her husband, Edward’s old friends. And every Mother’s Day, without fail, they celebrate—together.
