Finding New Strength

**A Second Wind**

Stephen wasn’t handsome like Cary Grant. He worked as a simple engineer at a factory that built excavators. He didn’t drink—well, maybe on holidays. Didn’t smoke. Married for twenty-two years, he’d never once glanced at another woman.

His daughter had married and moved to Edinburgh with her husband. No grandchildren yet, but Stephen wasn’t troubled. Children meant responsibility, noise, and toys scattered underfoot. He was used to quiet evenings with the newspaper in front of the telly. What was the rush? He’d have time for grandchildren.

His wife, Margaret, was everything one could ask for—pleasant-looking, well-kept, the house always cosy and clean, dinner always ready, and on special occasions, homemade cake and beef Wellington on the table. Life, by all measures, had turned out well.

He drove home from work, squinting against the low sun, looking forward to a hearty meal and a night in front of the telly.

Stephen stepped into the flat, kicked off his shoes in the hall, and listened. Usually, Margaret would poke her head out of the kitchen and say dinner was nearly ready. But tonight, he heard nothing. A strange unease crept into his chest. He walked further in. Margaret stood by the wardrobe, its doors flung open, pulling dresses off hangers and tossing them onto the sofa, where an open suitcase lay.

“Where are you going? Off to see our daughter?” Stephen asked. “Is she expecting?”

Margaret ignored him, folding the dresses into the suitcase, which bulged dangerously.

“Have you gone deaf? I’m asking where you’re off to!” Stephen’s patience was fraying.

Margaret sighed, shoving down the contents, struggling with the zip.

“Instead of standing there like a post, you could help,” she said, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face.

“I asked you a simple question. Where exactly are you going with all your clothes?”

“Where do you think? I’m leaving you,” she snapped.

“Why?” His left eyebrow twitched up.

“Because I’m sick of it. Are you going to help, or not?”

“Sick of what?” He strode over, pressed down on the suitcase, and yanked the zip shut.

“Everything. You. Cooking every night. Sitting at home staring at the telly.”

“You could’ve said something. We could’ve gone to the theatre, mixed things up.”

“To hear you snore through the performance? Every day’s the same, Stephen. Life’s just slipping by.” Her voice cracked with quiet desperation.

“That’s just how it is. Whether we stand still or move forward, life passes either way.”

“Stop being clever. I want to have something worth remembering at the end of it all. And what do I have now? Frying pans? Washing up? You buried in the papers?” Her voice rose sharply.

“You think I’ve nowhere to go but our daughter’s? I’m leaving for someone who sees me—as a woman, a queen. Someone who writes me poetry.” Her gaze drifted upwards, wistful.

“And what about me?” he asked, realisation dawning.

“You live as you always have. Only now you’ll cook and clean for yourself. You stopped noticing me. I cut my hair two months ago. Did you even see?” She scoffed, grabbed the suitcase, and rolled it out, leaving faint tracks on the pale carpet.

As she rustled into her coat, Stephen stared at those tracks. They might as well have been gouged into his chest.

Only when the front door slammed did he flinch, finally tearing his eyes away. She was really gone.

He wandered to the kitchen. A cold kettle sat on the hob. The fridge was nearly bare—some leek-and-potato soup, leftover sausages, a couple of tinned things, eggs, half a pint of milk. He shut it, appetite gone.

Back in the living room, he slumped onto the sofa where her suitcase had been. No desire for the paper or the telly. Those things had only mattered because Margaret was there—humming in the kitchen, ironing at the other end of the room, one eye on the telly. The hearth had been lit. Now it was cold.

He sighed, staring at the blank screen, trying to make sense of it. The silence was the worst—a vacuum where sound used to be. He grabbed his jacket, shoved on his shoes, and left, but the emptiness followed him.

Passing a café, he saw people laughing inside. He craved noise, anything to fill the hollow inside. Without thinking, he stepped in. Music played softly; chatter hummed. He ordered a brandy. The pain dulled. Another. Then another.

He didn’t remember getting home. Woke up in his clothes, head pounding, daylight stabbing his eyes. When he sat up, the room spun.

His phone said *Saturday*. He staggered to the loo, then back to bed.

Two hours later, he felt better. A shower revived him. Outside, the sun shone, cars hissed by. Near last night’s café, his stomach turned. He hurried on towards the riverside.

A woman approached, smiling. Stephen glanced around—no one else nearby. She was smiling at him.

“Lovely day for a walk, isn’t it?” she said.

“Yeah,” he mumbled.

She paused. Waiting.

“Sorry, do I know you? I’m… not quite myself today.”

“Something’s happened, hasn’t it?” Her eyes were kind.

“Yeah. Wife left me. For a poet. He writes her verses. I don’t.”

“You don’t look well. Let’s sit.” She scanned for a bench—all taken.

“Wife’s gone. And I had a skinful last night. Not that I usually drink.” He wiped his damp forehead.

“You should rest. Let me walk you home.”

On the way, she sighed about her own troubles—her son married and distant, her daughter’s fiancé insufferable.

“You didn’t recognise me. I work in accounts at the factory. But that’s good—means you were a proper family man.”

“If I’d been proper, she wouldn’t have left. Fancy a cuppa? The place is like a tomb now.”

“Not today.” She hesitated. “But I’ll walk you back.”

At his door, she nearly left, but he couldn’t bear the emptiness. She stayed.

Over tea, they talked. It felt familiar, as if he’d known her long ago.

“You’re leaving?” he asked when she rose.

“I ought to. You need rest.”

He asked for her number. Once she’d gone, he slept. Woke feeling lighter. Found a couple of sandwiches in the fridge, boiled the kettle, ate. Then he called her.

“Sorry—did I get your name? *Nancy*? That’s lovely. Nancy… Fancy meeting up? A walk, maybe?”

He put on a fresh shirt, humming as he buttoned it. Life had meaning again.

After work, he’d wait for Nancy by the factory gates, drive her home. More often, they dined out or at his place. She cooked; he talked, keeping her amused.

One evening, he said, “Why are we acting like kids? Going to films, walks. I’ve got space. Why stay with that son-in-law you hate? Move in with me.”

“Is that a proposal?”

He hesitated. “Yeah. Though I’m still married. But that’s just paperwork.”

She stayed. He adored her—or how she made him feel. A second wind. He’d rush home from work, eager for evenings chatting in the kitchen. In weeks, they’d spoken more than he and Margaret had in years.

Then one night, over supper, the door clicked.

*Margaret.*

“I thought you’d be wasting away. Instead, you’ve replaced me already.” The air crackled between them.

“She left first,” Nancy said coolly.

“And you are?” Margaret’s glare swept past her.

Stephen sat frozen. The kitchen was a tinderbox. Margaret—familiar, discarded. Nancy—his new breath.

“Cat got your tongue?” Margaret snapped.

“If you’d come back sooner, I’d have taken you in a heartbeat,” he said at last. “But Nancy… she made me believe I could be happy again. If you want half the flat, we’ll sell it.”

Margaret opened her mouth—then left without a word.

“Are you sure?” Nancy asked softly as the door shut.

Stephen took her hands. “She’s my past. You’re my future. If you’ll stay, I’ll make sure you never pack a suitcase.”

She rested her head on his shoulder. “And I’ll make sure you never regret it.”

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Finding New Strength