For My Sake…

Margaret pressed the iron steadily across the board, sweat trickling down her temples and spine. The evening had brought little relief from the heat, and the iron’s warmth made it worse. She was nearly done when her mobile rang. It stopped briefly, then started again, grating on her nerves.

She set the iron aside and answered. The name on the screen startled her.

“Betty? Is that really you? What’s happened?”

“Who else would it be? I’m coming down—last-minute work trip. Ditched the hotel. Can I stay with you for two nights?”

“Of course. When do you arrive?” Margaret tensed, recalling her bare cupboards. She’d been living simply, barely cooking for herself.

“Tomorrow. I know it’s sudden, but plans changed. I’ll text the train details. Will you meet me?”

“I’ll be there,” Margaret promised, though she worried about taking yet another day off.

Betty reassured her, saying she’d stay two full evenings. The weight in Margaret’s chest eased.

“Don’t fuss. I know how you are. We’ll talk soon,” Betty said before hanging up.

Margaret finished the ironing, folding the linens neatly. She was glad to hear from her old friend—though she dreaded the questions. Betty would pry, and Margaret had finally made peace with solitude. Now she had to figure out what to feed her. She glanced at the wall clock. “I’ll pop to the shop before it closes. Tomorrow’s too busy. Fancy that—Betty’s coming.”

The fridge was nearly empty. She’d lost her appetite since the treatments. Changing quickly, she headed out, lost in thought about Betty.

They’d met in Year 7, when Betty transferred mid-term with her romantic, mysterious name. Later, they attended the same university. In their third year, Betty fell for a cadet, married him, and followed him to a distant posting, transferring to a correspondence course.

At first, they wrote letters. Then, as mobiles became common, they called. But life pulled them apart—birthdays, New Year’s, little else. Betty had two sons now, a handful.

Margaret married a year after graduation and conceived quickly. The birth was difficult; more children weren’t possible. Her daughter grew up, married a medic, and moved to his hometown just before finishing her own degree.

In the shop, Margaret fretted over the mess at home. “Who cares? It’s Betty, not the Queen.” She debated whether to lie about her husband’s “business trip” or his visit to their daughter. But Betty would see through it. She always did. “She’ll know the house smells of loneliness. Why hide it? I’m hardly the first wife traded for a younger model.”

She’d guessed long before he left. His sudden casual clothes—jeans and jumpers, suits only for meetings. The running shoes, the morning jogs (short-lived). While their daughter lived with them, they pretended. He “worked late,” only coming home to sleep. Margaret dreaded his arrivals—full from meals enjoyed elsewhere.

When their daughter left, pretence ended. She packed his pressed clothes into a suitcase herself. She wouldn’t give his new woman the satisfaction of thinking her negligent. Let him see what he’d lost. Would his new love keep a home like hers? Men valued comfort as they aged—passion never lasted. She’d hoped he’d return. He didn’t.

Then… during a routine check-up, they found it. Cancer eclipsed heartache. Surgery. Chemo. Each hospital visit felt like sentencing. But it held steady—no worse, no better.

Sometimes, she ached to tell him. Would he stay out of pity? No. Pity wasn’t love.

She lived quietly. No new friends. Walks in the park, nodding at familiar faces—pensioners, mums with prams.

“Lovely weather. Out for a stroll?”
“Where’s the little one? At Grandma’s?”
“Haven’t seen you lately.”

That was all.

The next evening, Margaret cooked after work, even mopping before leaving for the station. Exhausted, but no time to rest—Betty’s train was due.

The delayed train crept in. Margaret scanned the windows. Finally, passengers spilled out. She stayed by the stairs, searching. “What if I don’t recognise her?”

Then she saw Betty—fuller-faced, eyes darting—but unmistakable. Betty spotted her, and they pushed through the crowd, clutching each other.

“Let’s go,” Margaret said.

In the echoing subway, they talked over each other—fears of missing one another, the same questions. The stuffy bus made Margaret queasy. Betty studied her, but Margaret hadn’t the energy to pretend. Home at last, she collapsed on the sofa.

“Rest. I warned you not to fuss. Those smells are divine. I’ll shower, then we’ll talk.” Grateful, Margaret closed her eyes.

Betty emerged fresh, producing a bottle of wine. They drank. And Margaret confessed—her husband, the illness, the loneliness, the dread of scans…

“I’m sorry I didn’t call. How’ve you borne it?” Betty hugged her, and they wept together.

They stayed up late. Margaret lay awake, stirred by the talk. But it was good to share the hurt. Betty’s sympathy soothed her.

In the morning, Margaret left for work, leaving a note and keys. Betty rang midday—errands, she’d be late. That evening, they talked endlessly. Betty shared her troubles—her eldest at Sandhurst, itching for deployment; the younger glued to screens, exams looming…

“Twenty-six years, and he…” Betty sighed.

“Maybe I was already ill. Tired. No desire. He looked elsewhere,” Margaret admitted.

“Don’t defend him! Couldn’t he see? Leaving you like that—”

“It’s done.”

Betty eyed her. “What does he do now? Where?” Unsuspecting, Margaret told her.

The next evening, Margaret hurried home. Betty left tonight—so little time left.

“Feel up to dressing nicely?” Betty asked as she entered. “We’re dining out.”

“Why? Let’s stay in.”

“Too late. Table’s booked.”

“Fine. A dress, but no makeup. Who’s there to impress?”

“Your favourite one—where you feel confident. Can you manage?” Betty’s voice softened.

“For you.”

At the restaurant, Margaret saw him at once—Thomas, diminished, greyer. He rose, eyes fixed on her.

“You plotted this?” She halted. “That’s why you asked where he worked? You went to him?” She turned to leave, but Betty held her.

“For my sake. Hear him out.”

Margaret approached. Thomas pulled out her chair, watching her intently.

“I ordered for us. You look tired,” he said.

“Blame me. We talked till dawn. Pour the wine, then,” Betty commanded.

Thomas brightened, familiar again. Margaret’s heart ached at the sight.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, filling her glass. (Water for him—he was driving.)

“Would it have changed anything? Stayed out of pity, strayed as before? I couldn’t bear it.”

“Forgive me. I didn’t see it. Your friend told me.”

Margaret glared at Betty, who shrugged.

“I realised my mistake quickly. Too old to start anew.”

“Why not come back?” Margaret asked coolly.

“Would you have forgiven me?”

“I waited.”

“I didn’t know. Thought you wouldn’t.”

A young woman passed—short sundress, platform boots, bleached hair swaying.

“Remember sunbathing in March? Racing for the darkest tan, the highest heels? Now they hide from the sun,” Betty mused.

“Fashion,” Margaret said flatly.

“I should go. Need to fetch my things,” Betty announced.

“Now? I’ll see you off.”

“I’ll drive. Packing leftovers—no arguments.” Thomas left to arrange it.

Betty whispered, “I couldn’t watch you alone. He loves you. Listen to him. See how he suffers too? He’s been living in a borrowed cottage… For my sake.”

At home, Betty darted inside. “Packed earlier. Too many gifts for my boys—they’ll manage.”

At the station, goodbye was brief. The train waited.

“Get her home safe. And cherish her—or my boys and I will visit,” Betty teased.

“Bring them all next holiday,” Thomas said.

“Hold on, love. It’ll be alright. Forgive him. Together’s better. Not too late. Grandkids soon. Does Emily know? Good.” Betty hugged her tightly.

The train whistled. Betty climbed aboard, waving as it pulled away.

“Shall we?” Thomas asked.

“Where?”

“Home.”

“You’ll go back to the cottage?” Margaret met his eyes properly.

“Good friend you’ve got. She told me everything.”

“Is it far?”