Lydia Stevenson walked home in her unbuttoned wool coat, clutching a worn-out briefcase filled with her students’ notebooks. She’d spend the evening grading essays.
Just a little while ago, the trees had barely begun to bud—now, fresh young leaves were unfurling. The world was waking up under the bright, warm sun. Soon, everything would burst into bloom.
Passersby greeted Lydia with respect, and she nodded back with a quiet smile. She’d taught most of them—or their parents—English and literature at the local school.
She was still slender as a girl, small enough to be mistaken for one from behind. Pretty, too. But who was there to marry around here? So she lived alone in a little wooden house on a narrow street—service housing given to her when she’d arrived twenty-five years ago from a bigger city.
The town itself was tiny, more like a village. Young professionals nowadays got flats in brick buildings, but no one was eager to move here. They all raced off to London or Manchester.
Still, Lydia had grown attached to her home. In her free time, she tended her garden. Back when she’d first arrived, she couldn’t do a thing—now she chopped firewood, dug potatoes, pickled cabbages, made jams. Life had taught her everything.
Life…
It had been spring then, too. Two lads sat under her dorm window arguing over how to spell some word—both wrong. She’d ignored them until they started bickering. Fed up, she leaned out and corrected them.
One of them—quick on his feet—asked her to check his entire statement. Lydia stepped outside, corrected his mistakes.
“Thanks. Lucky we ran into you. What’s your name?”
“Lydia.”
“Victor. You a teacher?”
“Or educator, if you prefer,” she teased.
Victor reminded her of a bear—steady, reassuring. When he proposed, she said yes without hesitation.
His mother wasn’t pleased.
“What’ll you do with her, read books? Bet she can’t even cook. You’ll be miserable,” she muttered after Lydia left.
She wasn’t wrong. Lydia could barely boil pasta without burning it. She’d set a pot to boil, get lost in a book, and forget until the smell of smoke hit.
Victor’s mum, fearing her son would starve (or lose all her pans), took over the cooking. Lydia tried learning, Victor cleaned up his manners—for a while, they were happy.
A year later, their son James was born, serious and sturdy like his dad. Too soon, perhaps, but easier than leaving mid-term.
Victor’s mum nagged louder now, calling Lydia useless in front of both of them. Lydia bit her tongue, only confiding in Victor at night.
“Doesn’t matter. I love you,” he’d whisper, kissing her.
Lydia ached to return to work. When James was old enough for nursery, she suggested it.
“Over my dead body,” her mother-in-law snapped, quitting her job to babysit instead.
Lydia was grateful. She stayed up late grading papers while her mother-in-law sighed pointedly.
Maybe the criticism wore Victor down, maybe he just grew tired of trying—but soon, he vanished most nights. His clothes turned sloppy, his speech coarser. He stopped touching her altogether.
His mother announced his affair with vicious glee: a brassy shopgirl from the corner store, all bleached hair and thick eyeliner. She fed him black-market treats and asked nothing of him.
Lydia confronted Victor.
“Sorry—we’re too different,” he mumbled, avoiding her eyes.
She went to the Council, begged for a transfer. Mid-year, all posts were filled—except one. A new teacher had fled a crumbling village school up north. Housing included. Lydia took it, packed James, and left.
The village was little more than lanes and fields. Her “house” had a rotting woodshed and no plumbing. But Lydia learned to chop wood, till soil, haul water. James chased cats through the currant bushes, blissfully oblivious.
Victor paid child support but never visited. He married the shopgirl, had two daughters.
James left for university, crashing with Victor briefly before complaining about cramped quarters and bratty stepsisters. Victor’s wife clashed with his mum—neighbours banged walls during their rows—until the old woman was banished to a dingy flat.
James visited Lydia on holidays. Each time he crossed the threshold, her breath caught—he looked so like his father. Eventually, he became a lead engineer, vacationing in Spain or at seaside resorts. Alive, well—good enough.
Across the street, builders raised a new house. Lydia paused, watching a tanned man in a vest slot window frames into place.
“Like it?” he called, spotting her.
“Yes.”
“That your place? Porch is sagging—roof’ll leak next storm.”
“It already does,” she admitted.
“Want me to fix it?”
“How much?”
“We’ll sort it. Finishing this job soon—I’ll drop by, see what needs doing.”
Lydia flushed. He couldn’t be forty. What’d he want with her? She’d be pension age soon. But—small dogs stay puppy-faced forever.
She hurried inside, suddenly noticing broken steps, a gate hanging by one hinge. She’d grown so used to them.
Two days later, he returned, jotting notes like a foreman.
“Materials won’t be a problem,” he said, nodding at the new build’s leftovers.
“I can’t pay much.”
“Don’t rush me. Just feed me decently.”
She set out lunch, an unfinished wine bottle.
“Only if you join,” Michael smiled.
Over the meal, he admitted he’d left his wife, joined this crew drifting between jobs.
“Sick of bouncing around. I’m a homebody. Let me board here while I work—that’ll cover costs.”
Lydia hesitated. But the house needed repairs, and she had nothing worth stealing. Cheap labour was a steal.
Neighbours gawked but asked no questions. Soon, the house glowed with fresh paint, a sturdy porch. Lydia still caught herself steadying the gate out of habit.
She liked Michael—though she’d never admit it. “Old fool,” she scolded herself.
Yet somehow, they slipped into companionship. She wore her hair down more, glowing like the refurbished walls.
They hid nothing by summer—strolling by the river, berry-picking. Some envied:
“Plenty of proper widows about, and he picks that hag?”
Lydia ignored them. She never tried to “fix” Michael—loved him as he was. Late love burns fierce as autumn’s last blaze, each day precious. She knew it wouldn’t last.
Michael patched neighbours’ roofs, took steady work. The school turned a blind eye—no one else would teach here anyway.
Three years slipped by like one.
Then, one afternoon, she found him staring at the wall. Her stomach lurched.
“What?” she whispered, begging her voice not to crack.
“Sorry, love. My wife kept calling. My boy—I barely recognised his voice—begged me home. Kids running wild there.” He slid to his knees, burying his face in her apron. “I don’t want to go.”
She packed his things silently, watching him load the secondhand car he’d bought.
“I’ll never forget you,” he said, tucking a loose strand behind her ear. “Call if anything breaks. Though it shouldn’t.”
The gate clicked shut. She collapsed on the bed, sobbing. Three days later, gaunt and grey, she returned to school.
Everyone noticed—the light gone from her eyes, new wrinkles, sudden silver streaks. No one asked. They knew.
She kept her phone close, waiting. He couldn’t just forget her. But months passed. “Must be happy, then. Good,” she lied to herself.
She never learned that Michael’s car had collided with a drunk driver’s SUV fifteen miles from town. His rustbucket crumpled like paper. He died before the ambulance came.
Every evening, Lydia traced the porch boards he’d repaired, imagining they still held his warmth.
Years faded the wood, blending old and new.
When James fetched her to help with his new baby, she went gladly. Who knew? Maybe one day, she’d bump into Michael on some street, smile, and say—
“Hello.”
