“I won’t leave you, don’t be afraid.”
Margaret smoothed her floral summer dress, touched up her pale lips with a hint of colour, and gave herself a critical once-over in the mirror. “Maybe I should dye my hair,” she sighed before stepping out of her flat.
Outside, the first truly hot summer day had arrived. The sun blazed, the greenery shimmered, and fat white clouds drifted across a brilliant blue sky. Finally—after a chilly, wet May and half of June, the weather had turned.
Margaret often strolled through the small park across from her building when she wasn’t running errands. It wasn’t much of a park, really—just a few fenced-off lawns bordered by trimmed hedges, crisscrossed with tiled paths lined with benches. She’d walk the paths, then rest on one of the benches near the statue of King Alfred outside the university. These were proper benches, with backs, unlike the plain ones elsewhere.
She sat, tilting her face to the sunlight filtering through the leaves. A little girl of about four, her fair hair in braids, shrieked with delight as she chased pigeons. The girl’s mother sat on a nearby bench, absorbed in her phone.
A man in beige trousers and a navy jumper took a seat opposite Margaret and watched the girl too. Eventually, the mother tucked her phone away and led her daughter off. With nothing left to watch, Margaret’s gaze met the man’s. He stood and approached her bench.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked, sitting a polite distance away. “I’ve seen you around. Do you live nearby?”
*Here we go. Old, but still trying his luck,* Margaret thought, but she said nothing.
Unfazed, the man settled in. “I live in that building there. Seen you from my balcony. Studied at the uni, taught there—lived near it all my life.”
“You were a professor?” Margaret asked, curiosity getting the better of her.
“Once upon a time. Retired now.” She nodded, silent again.
“Lovely weather at last. You’re widowed, then? Always see you on your own.”
*Persistent, isn’t he? Definitely fishing,* she decided. But loneliness had worn her down—there was only so much talking one could do with furniture.
“Widowed now. My husband and I divorced years ago. Then he passed.” The words surprised even her as they slipped out.
“My wife died two years back,” the man said, lifting his face to the sky as if searching for her there.
The conversation drifted easily to children and grandchildren. Margaret learned that Edward’s son lived abroad, his daughter in London. When his wife was alive, they’d all gather around the big dining table, the house bursting with noise. Alone now, he’d refused to move in with his children—didn’t want to be a burden.
“You’re so well put together—I thought you lived with family,” Margaret offered.
“I manage fine. It’s not difficult if you put your mind to it.”
“I should go. My programme’s about to start,” she said, rising from the bench.
She didn’t actually watch telly—she just needed to get home. Worse, if this man turned out to be a soap opera fan, he might start quizzing her. But he stood too and said, “I prefer reading, myself.”
“So do I,” Margaret brightened. “Though my eyes aren’t what they were. Only large-print books these days.”
“I’ve plenty. Shall I bring one next time? Whole library at home. If you’d like, I’ll pick something for you.” She shrugged and said goodbye.
*Dream on. ‘Next time,’ indeed,* she thought on her way home.
Yet she spent the evening replaying their talk. The next day, she dressed carefully and returned to the park. He was already on their bench by the statue, a book beside him in a bag. When he spotted her, he stood with a warm smile. Her heart fluttered, and she couldn’t help smiling back.
Soon, Margaret found herself eagerly awaiting their walks, fussing over her appearance before each meet. One day, they realised time was short and decided not to waste it. She moved into Edward’s spacious flat—much roomier than hers.
From then on, they were inseparable. They walked in all weathers, shopped, visited the theatre, and read together in the evenings. At first, Margaret feared neighbours and friends would whisper—*lost her marbles, playing house with some old man in her twilight years.*
But Edward really could do everything: cooking, repairs, the lot. They shared the work. Within years, she couldn’t imagine life without him. Never thought she’d find peace and happiness so late.
“Margaret, we ought to make it official. Living like this isn’t proper,” Edward said one day.
“Don’t be daft. We’re fine as we are. Want to give folks a laugh? What if the children object?”
“They didn’t ask *us* how to live. We won’t ask them.”
“True, but still,” she wavered.
Time passed. Edward brought it up now and then, but Margaret kept putting it off.
“Sand’s slipping through the hourglass, joints creaking, and you want a registry office. Ridiculous,” she’d say, laughing.
Then her daughter, Helen, called, working her way around to the point.
“Mum, you’re still with your Edward, then? Not coming back? Paul and my husband don’t get on. Maybe he could stay in your flat for a bit? He’s got a girlfriend—lovely girl. That all right with you?”
Helen had divorced Paul’s father when the boy was eight. Now he was at uni, and Helen had remarried. The lad didn’t see eye to eye with his stepfather.
“Course he can. No sense leaving it empty. He’s not getting married yet?”
“Mum, *eventually*. But nobody waits for that these days. So he’ll move in tomorrow?”
Margaret agreed. What else could she do? He was her grandson.
A year later, she and Edward were cleaning when he bent to unplug the hoover—and collapsed. He groaned, unable to rise. The paramedics’ diagnosis was grim: a stroke.
In hospital, his eyes pleaded with her.
“I won’t leave you, don’t fret. I’ll be here. You’ll come home soon. We’ll manage.” She hesitated. “Should I call the children?”
His frightened look said it all.
“No, you’re right. No need to bother them.”
And they coped. Margaret cared for him as he weakened. His right side failed, speech gone. She read to him, fed him, bathed him. Sometimes she took him to the park, supporting his shuffling steps to their bench. But he worsened, and one rainy night, Edward died.
She wept, then called his children. They came for the funeral.
“You did this to him. Love at your age? Needed a roof over your head, did you?” His daughter paced, sneering.
“Sarah, enough,” his son cut in. “Dad was happy with her. Thank you, Margaret, for caring for him. But—you weren’t married. I hate to say it, but you’ll need to leave. I hope you’ve somewhere to go.”
She looked around the flat. After all these years, it felt like hers. The curtains she’d hung, her dishes… She sighed.
“Could I take this book? And his photo?” She pointed to the book he’d first given her.
“Take them.”
She packed her things and returned home. Her grandson’s face fell when he saw her. She understood—her return wasn’t welcome.
Once, she overheard Paul speaking to his girlfriend:
“Your gran’s staying *permanently*? So old—snores like a train. I walked out in shorts yesterday—she gave me this *look*.”
*Old? I’m only sixty-five!*
Margaret phoned Helen, explained the tension. Could she stay with her awhile?
“Mum, I’ve only just *started* living. Paul’s grown, I’ve remarried—and now you? What did you expect? Playing nurse to some man without securing your future? They’ve kicked you out! And now you want *me* to take you in? How’s that meant to work?”
“I own the flat! Or should I just be *homeless*?”
Silence.
A solicitor confirmed she couldn’t be evicted—better to reason with Paul. If not, court. Or sell, but with joint rooms, that was near impossible.
“Court?” Margaret shuddered. “Sue my own grandson?”
Paul scowled around the flat. Silence festered. Finally, she laid down terms: live civilly, or leave.
The girlfriend packed for her dorm. Next day, Paul followed, spitting venom.
Margaret nearly stopped him—but didn’t. He was young; life stretched before him. She and her late husband had earned this flat. If he couldn’t share it, he could go.
“See, Edward? This is what our children became. YoursAnd so, in the quiet of her flat, Margaret sat alone, listening to the echoes of a life that once was, knowing some stories simply end where they began—with no one left to hear them.
