Sarah had just slipped into her favourite summer dress, dabbed a hint of lipstick on her thin lips, and given herself a stern once-over in the mirror. “Maybe I should dye my hair?” With a sigh, she grabbed her handbag and left the flat.
Outside, the first proper summer heat had settled over London. The sun blazed, the grass glowed impossibly green, and fluffy white clouds drifted lazily across the blue sky. Finally—after a May and half of June that had been nothing but drizzle and biting winds.
Sarah often strolled through the small park opposite her block of flats when she wasn’t running errands. Hardly a park at all, really—just a patch of lawn hemmed in by neatly trimmed hedges, crisscrossed with tile paths and dotted with benches. She’d walk the paths, then sit for a while by the statue of Queen Victoria outside the university. The benches there had proper backs, much nicer than the rickety things elsewhere.
She tilted her face up, letting sunlight filter through the leaves. A little blonde girl, no older than four, with two ridiculously perfect pigtails, shrieked with delight as she chased pigeons. Her mother sat on the next bench, eyes glued to her phone.
A man in beige trousers and a navy jumper settled onto the bench opposite Sarah and watched the girl too. Eventually, her mother tucked her phone away and called her off. With no more entertainment, Sarah’s gaze drifted to the stranger. He caught her eye, stood, and walked over.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked, sitting a polite distance away. “I’ve seen you here often. Do you live nearby?”
*Oh, here we go. Old man trying his luck*, Sarah thought, but she didn’t answer.
Unfazed, he carried on. “I live just over there. Seen you from my balcony. Went to university here, worked here, never left.”
“You a professor?” she asked, curiosity getting the better of her.
“Retired. Years ago.” Sarah nodded, silent.
“Lovely weather at last,” he said. “Widowed? Always see you alone.”
*Persistent, isn’t he? Definitely trying his luck.*
Still, she was tired of silence. It wasn’t like her sofa had much to say.
“Widowed now. Divorced first. Then he passed.” The words spilled out before she could stop them.
“My wife died two years back.” He looked up at the sky, as if searching for her there.
The conversation meandered to children and grandchildren. Sarah learned his son lived abroad, his daughter in Manchester. When his wife was alive, the whole family would cram around the table—chaotic and crowded. Alone now, he’d refused to move in with them. Didn’t want to be a bother.
“You’re very well-kept,” Sarah remarked. “Thought you lived with one of them.”
“I manage fine. It’s not rocket science, just willpower.”
“Best be off,” she said, rising. “My show’s about to start.”
Truth was, she didn’t even own a telly. But the last thing she needed was him quizzing her about EastEnders. To her relief, he stood too.
“Prefer books myself.”
“Oh, me too!” Sarah brightened. “Though my eyes aren’t what they were. Need large print now.”
“I’ve plenty of those. Fancy me bringing you one next time? Got a whole library. If you trust my taste, that is.”
Sarah shrugged, said goodbye.
*Dream on, old boy. Next time, indeed.*
Yet all evening, she replayed the conversation. Next day, she dressed carefully and returned to the park. He was already there, waiting on their bench, a book in a carrier bag beside him. When he spotted her, he stood, beaming. Her heart tripped. So did her smile.
Soon, those walks became her favourite part of the day. She’d fuss over her outfit, reapply her lipstick, hurry downstairs. Then, one golden afternoon, they admitted time wasn’t on their side—and agreed not to waste it. Sarah moved into Edward’s flat. Spacious, airy, far nicer than hers.
After that, they were inseparable. Rain or shine, they strolled, shopped, even caught the occasional matinee. Evenings were for reading together. At first, Sarah braced for gossip—*Lost her marbles, playing housekeeper to some stranger at her age!*
But Edward could do more than boil an egg. He cooked, cleaned, gardened. They shared everything. Years passed, and she couldn’t imagine life without him. Never thought she’d find such peace so late.
“Sarah,” he said one evening. “Should make an honest woman of you. Bit improper, this.”
“Oh, don’t be daft,” she laughed. “Who’d take us seriously? What if the kids object?”
“Kids? When did yours last ask how you ought to live? Mine didn’t either. We won’t ask theirs.”
“Suppose not,” she murmured.
Still, she stalled. Whenever Edward brought up marriage, Sarah hedged.
“Sandy’s falling out of our hourglass, love. Joints creaking, and you want a white dress?”
Then her daughter rang.
“Mum, you’re still with that Edward? Not coming back?” A pause. “Tom’s not getting on with my new chap. Thought he could stay in your flat? Lovely girlfriend. You wouldn’t mind?”
Emily had divorced Tom’s father years ago. Now the boy was at uni, and she’d remarried. Naturally, the lad clashed with stepdad.
“Course he can stay,” Sarah said. “Place shouldn’t sit empty.”
“He’ll move in tomorrow, then?”
A year later, Edward collapsed while vacuuming. The paramedics said stroke.
In hospital, his eyes pleaded.
“Wouldn’t leave you,” she whispered. “We’ll manage.”
And they did. She bathed him, fed him, read to him. Sometimes, she’d take him to their bench, his steps slow and careful. But he faded. One rainy night, he was gone.
After the funeral, Edward’s daughter rounded on her.
“You did this. Love at your age? After his flat, were you?”
“Claire, stop,” his son cut in. “Dad was happy. Thank you, Sarah. But… you weren’t married. You’ll need to leave.”
She looked around the home she’d tended for years. Her curtains hung there. Her dishes filled the cupboard.
“Could I take this?” She pointed to the book he’d brought that first day, his portrait.
“Take it.”
Back in her flat, Tom glowered. She overheard him grumble to his girlfriend.
“Thought we’d have the place to ourselves. Now it’s gran’s rules. She glared when I walked out in my boxers!”
*Old? I’m sixty-five!*
She rang Emily.
“Could I stay with you?”
“Mum, I’ve just started living! Tom’s got his degree, I’ve remarried. And you just… trailed after some man? Why didn’t you wed him? They couldn’t have turfed you out then. Me take you in? Honestly.”
“It’s *my* flat, Emily.”
Silence.
A solicitor confirmed no one could evict her. But court? Against her own grandson?
Tom left, slamming the door on his way out.
Sarah traced Edward’s photo. “Our children, love. Yours cast me out. Mine… Well.”
The lonely days returned. She’d sit on their bench, remembering. Sometimes, he visited her dreams. Later, she’d shoo him off.
“Not yet, Edward. Too soon.”
It’s lovely when couples go together—no long goodbye, no wearying the young. But usually, one lingers. Strong at first, helping, needed. Then, one day, they’re just… in the way.
Nursing homes, if they’re lucky. Or worse—dying alone, hearts cracked from neglect.
