If only I had known it would turn out like this…
The bus jolted over the potholes, lurching from side to side. The driver cursed under his breath as he swerved around waterlogged holes, even veering onto the opposite lane at times. The bus was nearly empty—midweek, after all.
William stared out the window at the blackened, half-melted snow. A little longer, and it would vanish entirely, summer just beyond the horizon. Another bump sent the bus rocking, and the driver muttered another colourful oath.
“At this rate, we’ll lose the wheels before long.”
At last, the cemetery fence came into view, rows of headstones stretching beyond it.
Every visit filled William with the same stifling sense of futility, of life’s fleeting nature. The thought that he, too, would someday rest here was unbearable. He came not out of longing, but obligation—certain dates demanded remembrance. Guilt twisted inside him at his own reluctance, and he exhaled sharply.
The bus halted before the iron gates. Passengers stepped out, stretching their legs before heading straight for the rows of artificial flowers lining the path. William followed slowly, searching for real ones. The waxy, garish blooms made his eyes ache. At the end stood a woman with a bucket of red carnations.
He bought four and stepped through the gates. The footpaths drowned in puddles. He picked his way carefully, though even the slushy snow at the edges soaked his old winter boots. Too late for regrets now.
Near the treeline, he turned left, finding his wife’s grave by the wooden cross. *Should get a proper stone*, he thought. *Or wait—maybe our son will handle it for us both later.* The temporary crosses had long been replaced around her. Rows of new graves dotted the earth since his last visit in autumn.
He stepped over the low fence, sinking into the wet snow. The cold seeped through his soles.
“Hello, Lydia.”
The photo in the frame by the cross showed her smiling. He loved that picture—remembered her just that way, though she was only thirty-six when it was taken.
Her birthday came to mind. That morning, he’d rushed out for flowers. When he returned, she was already up, wearing a new dress. He gave her gold earrings that day—she slipped them on instantly, beaming, and he’d caught the moment in a photograph. Like it was yesterday…
“Happy birthday. You’d have been fifty-six today.” He placed the carnations carefully.
The grave was crowded with plastic flowers, bright and unchanging as if placed there just yesterday.
He knelt, plucking one wilted yellow blossom from the snow near the cross and moving it to the foot of the grave. The carnations took its place. The ground was too hard for the stems—they’d fall soon enough. They looked humble against the gaudy plastic blooms. But at least they were alive.
“I miss you. But I can’t come here often. Forgive me. I deserved this place—not you. Life just… had other plans.”
He talked for a long while, sharing news, until his feet numbed completely. The crows’ calls punctured the silence, making the air heavier, lonelier.
“I’d best go, love. Wore these old boots—promised myself I wouldn’t. No one left to scold me now. I’ll come back after Easter, when it’s drier. Clean up properly, bring a new photo—same as this one. You’re too beautiful here. Forgive me, for everything.” He exhaled, stepped over the fence, and walked away without looking back.
A handful of people waited at the stop. When the bus finally arrived, he barely felt his toes.
Home was a blur. He yanked off the wet boots and socks, boiled the kettle, downed two cups of tea with honey. Pulled on dry wool socks, flicked on the telly, and collapsed onto the sofa. Some film played. The warmth lulled him toward sleep…
***
Sarah had joined their construction crew fresh out of college—young, bright-eyed, freckled, with a smile like spring sunshine. William couldn’t help but steal glances. Married, a son in primary school, yet he was drawn to her. What was he supposed to do? Look away?
Days before Christmas, they met at the bus stop. She huddled into her coat collar, streetlamps glinting in her wide eyes. He watched her sidelong. When the bus came, he nudged his way through the crowd, sitting beside her.
“Evening, Sarah. Heading home?” he asked, just to speak.
“Yes. You?”
“Same.” He hesitated. “Tree up yet?”
“Not yet. Dad always bought a real one. Left it on the balcony ’til the thirtieth, then we’d all decorate it together. The smell—oh, it made everything feel like Christmas.”
“Today’s the thirtieth. Got a real one waiting?”
She laughed, bright and clear. His chest tightened.
“My parents live miles away, and I’ve got a fake tree. I’ll set it up tonight, string the lights, hang the sweets—just like Mum used to. Then tea and admiring it.” She grinned again.
He pictured it—her flat, the tree, her cheeks flushed as she stretched to place a star… the kettle humming in the kitchen…
“Can I come? Help you decorate?” The words surprised even him.
“Why?”
“Could use the cheer. My wife and son put ours up weeks ago. Walked in, and there it was. Little lad couldn’t wait. Feels like something’s missing this year.”
She studied him, then nodded. “All right.”
He assembled the tree in minutes. They draped it in baubles and tinsel, laughing, nudging elbows. It felt like they’d known each other forever. The way she smiled—like she enjoyed his company too. They drank tea. And then he left, though every part of him resisted.
New Year’s Eve, he went back. Couldn’t recall what lie he’d fed Lydia—no, he remembered. The way she’d looked at him, *known*. But he couldn’t stop himself. Sarah pulled him like a tide, and he didn’t *want* to fight it.
Soon, he was visiting regularly. Sarah never asked questions. Sometimes, though, he’d catch sadness in her eyes—the same sadness he saw in Lydia’s when he returned home.
Once, walking home, he resolved to confess everything. Couldn’t live the lie anymore. Knew Lydia would cry, rage. Didn’t matter—just let him keep seeing his son. He stepped inside, and she rushed to him, tears streaming.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, though he braced for her knowing.
Maybe it was for the best.
His mother was in hospital, she said—critical condition. Suddenly, his confession didn’t matter.
Then his mother moved in. Couldn’t live alone. Lydia agreed—no hesitation—though the burden would fall on her. Now he couldn’t leave. They hired a carer. Until the day Lydia came home early and found the woman drunk. Fired her on the spot.
No more strangers. Lydia quit her job to care for his mother full-time.
William went to Sarah to end it. Apologised for stringing her along, said she deserved a real life, a family—not a married man.
In the hallway, she pressed against him. They stood like that until she pushed him away.
Walking home, he called himself every filthy name. At work, they exchanged stiff nods. Then one day, he saw her with a young intern—handsome, bespectacled. Jealousy nearly split his ribs. For days, he moved like a ghost. Soon after, Sarah married the bespectacled boy.
His mother died three years later, just before New Year’s. After the funeral, Lydia rested a month before returning to work. A routine check-up found a tumour. Then came surgery. Chemo. More surgery. More chemo.
At a bus stop one evening, he ran into Sarah.
“You look awful,” she said, frowning. “Is it that bad?”
“Mother first, now my wife. My fault—all of it. That day I meant to leave, tell Lydia everything, and *that’s* when Mum fell ill. Barely buried her, and then—” His voice cracked. “God’s punishing me. For loving you. For wanting to walk out.”
Her face paled.
“Then He punished me too,” she whispered.
“Why *you*?”
“For loving a married man. I can’t have children. My husband wanted them. He left me.” She turned away.
“I’m sorry,” was all he could say.
On the bus, they sat side by side, silent, lost in their own regrets.
Lydia, worn thin by the fight, barely rose now. Just shuffled to the loo and back. Faded to a shadow. He couldn’t meet her eyes. Why had *her* body paid for *his* sin?
“Anything you want? Just say the word.” He perched on her bed, cradling her frail hand—so small in his.
“Just sit with me,” she raspedHe stayed until dawn, holding her hand, wondering if they’d ever really known each other at all.
