If only he’d known how it would all turn out…
The bus jolted over potholes, the driver muttering curses as he swerved around waterlogged craters, occasionally veering into the oncoming lane. Not many passengers at this hour—just the usual workday crowd.
Henry stared out the window at the grimy, melting snow. Not long now before it vanished entirely, and then summer would be just around the corner. Another bump sent the bus lurching, and the driver let out another colourful string of expletives.
“Bloody roads’ll shake the wheels right off.”
Finally, the cemetery gates came into view, rows of headstones stretching beyond.
Every time Henry came here, that same heavy feeling settled over him—the inevitability of it all, the fleeting nature of life. The thought that one day he’d rest here too made him uneasy. He didn’t visit out of longing, just obligation. That’s how it was—certain dates demanded you pay respects. Guilt pricked at him for the thought, and he sighed loudly.
The bus shuddered to a halt at the gates. The doors wheezed open, and passengers stretched their legs before heading toward the rows of plastic flowers lined up by the fence. Henry followed slowly, scanning for real blooms. The garish wax-coated petals made his eyes ache. Near the end, he spotted a woman with a bucket of red carnations.
He bought four and stepped through the gates. The paths were slick with puddles. He tried to skirt them, but even the snow along the edges was sodden. Too late, he regretted wearing his old winter boots.
He walked nearly to the treeline before turning left. His wife’s grave was easy to spot—still marked by a wooden cross. *Should get a proper headstone. Or maybe wait? Our son could do one for both of us later.* Most of the temporary crosses nearby were gone now. He scanned the sea of graves. So many new ones since his last visit in autumn.
Stepping over the low iron fence, he planted his feet in the mush, packing it down. Too late—his socks were damp.
“Hello, Margaret.”
From the faded photo in its frame by the cross, his wife smiled back at him. He loved that picture. It was how he remembered her, though here she was only thirty-six.
He recalled that birthday. He’d dashed out early for flowers, and by the time he returned, she’d woken and dressed in a new frock. He’d given her gold earrings. She’d put them on right away, beaming, and he’d snapped the photo. Felt like yesterday.
“Happy birthday. You’d have been fifty-six today.” Henry fumbled for a spot to place the carnations.
The grave was already studded with plastic flowers—still bright, as if placed just the day before.
He bent down, plucked a single yellow sprig from the snow near the cross, and stuck it into the slush at the foot of the grave. In its place, he arranged the carnations. The frozen earth wouldn’t take the stems, and the snow would melt soon—they’d topple anyway. They looked humble next to the gaudy artificial blooms, but at least they were alive.
“Miss you. Can’t come here often, I’m afraid. Don’t be angry with me. I’m the one who should be here, not you. But life had other ideas.”
He talked for a while, sharing news, staring at the photo until his toes went numb. Every so often, a crow’s caw broke the silence—only deepening the gloom.
“Better go, love. Wore these old boots and now my feet are soaked. No one to scold me for it anymore. I’ll come back after Easter, when it’s dry. Spruce the place up, bring a fresh photo—same one. You look too lovely here. Forgive me for everything.” He sighed, stepped back over the fence, and walked toward the exit without looking back.
A few people already waited at the bus stop. By the time he finally boarded, he could barely feel his toes.
He barely made it home. Kicked off the soaked boots and socks, put the kettle on, and gulped down two mugs of tea with honey. Pulled on dry woolly socks, flicked on the telly, and collapsed onto the sofa. Some film was playing. The tea made him drowsy, and soon he was nodding off…
***
Emily had started at their construction site fresh out of college. Young, bright-eyed, freckled nose, and a smile like spring sunshine breaking through clouds. Henry couldn’t help admiring her. He had a wife, a son in primary school—yet here he was, unable to look away. And what was he supposed to do? She kept crossing his path. Hardly his fault, really.
One evening, just before Christmas, they met at the bus stop. Emily hunched into her coat collar, streetlights twinkling in her wide eyes. Henry stole glances. When the bus arrived, he jostled in after her and slid into the seat beside her.
“Evening, Emily. Heading home?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Same.” He paused. “Tree up yet?”
“Not yet. Dad always got a real one. Used to lie on the balcony till Christmas Eve—then we’d all decorate it together. The smell! Made the whole flat feel like Christmas.”
“But it *is* Christmas Eve. Got a real one waiting?”
She laughed—light, bright. Henry was enchanted.
“Parents live miles away. Mine’s artificial. Got the box ready. I’ll put it up tonight, string the tinsel, hang the sweets—just like Mum used to. Then tea and admiring it.” She grinned.
Henry could picture it: the cosy flat, the tree, Emily flushed as she reached for the top branches… the kettle whistling in the kitchen…
“Mind if I join you?” The words slipped out before he could stop them.
“What?”
“Help with the tree. Then tea. Bit cheeky, I know.”
What must she think of him? He hurried on:
“Just—the way you said it, about the tea, the tree… Mine’s been up two weeks. Wife and son couldn’t wait. Feels like I’ve missed the fun. Thought it’d be nice to—”
“Alright.” She cut him off, voice soft as she met his gaze. “Come on, then.”
He assembled the tree, they strung baubles and giggled like old friends. Felt like he’d known her forever—and she seemed at ease too. They drank tea… and then he left, though every fibre begged him to stay.
New Year’s Eve, he went back. Couldn’t recall what lie he’d fed Margaret—actually, he remembered perfectly. The way she’d looked at him, like she *knew*. But he couldn’t help himself. Drawn to Emily like a moth to a flame, no will to resist. Didn’t *want* to resist, if he was honest.
Soon, he was a regular visitor. Emily never asked questions, though sometimes he caught sadness in her eyes—the same sadness he saw in Margaret’s when he came home.
One evening, he marched home determined to confess. Couldn’t keep living the lie. Knew Margaret would cry, shout. Fine. So long as she didn’t bar him from their son. He pushed open the door—and she rushed to him, tear-streaked.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, surprised she’d guessed.
Perhaps it was for the best.
Margaret choked out that his mum had been rushed to hospital—critical condition. Suddenly, his confession could wait.
Then came the decision to move his mother in. She couldn’t live alone. Margaret agreed without hesitation, though the burden of care would fall squarely on her.
Now Henry couldn’t leave, couldn’t abandon his mum to Margaret. They hired a carer—until Margaret came home early one day to find her drunk. Fired on the spot.
No more risks. No strangers. Margaret quit her job to care for her mother-in-law full-time.
Henry went to Emily to say goodbye. Apologised for leading her on, for not wanting to wreck her life—or walk out on Margaret now. Emily was young; she should marry, have kids, not waste time on a married man.
In the hallway, she hugged him tight. They stood like that a long while before she pushed him away.
He walked home cursing himself—coward, worthless. At work, they exchanged stiff nods, averted eyes. Then one day, he saw her laughing with a young intern—glasses, handsome. Jealousy twisted his gut. For days, he wandered like a ghost. Soon after, Emily married the glasses-wearing bloke.
His mother died three years later, just before New Year’s. After the funeral, Margaret took a month to rest—then returned to work. The medical check-up found a tumour. Then came the whirlwind: surgery, chemo, more surgery, more chemo…
One evening at the bus stop, he ran into Emily.
“You look awful. Tired, or is it bad?” she asked, worry in her eyes.
“First Mum, now Margaret. All my fault. That day I meantAnd there he stood alone with his guilt, watching the last autumn leaves fall, wondering if forgiveness ever came with time.
