Clara smoothed down her floral summer dress, dabbed a hint of lipstick on her thin lips, and gave herself a critical once-over in the mirror. “Maybe I should dye my hair?” She sighed and stepped out of her flat.
Outside, the first truly warm summer day had arrived. The sun shone brightly, trees swayed in the breeze, and puffy white clouds drifted across the blue sky. At last—after a dreary May and half of June filled with chilly winds and rain.
Clara often strolled in the small park across from her building when she wasn’t running errands. It wasn’t much of a park, just a few neatly trimmed lawns bordered by winding 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 benches had proper backs, unlike the plain ones elsewhere.
She sat, tilting her face to the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves. A four-year-old girl with blonde pigtails shrieked with delight as she chased pigeons. Her mother sat nearby, absorbed in her phone.
A man in beige trousers and a navy jumper settled on the bench opposite Clara, watching the little girl. Eventually, the mother tucked her phone away and led her daughter off. With nothing left to watch, Clara’s eyes met the stranger’s. He stood and approached her bench.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked, sitting a polite distance away. “I’ve seen you here often. Do you live nearby?”
*Here we go. Old but bold,* Clara thought, saying nothing.
Undeterred, the man continued, “I live in that building over there. Seen you from my balcony. Studied at the uni, worked there, stayed nearby my whole life.”
“Were you a lecturer?” Clara asked, curiosity winning over.
“Retired now. Been a while.” She nodded, silent.
“Lovely weather at last. Are you widowed? Always see you alone.”
*Persistent, isn’t he?*
But loneliness had worn her down. Talking to furniture was no substitute.
“Divorced, then widowed. My husband passed years after we split.” The words surprised her.
“My wife died two years ago.” He gazed up at the sky as if searching for her.
Conversation drifted to children and grandchildren. Clara learned his son lived abroad, his daughter in London. When his wife was alive, their home had been full of noise and laughter during family gatherings. Now alone, he’d refused to move in with his children, not wanting to burden them.
“You’re so well-kept—I thought one of them cared for you,” Clara remarked.
“I manage fine. It’s not difficult if you put your mind to it.”
“I should go. My series is about to start.” She stood, though she barely watched TV—just an excuse to leave.
But he rose too, saying he preferred books.
“So do I,” Clara brightened. “Though lately my eyes struggle—large print only now.”
“I’ve plenty. Fancy me bringing some next time? I’ve a whole library. If you trust my taste, that is.” She shrugged, said goodbye.
*Dream on. Next time…* she mused on the walk home.
Yet she spent the evening thinking of him. The next day, she dressed carefully and returned to the park. He was already waiting by the statue, a book in a bag beside him. Seeing her, he stood, beaming. Her heart fluttered, a smile lighting her face.
Soon, their meetings became the highlight of her days. She dressed with care, eager for their walks. One afternoon, realising time was short, they chose to stay together. Clara moved into his spacious flat, far roomier than hers.
From then on, they were inseparable—walking in all weathers, shopping, theatre trips, evenings reading side by side. At first, Clara feared gossip. *Lost her mind, playing housekeeper to some old man.*
But George was capable—cooking, cleaning—they shared everything. Within years, she couldn’t imagine life without him. She’d never expected such peace and happiness in her twilight years.
“Clara, we ought to make it official. Living in sin at our age,” George joked one day.
“Don’t be daft. What’ll the children say?”
“They didn’t ask our permission for their lives. We won’t ask for theirs.”
Still, she hesitated. George brought it up occasionally, but Clara stalled.
“Sandy as the beach, creaky as a floorboard, and you want a wedding? Ridiculous.”
Then her daughter, Emily, called.
“Mum, still at George’s? Any plans to come back? Things are tense between Tom and my husband. Maybe he could stay in your flat? He’s got a lovely girlfriend. You don’t mind, do you?”
Tom, her grandson, was twenty, studying at uni. Emily had divorced his father years ago, remarried last year. Now, Tom clashed with her new husband.
“Of course he can stay. No point leaving it empty.”
A year passed. One day, as Clara dusted and George vacuumed, he bent to switch it off—then collapsed. The paramedic’s diagnosis was grim: a stroke.
In hospital, George’s pleading eyes met hers.
“I won’t leave you, don’t fear. I’ll be here. You’ll come home soon. We’ll manage,” she soothed. “Should we tell the children?”
His panicked look said enough.
“No, you’re right. No need to trouble them. We’ll cope.”
And they did. Clara cared for George as his right side failed, his speech gone. She read to him, bathed him, helped him walk to their bench. But he worsened, and one rainy night, he died.
She wept, then called his children. His daughter, Elizabeth, lashed out at the funeral.
“You pushed him. Love at your age? After his flat? Disgusting.”
“Liz, stop. Dad was happy with her,” his son intervened. “Thank you, Clara. But since you weren’t married… you’ll need to leave.”
She scanned the flat—*hers* in every way but law. Curtains she’d hung, her dishes…
“May I keep this book? And his photo?” She pointed to their first shared read.
“Take them.”
She packed her things, returned home. Tom’s frown at her arrival said it all.
Overheard later: “Your gran’s staying for good? She glared at me in shorts like I’d offended the Queen.”
*Old? I’m sixty-five!*
Emily refused to take her in. “Mum, I’ve just started living again. Why didn’t you secure your future? Why not marry him?”
Clara sought a solicitor. The flat was *hers*—no one could evict her. But court against her grandson? Unthinkable.
Tom and his girlfriend left after Clara stood firm. No trial, but no joy either.
Days dragged, lonely again. She sat on *their* bench, remembering. George visited her dreams. Sometimes she’d shoo him away: “Not yet. It’s too soon.”
The lesson? Love’s late bloom can be sweet, but life’s end often leaves one behind. Family, for all its promises, sometimes fails when age brings need. The unlucky ones face neglect, nursing homes, or worse—broken hearts in silent rooms. The fortunate depart together, spared the slow unraveling. But such luck is rare. Most learn too late: in old age, love alone isn’t enough—paper matters.
