Lydia Whitmore walked home in her unbuttoned wool coat, clutching a worn leather satchel filled with students’ essays. The evening stretched ahead of her—grading papers, red ink staining her fingers.
Not long ago, the trees had only budded, but now fresh leaves unfurled under the warm spring sun. Nature stirred, alive with promise. Soon, everything would bloom.
Passersby nodded respectfully as she passed. Lydia returned their greetings with a quiet smile. She had taught most of them—or their children—English and literature at the village school.
She was slender, still girlish in figure, small enough that from behind, she might be mistaken for someone much younger. And her face was pleasant enough. But who was there to marry here? So she lived alone in a modest cottage on a narrow lane, given to her as work housing when she first arrived from London twenty-five years ago.
The village was tiny—more like a hamlet than a proper town. Young professionals now got flats in red-brick terraces, but few came willingly. Most set their sights on Manchester or Edinburgh.
Yet Lydia had grown attached to her home and couldn’t bear to leave it. In her free time, she tended her garden. When she’d first arrived, she’d known nothing of planting, but life had taught her—how to light the stove, how to chop wood, how to pickle vegetables and bottle jams.
Life…
That spring had been much like this one. Two men had sat beneath her dormitory window, arguing over the spelling of a word. Both were wrong. She’d finally leaned out and corrected them.
One of them—James—hadn’t missed a beat. He asked her to proofread a letter. She did, correcting every error.
“Cheers,” he said, grinning. “Lucky we ran into you. What’s your name?”
“Lydia.”
“I’m James. You a teacher, then?”
“Or an educator, if you prefer,” she said primly.
James had reminded her of a bear—solid, warm. Safe. When he proposed, she hadn’t hesitated.
His mother hadn’t approved.
“What’ll you do with her, read books together? Bet she can’t even boil an egg. You’ll regret this,” she’d muttered after Lydia left.
She wasn’t wrong. Lydia could barely manage pasta without burning it. James’ mother took over the cooking, and Lydia tried to learn. James, in turn, dressed smarter, swore less. For a while, they were happy.
A year later, their son was born—quiet and steady, like his father. Too soon, perhaps. But later, with teaching, maternity leave would be complicated. Better now.
James’ mother needled him constantly—”should’ve married someone simpler”—never mind that Lydia was there. Lydia endured it, whispering her frustrations to James at night.
“Doesn’t matter if she loves you,” he’d murmur, kissing her. “I do.”
When little Thomas outgrew nappies, Lydia returned to work.
“Over my dead body,” her mother-in-law snapped. “I’ll mind him myself.”
Grateful, Lydia threw herself into grading late into the evenings. Her mother-in-law huffed, loud and pointed.
Maybe it wore on James. Maybe he just grew tired of trying. Either way, he started disappearing—his clothes rumpled, his words sharper. He stopped touching her.
His mother delivered the news with spite: James was seeing the checkout girl from the corner shop—brassy, loud, nothing like Lydia. She fed him tinned luxuries and asked nothing of him.
Lydia confronted him.
“Sorry,” he muttered, avoiding her eyes. “We’re just too different.”
She went to the school board, asked for a transfer—anywhere.
Mid-year, positions were scarce. But a village up north had an opening—their last teacher had fled. They offered housing. Lydia took it, packed Thomas’ things, and left.
The village was little more than a cluster of cottages. Her new home was a crumbling wooden house with a sagging shed. But she learned—chopped wood, dug the garden, hauled water from the well. Thomas chased the neighbour’s cats through the overgrown bushes.
James sent child support but never visited. He married the checkout girl. They had two daughters.
Thomas left for university, stayed with James at first. Complained about cramped quarters, bratty half-sisters. The new wife clashed with her mother-in-law—shouting matches loud enough to draw complaints. James moved his mother into his wife’s tiny flat, and she never visited again.
At first, Thomas came home for holidays. Every time he crossed the threshold, Lydia flinched—he looked so much like his father. The house felt smaller, darker. Now he was a lead engineer, holidaying in Spain or the south of France. Alive, well. Fine.
Across the street, builders were raising a new house where a ruin had stood. Lydia paused, watching a shirtless man fit window frames. Already tanned, muscles flexing as he worked.
“Like it?” he called, catching her stare.
“Yes.”
“That your place?” He nodded at her cottage. “Porch is leaning. Roof’ll leak soon.”
“It does when it rains hard,” she admitted.
“Want me to fix it?”
“How much?”
“We’ll sort something. Finishing up here in a week. I’ll stop by.”
Lydia flushed. He couldn’t be forty. What did he want with her? She’d be pension age soon. Though she looked younger—small women always did. Still…
She hurried inside, suddenly seeing her home anew—the sagging porch, the gate hanging off its hinge. She’d stepped over the broken board for years.
Two days later, he knocked. Took notes, measured.
“Saturday, then. Don’t worry about materials—I’ll find spare bits.” He nodded at the half-built house.
“I haven’t much money,” she admitted.
“Don’t rush it. Feed me instead.”
She set out lunch, an unfinished bottle of wine.
“Only if you join me,” Michael said, smiling.
Over the meal, he admitted he’d left his wife, joined a crew travelling for work.
“Tired of drifting. I’m a homebody. Let me stay while I fix the place—call it payment.”
Lydia hesitated. But the house needed repairs, and she couldn’t afford anyone else. And he seemed decent. So she agreed.
The neighbours noticed but said nothing. The work went quickly—fresh paint, a sturdy porch. For weeks, Lydia still caught herself steadying the gate out of habit.
She liked Michael, though she’d never admit it. “Old woman like you,” she scolded herself.
But it happened anyway. Lydia softened. During term, she pinned her hair up—now she wore it loose, even in a ponytail sometimes. Glowing, like her refurbished home.
At first, they hid it. Then they stopped. Walked by the river, picked berries. Some were happy for them. Others sneered.
“Plenty of women his age, and he picks a granny? No looks, no figure.”
Lydia ignored them. She didn’t try to change Michael—loved him as he was. They said late love burned brightest, and Lydia clung to every moment, knowing it would end.
Michael fixed roofs for the neighbours, took odd jobs. The school turned a blind eye—who else would teach here? The young all fled to cities.
Three years passed like a dream.
Then, one evening, she found him staring blankly at the wall. Her stomach dropped.
“What?” she whispered, fighting tears.
“Sorry, love. My wife called. My boy wants me home. Didn’t even recognise his voice.” Michael knelt, wrapped his arms around her waist. “It’s bad there. The kids are wild. I’ve got to go.”
Lydia didn’t cry. Packed his things—so many, after three years. He’d even bought a battered car. She walked him out.
“I’ll never forget you,” he said, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. “Call if you need anything.”
Then he was gone. Lydia locked the gate, collapsed onto the bed, and wept. Three days later, thinner and pale, she returned to work.
Everyone noticed—her dull eyes, the new grey in her hair. They didn’t ask. They knew.
She kept her phone close, waiting. He wouldn’t just forget her. But weeks passed. Months. “Must be happy, then,” she told herself. “Good.”
She didn’t know that Michael never made it home—that a drunk driver swerved into him fifteen miles from town. His old car crumpled. He was gone before the ambulance came.
Every day, Lydia traced the porch he’d built, the gate he’d fixed. For a while, she imagined the wood still held his warmth.
But time darkened the planks. Rain and snow washed away every trace.
When Thomas brought her to the city—his second child had arrived, his wife needed help—she went gladly. Who knows? Maybe one day, she’d bump into Michael on the street.
“Hello,” she’d say. Just that.
