“I Won’t Leave You, Don’t Worry”
Penelope tugged at the hem of her floral summer dress, dabbed a hint of lipstick on her thin lips, and inspected herself in the mirror. “Maybe I should dye my hair?” she mused before stepping out of her flat.
The first proper summer day had arrived—golden sunshine, lush greenery, and cotton-wool clouds drifting across a bright blue sky. Finally. After weeks of dreary weather, the world felt alive again.
Penelope often strolled through the small park opposite her flat when she wasn’t shopping. It wasn’t much of a park, really—just a few neatly trimmed hedges enclosing patches of grass, crisscrossed by tiled paths lined with benches. Sometimes she’d sit on the ones surrounding the statue of Newton outside the university—far comfier than the usual backless slabs.
She settled onto a bench, tilting her face toward the sun dappling through the leaves. A little girl with blonde pigtails squealed with delight as she chased pigeons, while her mother, glued to her phone, sat nearby.
A man in beige trousers and a navy jumper took the bench opposite, watching the girl. When the mother finally pocketed her phone and whisked her daughter away, his gaze drifted to Penelope. He stood and ambled over.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked, sitting a polite distance away. “I’ve seen you here before. Do you live nearby?”
*Here we go. Old but still on the prowl,* Penelope thought but said nothing.
Undeterred, he continued, “I live just over there. Saw you from my balcony. Spent my whole life near this university—studied, worked, retired.”
“You were a professor?” she asked, curiosity getting the better of her.
“Was. Retired now.”
Penelope nodded, silent.
“Lovely weather at last,” he pressed on. “Widowed? You’re always alone.”
*Persistent, isn’t he?*
Still, the loneliness gnawed at her. Better than talking to the furniture.
“Was married. Divorced long ago. Then he died,” she admitted, surprising herself.
“My wife passed two years back,” he said, glancing skyward as if looking for her.
They drifted into talk of children and grandchildren. His son lived abroad, his daughter in London. When his wife was alive, the house had been full of noise and chaos—now, he refused to burden his children.
“You’re so well-kept—I assumed you lived with one of them,” Penelope remarked.
“I manage. Not hard if you’ve the will.”
“I should go. My show’s about to start,” she lied, rising.
In truth, she never watched telly—just dreaded him quizzing her about fictional plots. But he stood too.
“I prefer books.”
“So do I!” she perked up. “Though my eyes aren’t what they were—large print only now.”
“I’ve plenty. Could bring one next time? Entire library at home. Let me pick something for you.”
Penelope shrugged, bidding him farewell.
*Dream on. ‘Next time,’* she scoffed on her way home.
Yet she spent the evening replaying their chat. Next day, she dressed carefully and returned to the park. He was already there, a book beside him in a bag. Seeing her, he brightened, and her heart fluttered.
Soon, their meetings became the highlight of her days—strolling, chatting, reading together. Time, they realized, was short. So Penelope moved into Geoffrey’s spacious flat.
They were inseparable—walking in all weathers, shopping, theatre trips, evenings with books. At first, she feared judgement—*Old fool, playing housekeeper to some stranger*—but Geoffrey cooked, cleaned, and shared chores. Within years, she couldn’t imagine life without him.
“Penny, we ought to make this official. Bit odd, living like this,” Geoffrey said one evening.
“Don’t be daft. Who’d marry us now? What if the children object?”
“They didn’t ask our permission for their lives. Why ask theirs?”
Still, she hesitated. He’d bring it up occasionally, but she’d laugh it off.
“Sand’s slipping through the hourglass, love. Joints creak, and you want a wedding? Ridiculous.”
Then her daughter, Lucy, called.
“Mum, you’re still with Geoffrey, aren’t you? Not coming back? Tim’s clashing with my husband. Thought he could stay in your flat? Nice girlfriend and all.”
Penelope agreed—what else could she do? Family came first.
A year later, while cleaning, Geoffrey collapsed. A stroke, the paramedic said.
In hospital, his pleading eyes met hers.
“I won’t leave you. We’ll manage,” she promised. “Shall I call the children?”
His panic was answer enough.
They coped. She bathed him, fed him, read to him, even took him to their bench—his steps slow, leaning on her. But he worsened, and one rainy night, he was gone.
After the funeral, his daughter snapped, *”What love at your age? After his flat, were you?”*
His son intervened—”Dad was happy. But you weren’t married. You’ll need to leave.”
She scanned the flat—*her* home for years. Curtains she’d hung, her dishes…
“May I keep this book? And his photo?”
“Take them.”
Back in her flat, her grandson Tim scowled. One night, she overheard him:
“Gran’s staying *forever*? She glared when I walked out in shorts!”
*Old? I’m only sixty-five!*
Lucy was no help. *”Just got my life back, Mum. What did you expect, fussing over some man? Why didn’t you marry him?”*
A solicitor confirmed her rights—she couldn’t be evicted. But court? Against her own grandson?
Tim left after she insisted—either live civilly or go.
Alone again, she’d sit on their bench, talking to Geoffrey’s photo. Sometimes he’d visit her dreams.
“Go away. It’s not time yet,” she’d tell him, waking with a start.
It’s a mercy when couples go together—sparing each other decline, sparing children the burden. But often, one remains. Useful until they’re not. Then comes the nursing home, or worse—a lonely end, steeped in hurt.
