Life’s Full of Surprises
Marigold had only been married four years when her husband walked out, leaving her with their daughter. After that, they never saw him again. Truth be told, she’d barely seen him during those four years—he was always off somewhere with his mates.
She’d been living alone for ages, used to solitude, working two jobs to give little Lottie the best start. Lottie did well in school, and before Marigold knew it, her daughter had grown up and married.
“Mum, I’m off to London—I’ll do my degree part-time and work. It’ll make things easier for you,” Lottie declared confidently before leaving.
Lottie made her own way in the world. The wedding was in Westminster. Marigold went, delighted with the whole affair—her son-in-law seemed lovely, Lottie was radiant, and the party was a proper knees-up. After that, life wasn’t bad at all—just a bit lonelier.
“Blimey, my Lottie’s flown the nest, married, even given me a grandkid—but they’re all so far away,” she sighed. “The house feels empty, like I’ve lost my purpose. Work kept me going, but then they made me redundant—boring as toast now. Need to find something new.”
Job hunting was grim. The minute her age came up, they’d politely show her the door. She’d ring Lottie and moan.
“Right, love, I get it—who wants an old bird like me?”
“Mum, stop—you’re no old bird! You’re gorgeous. Here’s an idea—find a man. A bit of company, and your life’ll turn right around.”
“Don’t be daft! I barely glanced at men when I was young—certainly not now,” Marigold huffed, shutting the subject down.
“Well, if not a man, then love yourself. You never do. You’ve got years ahead—start living!”
Marigold blinked. When had Lottie got so wise?
She took odd jobs here and there before retiring early. Still, she kept circling back to Lottie’s words.
“Where d’you find a decent man at my age? Easy to say when you’re not the one looking.”
If they weren’t married, they were buried under ex-wives, kids, and mortgages. Or worse—after a free housekeeper.
She wasn’t after another husband. A friend for a pint or a walk in the Cotswolds would’ve been nice.
“No,” she decided firmly. “I’ve earned my peace. I won’t waste time on some bloke’s nonsense. Lottie’s right—I need to love myself.”
One afternoon, she bumped into an old schoolmate, Alice, outside Tesco.
“Marigold? Is that you?”
“It is—you’ve not gone blind, have you?” she teased.
“You look smashing,” Alice said. Marigold noted she was glowing too.
“You’re chipper. I thought your Tom passed ages ago—don’t you get lonely?”
“At first, yes. Then I took up line dancing. Marvellous fun! You were always a mover—come down to the club!”
“Maybe I will. I’ve taken to embroidery, but there’s only so many cushions one needs.”
Soon, Marigold was dancing, stitching, even hitting the over-50s disco in Hyde Park. Life had colour again—no more moping. But home was still empty. Not that she minded—she’d found joy in herself, though late.
Lottie was allergic to fur, so Marigold had never replaced her childhood cat. Until now. Whiskers turned up one rainy night—a scraggly kitten on her doormat. Now he was a majestic beast, trailing her like a shadow. She’d even carry him out, much to some neighbours’ horror.
“If they don’t like it, they can blink,” the caretaker huffed.
One evening, as rain lashed the windows, the caretaker rapped on the glass.
“Marigold—some bloke’s kipping on your mat!”
She flung the door open—and froze. A man, filthy and shaking, lay curled on the mat. No booze on him.
“Oi—up you get,” she nudged him.
“Please—just a bit longer,” he mumbled, pushing back a grubby cap.
Her heart wavered. She fretted over stray cats—how could she turn away a person?
“Come inside—you’ll catch your death.”
He stumbled in. She dug out her son-in-law’s old joggers.
“Get cleaned up. There’s leftover bolognese and apple crumble.”
He ate like a starved wolf.
“Name’s Marigold. What’s yours?”
He frowned. “Dunno… I can’t remember anything.”
She debated calling the police but let him sleep on the kitchen sofa.
At dawn, clattering pans woke her. The stranger was at the stove—scrambled eggs, toast, and proper coffee steaming.
“Helped myself—hope you don’t mind.”
She gaped. Cleaned up, he wasn’t bad—tall, silver at the temples. A bit gaunt, but respectable.
“Your hands remember cooking, even if your head doesn’t?”
He shrugged. “Reckon I should go to the police.”
They went. The officers showed him a photo—his own.
“You’re Victor Halifax—owns coffee shops in Manchester. Your manager reported you missing.”
Victor (apparently) left, promising to repay the train fare he borrowed. Weeks passed. Double the money landed in her account—then silence.
The joy drained from her days. Dancing felt hollow. Half-finished embroidery gathered dust.
“Grow up,” she scolded herself. “Fairy tales are for Lottie’s lot.”
Three months later, she’d settled back into her routine. Until a week before Christmas—the doorbell rang.
Victor stood there, roses in hand.
“Didn’t fancy the mat this time.” He kissed her cheek.
In the kitchen, he unpacked wine and mince pies.
“Celebrating the day we met—belatedly.”
She stared. This polished man in his tailored suit—was this the stray from her doormat?
“Marigold,” he said softly, “I’d have died if you hadn’t taken me in. You’ve the kindest heart I’ve ever known.”
Turns out, his ex-wife and her lover had hired thugs to mug him. They’d left him for dead. Familiar surroundings jogged his memory, but recovery took months.
“I’ve handed the business to my sons,” he said. “Starting fresh here—with you, if you’ll have me.”
She laughed through tears. Life’s surprises often land right on your doorstep.
