Two years of loneliness had passed for Sophie. Fate had dealt her a cruel hand—widowed at just twenty-seven. She and her husband had only been married a short while, barely a year, when everything shattered. They’d already been dreaming of starting a family.
Liam came home early from work one day, clutching his head.
“Got off early—this headache’s unbearable,” he muttered when Sophie walked in from her own job and found him pale, stretched out on their bed.
“Darling, maybe I should call an ambulance? These headaches keep coming back,” Sophie pressed.
“No, I’ll sleep it off. It’s not the first time,” Liam murmured, turning to face the wall.
“I’ll make you some peppermint tea,” she said, heading to the kitchen.
As she waited for the kettle to boil, her thoughts raced.
*These headaches aren’t normal. He refuses to see a doctor… I have to convince him somehow. A man his age—just thirty-three—shouldn’t suffer like this. This isn’t right.*
She carried the tea back, setting the cup on the bedside table before softly calling his name. “Liam… Liam?” No response. She touched his shoulder—still nothing. Panic flared as she shook him harder. When he still didn’t stir, she dialled 999 in a rush, then called her mother-in-law, tears choking her voice.
“Margaret… Liam’s not moving. I’ve called an ambulance.”
“I’m on my way.”
Margaret arrived just before the paramedics. She lived in the next street over. When they finally came, a young doctor turned Liam onto his back, checking for a pulse before sighing.
“I’m so sorry. There’s nothing we can do—he’s gone.”
The days that followed blurred into a haze. Neighbours stepped in—neither woman had other family to lean on. After the funeral, grief kept them in its grip for months. They clung to each other, visiting often, finding solace in work.
Sophie was alone now in the flat they’d moved into just six months earlier. She couldn’t stop staring at their wedding photos lining the walls. Margaret gently urged her to put them away, but she couldn’t bear it. Liam had been so young—one of those rare, cruel brain conditions the doctors said had taken him swiftly.
They’d dated for over a year, lived together, but delayed marriage—saving for the flat deposit, then helping with Margaret’s knee replacement. Finally, everything had fallen into place. They married, filled their new home with furniture… and then, just like that, he was gone.
Margaret visited often. Was she still Sophie’s mother-in-law now? Legally, perhaps, but in spirit, they remained close. To her credit, Margaret hadn’t fought her over Liam’s estate. They saw each other weekly, called often.
A year passed, yet Sophie couldn’t move on. How could she? But Margaret, ever practical, began nudging her.
“Sophie, love, you can’t just sit in this flat. Go out with friends—cafés, events. You’re too young to let life pass you by. Liam wouldn’t have wanted this. You loved each other deeply, but you’ve grieved with dignity. You’re nearly thirty—that’s still young. Life isn’t over.”
“I don’t know, Margaret. It’s like I died with him. Everything feels… empty.”
“That’s exactly why you *must* shake this off. You’ll find happiness again. You’ll have children—they won’t be my blood, but I’ll love them all the same,” Margaret said with a teary smile. “And I’ll help you. You know I’ve no one else now.”
Sophie did thaw, slowly. She went out for coffee with colleagues now and then. On her first birthday without Liam, she spent it quietly with Margaret—no parties, though her friends teased her. They sat in the kitchen with tea and cake, a vase of roses between them, just as Liam used to buy her. Margaret knew her tastes well.
She’d even gifted Sophie an embroidery of two kittens curled by a fireplace, insisting it was a sign of good fortune.
Winter arrived—light snow, the New Year approaching.
“The first one without you,” Sophie murmured to Liam’s photo. “It’s so quiet without you.”
Margaret had long urged her to take the photos down. “Leave just *one* framed. Everywhere I look, it’s him…”
Sophie couldn’t bring herself to do it—until one day, Margaret did it for her.
Then, one evening, Margaret posed a question.
“How are you spending New Year’s?”
“At home, probably. There’s the work do, but that’s days before. Then just… time off.”
Margaret paused, then lowered her voice conspiratorially.
“What if we took a spa break? Work’s offering me a voucher—I could get two. Fancy it?”
“A spa? I don’t know…”
“You’d just mope here otherwise. It’s mostly retirees, but the air’s fresh. Unless you’ve other plans?”
Sophie sighed. “What’s the difference? Alone here or alone with pensioners.”
The spa was as dull as expected—elderly couples, slow-moving guests. Margaret attended her physio sessions while Sophie wandered the pine woods, feeding squirrels that dared come close.
But then, Margaret brought news.
“Sophie! There’s a dance Friday night. I’ve made friends with a lovely man—Henry. He’s joining us.”
Sophie knew this was Margaret’s way of setting an example, but she just smiled. That Friday, they dressed up and went—though the crowd was mostly silver-haired. Henry asked Margaret to dance, promising Sophie the next one… but the air in the hall stifled her. She slipped out for a walk.
*January 2nd now. New year… will it be as bleak as the last?*
Lost in thought, she barely noticed the man approaching until he was right before her. Young—unexpected here.
“Evening,” he said, surprised. “What’s a snow queen like you doing out here?”
She laughed. “Staying at the spa.”
“Oliver,” he introduced himself, eyes warm.
“Sophie.” His handshake was firm.
“Fancy a longer stroll? Unless you’re heading back?”
“Why not? The air’s lovely—just a nip of frost.”
Oliver explained he’d arrived two days prior, accompanying his father for heart treatment.
“Third time now. Knew it’d be dull, but I couldn’t let him come alone.”
“And you?”
“Here with my mother-in-law. She dragged me along.”
They walked for hours, laughing, swapping stories. By the time they returned, Margaret and Henry were waiting anxiously in the lobby—only to discover Henry was Oliver’s father. The coincidence had them all in stitches.
The days flew by. When Sophie and Margaret left, Oliver got her number. They lived in neighbouring towns—barely eighty miles apart. At thirty-four, divorced for five years, he ran a freight business.
“I don’t want to lose touch, Sophie. You’re… special,” he admitted.
She felt it too. With him, something in her thawed. Safety, warmth—things she’d forgotten.
*Life does go on. And it should be lived well.*
Time passed. Sophie moved into Oliver’s countryside home, where he lived with Henry. The place was grand, the garden meticulously kept—Henry’s pride. He and Margaret often spoke, visits becoming frequent… until finally, Margaret moved in for good.
Sophie and Oliver married.
“See, love?” Margaret teased. “Fate had plans all along. Imagine if we’d skipped that spa!”
They laughed, Sophie’s hand resting on her swelling belly—twins. Oliver doted on her, carrying her as if she’d break. Happiness, at last, had found its way into their home.
