My mother-in-law was itching for a date, leaving me with our granddaughter.
Margaret Elizabeth had lived without a husband for years. Her divorce from my husband’s father had been bitter, and she raised their son single-handedly. Male attention was never in short supply—she was striking, with a sharp wit—but she never remarried. She feared a stepfather might mistreat her boy, and heaven help anyone who tried with her temper. So, her youth slipped away between work and raising her son. Romance was the last thing on her mind—only how to provide, how to shape him into a good man, especially when his father hadn’t paid a single pound in support.
And she succeeded. For that, I’m endlessly grateful. My husband is dependable, kind—entirely her doing.
But now her son is grown, married, and we have a daughter—little Beatrice, the new light of Margaret’s life. She adores her, whisking her through London parks, baking scones, spinning bedtime tales. You’d think she’d be content. But no—change came like a sudden storm, leaving me bewildered.
Before Christmas, she met a man. By chance, in a queue at Harrods. They chatted, exchanged numbers, and just like that—it began. Victor Reginald, a retired lieutenant colonel, also divorced, living alone. According to Margaret, they shared everything—old Ealing comedies, Thames-side strolls, the same dog-eared paperbacks. Even their tea was identical—black, with a twist of lemon. Straight out of a Merchant Ivory film.
The catch? Victor kept asking her out. My husband and I work late, so Beatrice spends most evenings with her grandmother. Dragging a toddler on a romantic outing? Unthinkable. Then Margaret called yesterday, nearly making me choke on my tea: “Darling, could you watch Beatrice tonight? I just… I’m popping out. For a date.”
Honestly, I barely stifled a laugh. A date? At her age? She’s past fifty, flitting off like a schoolgirl—meeting him in Regent’s Park, then some avant-garde gallery! I suggested, “Why not have him over? Tea, biscuits, Beatrice safe at home.” But Margaret was adamant. “No, no—it must be proper. Strolls, whispered words under the stars.” Like something from a Brontë novel.
I had to beg off work early. My manager eyed me like I’d lost the plot, but relented. Now I sit here, knowing this won’t be the end of it. The way Margaret’s eyes sparkle when she mentions Victor—this won’t stop at one date. Soon, I’ll be burning through holiday leave or scrambling for nursery spots. Because something tells me this is serious. She even hinted Victor was steadfast—perhaps even marriage-minded. Marriage! At her stage in life!
Of course, everyone deserves happiness. But at her age, does it lie in romance? Shouldn’t it be doting on grandchildren, flipping pancakes, pushing swings? Or am I wrong? Maybe love knows no age, and even in retirement, fate knocks. Still, I can’t reconcile it—Margaret, my bastion of discipline and order, now a giddy heroine in her own love story.
I don’t want to deny her this. Let her try. Let her be happy. Perhaps destiny’s come calling when she least expected. But I can’t help wondering—do grandmothers need a love life? Or should their world revolve around knitting needles and teatime telly? Tell me—is there room for romance once you’ve crossed fifty?.
