Mary’s husband had always been a quiet, patient, and polite man. Even twenty-three years ago, when he had first asked for her hand, George had carried himself with that same steady calm.
One summer evening, as they walked together by the river behind the village, he stopped suddenly, took her hands, and said softly,
“Mary, my dear, let us join our lives. It’s fate—we were meant to be together.”
He looked at her steadily, certain she would not refuse. And she did not. Her heart leapt, her cheeks flushed with joy.
“Yes, George, yes. I’ll marry you.”
They were both overjoyed.
“I’ll build us a new house,” he promised. “My father will help. I’ve already picked the spot—come, I’ll show you.” Hand in hand, they walked until they stopped beneath an old elder tree.
“Here. Though we’ll have to take the tree down. It’s old—one day it might fall on the house. We can plant a new one if you like.”
“It’s perfect, George. You can see the river from the windows.”
After the wedding, they lived with George’s parents while the house was built. Later, he added another wing with its own door.
“For our children,” he explained. “In case one of them stays in the village. They’ll have their own space.”
“Oh, how thoughtful you are!” Mary would say, always agreeing with him.
They had only one child, a daughter. They raised her well, and when she left for university, she shocked them with her declaration.
“Mum, Dad—don’t count on me staying with you. I want to live in the city. And there’s a boy—Rob.”
So the extra wing stood empty. Mary kept it clean, aired it out, but George never set foot inside. Their half of the house was enough—cosy and quiet. For twenty-three years, he had never raised his voice, never given Mary cause for grief. The village respected them.
Then, two days ago, that same quiet, steady George came home from work and said:
“Mary, this is difficult to say, but our marriage has run its course. That’s how it often is—after twenty-odd years, love fades. I’ve met someone else. I’m grateful for all these years, and I won’t abandon Jane—I’ll help see her through university. The house is yours.”
He kept speaking, but Mary sank onto the sofa, barely hearing him. Her pulse roared in her ears until, at last, she caught his final words:
“I’m sorry.” Then he left, suitcase in hand—packed beforehand—shutting the door softly behind him.
Mary wept.
“Why me? I knew this happened to others, but not to us. Where did I go wrong? If I close my eyes, perhaps it will all be a dream. When I open them, everything will be as it was.” But it was no dream. Her quiet, steady George was gone.
For a week, longer even, she hoped he might change his mind. He did not. She never asked where he had gone. Time passed. The pain dulled.
“Fate gave me a husband,” she’d think, “then took him away. Now I must learn to live alone.”
Years slipped by. The hurt faded, though sometimes, gazing out the window, she would muse, “George is out there, with his new love. Who’d have thought? He was never one for wild living. Yet here we are.”
Six years later, the bitterness had settled. Mary turned fifty. She had aged well—always a beauty. Jane had married a city man and moved away, and now there was a grandson, though visits were rare.
One summer evening, Mary sat in the garden drinking tea when her neighbour, Natalie, breezed in.
“You look gloomy,” Natalie said cheerfully.
“Just thinking,” Mary murmured.
“Well, I’ve news! Our old Dr. Stephens has retired. The new one’s also a Stephens—Oliver. He needs lodging for a month or so. I suggested your spare wing.”
“What? No! Why me?”
“Why not? Four rooms going to waste! If Jane won’t live there, someone should.”
“I don’t need lodgers.”
“Too late. He’ll be here within the hour.” Grinning, Natalie tugged her up. “Come on—let’s air the place.”
Sighing, Mary followed. Sure enough, within the hour, a tall, pleasant-faced man appeared.
“Good evening. Oliver Stephens. Just Oliver is fine.” He offered his hand.
“Mary,” she replied.
She liked him at once. Oliver was five years her junior. A fleeting thought crossed her mind—“If only I were younger”—but she dismissed it.
Soon they were sharing tea in the garden, chatting easily. Natalie popped in now and then but never lingered—she had a family. Mary noticed the warmth in Oliver’s gaze.
“It’s my loneliness playing tricks,” she told herself. Yet their minds ran alike—their interests, their humour.
Oliver parked his car in her yard with permission. One weekend, he suggested, “Fancy a trip to town? The pictures, perhaps, or a café? We free spirits ought to enjoy ourselves.”
“Let’s,” Mary agreed at once. She knew he was divorced.
The outing was lovely. More followed. The village took note.
“Lucky Mary,” they murmured. “Though she’s older—what does a handsome doctor want with a woman past fifty?”
One evening, over talk of life and past mistakes, Mary asked, “Why is a man like you unmarried?”
“I married late—medical training takes years. After university, I worked up North—wanted to test myself. Married a local nurse. Lasted four years. She drank. Said it kept her warm. I knew it was illness. So I left.”
“And why the village now?”
“Another test. Or perhaps”—he smiled—”I knew you were here, alone.”
A silence fell. Then he took her hand.
“Mary, marry me. We’re two halves of one soul.”
“I feel it too. But I’m older—”
“By barely four years. And you’re beautiful. The country air suits you.”
“So?”
“Yes.”
Three happy years passed. Sometimes Mary even thanked George for leaving. Then one day, a car pulled up. Out stepped an aged, silver-haired man.
George.
He glanced around cautiously. Mary stepped out, startled. Oliver was away.
“George? What brings you?”
“Passing through. Felt drawn back. I… missed home. My mother’s long gone, but still… You’re as lovely as ever. Alone, or…?”
“Not alone. Not waiting, not pining. All that’s past. I’m happily married. And you?”
“Life’s been unkind. On my third wife now—likely my last. Living over in Greyshire. Mary… I’ve long regretted hurting you. Wanted to visit sooner, but knew you’d not take me back.” His voice was as quiet and polite as ever.
“Well. I’ll go. No need to meet your husband—I can see you’re happy. It’s written plain on your face.”
He turned, climbed into his car, and roared off. Mary watched until the dust settled. What did she feel for him now?
Pity, perhaps. Nothing more.
