“Fetch me Millicent, please…”
That morning, Cynthia couldn’t shake the feeling something was about to happen. Then again, everything that was supposed to happen already had—love, family, and now she was alone. Her husband, with whom she’d spent thirty-six years, had passed two years ago. Her son had his own family now, two children, all well and thriving. Just a holiday creeping up on her, she realised. Tomorrow was Mother’s Day.
The thought brought her husband to mind. No one to give her daffodils or tulips now. Then again, wasn’t she being silly? James, her son, would come by—he always did.
They used to have a cottage. Just a little place, really—a modest plot with a tiny house, bought by her parents after the financial troubles of years past. While she was still working, she’d visit on weekends and holidays. After retiring, she’d practically lived there through the summers, only returning to town for groceries and a proper shower.
That summer had been dry and blistering. The garden needed watering every single day. Her husband came down as usual after work on Friday. She noticed his pallor straight away.
“Just a bit warm, that’s all,” he’d brushed off when she mentioned it.
“Rest, then. I’ll finish up,” Cynthia had told him.
He sat on the bench, leaning against the sun-warmed wall of the house, watching her water the rows of vegetables. When she finished and went to him, she knew at once something was wrong. He seemed to be dozing. But when she touched his shoulder, he slumped sideways. Died right there in his sleep on the bench.
By autumn, she’d sold the cottage. Couldn’t bear to go back. Kept imagining she saw him sitting there. Her son had agreed.
“About time, really. What’s the point in slaving away when you can buy everything at the shops nowadays?”
He and his family holidayed by the sea now. The money from the cottage she gave to James—he had two children, after all. Her pension was enough for one. She’d thought about finding work again, but her son had talked her out of it.
“You’ll earn pennies and spend pounds in stress,” he’d said.
Her husband used to say that, too.
“Teaching these days? You’d need nerves of steel. If you miss it that much, tutor the grandkids. You’ve got me. I’ll help if you need anything.”
So she lived alone. Of course, she missed a man’s hands about the place. But James called in handymen if anything broke or a tap started dripping.
They’d been happy, those last years with her husband. Early on? Well, that was another story. They’d rowed badly—nearly divorced once. He’d had his flings, discreetly. But women always know. One day she’d had enough, told him straight and pointed to the door. Didn’t need him bringing God knows what home.
He’d packed a suitcase, sat on the sofa to catch his breath. Then James had walked in from school—thirteen years old then. Saw his father with the case and understood. Old enough to hear, to know. Sick of their fighting, too.
“Will you hate me?” his father had asked.
“I will,” James had said, then vanished into his room, slamming the door.
“I can’t do this. I just can’t,” her husband had muttered, slapping his hands to his knees. He’d stood, rolled the suitcase behind the sofa—out of sight. “Will you feed me dinner?” he’d asked, not looking at her.
She was exhausted. What difference did it make if he left today or tomorrow? Maybe better this way. Let him go while she and James were at school. She’d set the table, called James in. They’d eaten in silence, not a word between them.
The next day, Cynthia dawdled home from work. When she finally got in, she rushed straight to the living room to check behind the sofa. The suitcase was gone. Her stomach turned. She went back to the hallway, slowly unbuttoning her coat. Then she looked up—and there it was, stashed on the high shelf by the ceiling. She tore into the bedroom, flung open the wardrobe. His shirts and trousers still hung there. Her heart settled.
But when he came home, she couldn’t resist. “Shame you unpacked,” she’d said sharply. “Might’ve saved you the trouble later.”
He didn’t answer, but after that, he never lingered at work without calling. The rows dwindled. Those last years, they’d been closer than ever. If only they’d had that from the start.
Cynthia tried to remember the good. What use was dwelling on the bad? All those old resentments had gone with him. Of course, sometimes grief would crash over her, but it always passed.
There were perks to solitude. She cleaned less—who was there to make a mess? Cooked simple meals. Read more, binged series her husband had hated. He’d sprawl on the sofa, glued to football or the news, while she perched on a hard kitchen stool, craning at the little telly balanced on the fridge until her neck ached. No space for a proper telly in that tiny kitchen.
Now she lolled on the sofa like a queen, watching whatever she fancied. She’d thought about getting a cat. But the fur, the fuss—and truthfully, she’d never been much for pets.
Tomorrow was Mother’s Day. Maybe she’d buy a cake? Who’d eat it? James would come, of course. Better to bake something herself. She began leafing through her recipe notebook.
Flowers? She eyed the living room. No, they’d only make the emptiness sharper. Flowers ought to come from a man. And what was the point? To toss them out in two days?
She baked chocolate and orange muffins—her grandkids adored them. James could take them home. Tired, she settled in front of the telly. Some film she’d seen before. Her eyes drooped, and she dozed off.
The doorbell startled her awake, her heart fluttering like a trapped bird. No one visited these days—she’d grown unused to company. It rang again, impatient.
James? No, he had a key. He always buzzed first, then let himself in if she didn’t answer.
At the hallway mirror, Cynthia smoothed her hair and opened the door. A stranger stood there—a man holding tulips. Not handsome, roughly her age. Well-dressed, salt-and-pepper hair, solid but no paunch. Ordinary, really.
“Who are you looking for?” Cynthia asked.
“Millicent, please,” he said with a smile.
“No Millicent here. Never has been. You’ve got the wrong place.” She started to shut the door.
“Wait!” He stopped her. “This is Oak Lane, number twenty, flat—”
“Yes, that’s my address. But there’s no Millicent,” she repeated.
His smile faded. He looked genuinely perplexed.
“That can’t be right.”
“It is. I’ve lived here decades. I’d know.”
“I must’ve mixed it up,” he said, disappointed.
“Sorry.” She closed the door.
She waited, listening, but all was quiet. Back in the living room, dusk was falling. She flicked the switch—light flooded the room, soothing her. When the bell rang again, she checked the peephole first.
“You again? I told you—no Millicent here,” she called through the door.
“Please, I’m not a thief or a conman,” came the muffled reply.
“How would I know? Go away, or I’ll call the police,” she warned.
“At least take the flowers. No sense wasting them,” he said, sad now.
She opened the door. He held out the tulips.
“I’m not lying. Must’ve got it wrong. Millie gave me this address, but I lost the bit of paper.”
“Just call her, then,” Cynthia suggested.
“Number was on the same scrap.” He shrugged. “I’ll go.”
“There’s a hotel nearby,” she offered.
He thanked her and trudged downstairs.
Strange business. All evening, Cynthia found herself thinking about him, gazing at the tulips she’d put in a vase. She’d never know the truth about this mysterious Millicent.
Next morning, she slept in, washed up, tamed her hair—if you could call the sparse strands “hair.” Outside, sleety rain fell. Overnight, the tulip buds had opened.
When the bell rang, somehow she knew it was him. “Now we’ll get to the bottom of this,” she told herself and opened the door. Sure enough.
“Sorry to bother you. I don’t know anyone here—checked out of the hotel, my train’s tonight, nowhere to go,” he said awkwardly.
“Come in.”
Relieved, he stepped inside, dropping a duffel bag by the door.
“Hungry?” Cynthia asked.
“Wouldn’tShe hesitated, then smiled—just a little—and said, “I’ll pack my bags for the seaside.”
