**8th March**
This morning, Evelyn had a strange feeling that something was about to happen. But what was left to happen? Love, marriage—now all of it was gone. 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 healthy and well. Just a holiday’s anticipation, she realised. Tomorrow was Mother’s Day.
Then she thought of her husband. No one would bring her daffodils or tulips now. But then again—wasn’t there her son, Alex? Of course he’d visit.
They used to have a cottage. A tiny little house on their allotted patch of land, bought after the financial storms of the past. When she was still working, she’d escape there on weekends and holidays. After retiring, she practically lived there all summer, only coming back to town for groceries and a proper shower.
That summer had been dry and scorching. She spent every evening watering the vegetable patch. Her husband arrived as usual after work on Friday, but she noticed straight away how pale he looked.
“It’s nothing,” he waved her off. “Just stuffy.”
“Go rest in the shade. I’ll finish up,” she told him.
He sat on the bench, leaning against the sun-warmed wall of the house, watching her water the rows of peas and carrots. When she turned back, something was wrong. He seemed asleep—but when she touched his shoulder, he slumped to the side. Just like that, he was gone, right there on the bench.
By autumn, she sold the cottage. She couldn’t bear to go back, always imagining him sitting there. Her son supported her.
“Should’ve done it sooner. No point breaking your back over veg when you can buy it fresh year-round.”
He and his family holidayed by the sea now. She gave him the money from the sale—he had two children, after all. She had her pension. She thought about taking a part-time job, but he talked her out of it.
“You’d earn pennies and waste your nerves. Dad always said the same. Teaching’s a nightmare these days. If you miss giving lessons, tutor the grandkids. You’ve got me—I’ll help if you need anything.”
So she lived alone. Of course, she missed having a man’s hands around the house—but Alex called in tradesmen whenever a tap dripped or the boiler spluttered.
The last years with her husband had been peaceful. Early on, though? They’d rowed badly enough to nearly divorce. He’d had his flings—never reckless, but women always know. One night, she snapped. Told him to pack his bags and pointed to the door. Last thing she needed was him bringing God-knows-what home.
He stuffed a suitcase, sat on the sofa to tie his laces. Then Alex came home from school—thirteen years old, already sharp. Took one look at the suitcase and understood.
“Will you hate me?” his father asked.
“Yes,” Alex said, then slammed his bedroom door.
Her husband exhaled, slapped his knees. “I can’t do it.” He rolled the suitcase behind the sofa. “Dinner still on?”
She was too tired to argue. If not today, then tomorrow. Let him leave while she and Alex were at school. She laid the table. They ate in silence.
Next evening, she dawdled home from work. The second she stepped inside, she checked behind the sofa. The suitcase was gone. Her stomach twisted. Then—there it was, stashed on the high shelf in the hallway. She yanked open the wardrobe. His shirts and trousers still hung there. Relief.
When he came home, she couldn’t resist: “Shame you unpacked. Might need it again.”
He said nothing. But after that, he never stayed late without calling. The rows dwindled. Those last years? Like two peas in a pod. If only they’d figured it out sooner.
She tried to remember the good times. What use was dwelling on the bad? All those old grudges had died with him. Sometimes the grief ambushed her, but it never lasted.
Being alone had perks. She cleaned less—who’d mess up the place? Cooked simple meals. Read novels. Binged shows her husband had hated. He’d sprawl on the sofa, football or news blaring, while she hunched on a kitchen stool, neck cricked, squinting at the tiny telly balanced on the fridge. Now? Queen of the sofa, remote in hand.
She’d considered a cat. Too much fur. Never been an animal person.
Tomorrow was Mother’s Day. Maybe a cake? But who’d eat it? Alex would drop by. She’d bake something herself. She rummaged for her recipe book.
Flowers? Her gaze swept the room. No—they’d just make her sadder. Flowers should come from a man. And what was the point? Tossing them out in three days?
She whipped up chocolate-orange muffins—her grandkids adored them. Tired, she sank onto the sofa. Some film she’d already seen mumbled on the telly. Her eyelids drooped.
A doorbell jolted her awake. Her heart fluttered like a trapped bird. Nobody visited these days—she’d grown unused to guests. Another ring. Hurry up, then.
Alex? No, he had a key. Always knocked first, though, before letting himself in.
She patted her hair in the hallway mirror and opened the door. A stranger stood there—tulips in hand. Not handsome, around her age. Well-dressed, salt-and-pepper hair, solid but no paunch. Ordinary, really.
“Who are you after?” Evelyn asked.
“Could I speak to Lydia, please?” He smiled.
“No Lydia here. Never has been. Wrong address.” She moved to shut the door.
“Wait!” He looked baffled. “This is Oak Lane, number twenty, flat—”
“Yes, but no Lydia.”
His smile faded. “That’s impossible.”
“Very possible. Lived here decades. I’d know.”
“Then I’ve got it wrong.” He sagged.
“Sorry.” She shut the door.
Silence. She flicked on the lamp—the room felt safer flooded with light. When the bell rang again, she checked the peephole first.
“You again? Told you—no Lydia here.”
“Please, I’m no thief.” His voice was muffled.
“How would I know? Clear off or I’ll call the police.”
“At least take the flowers. No sense wasting them.”
She opened up. He held out the tulips.
“I’m not lying. Lydia gave me this address, but I lost the note.”
“Call her, then.”
“Number was on the same scrap of paper.” He shrugged. “I’ll go.”
“There’s a guesthouse round the corner,” she offered.
He thanked her and trudged downstairs.
Odd business. All evening, she eyed the tulips in their vase. She’d never know about this mysterious Lydia.
Next morning, rain sleeted against the windows. The tulips had bloomed overnight. When the bell rang, she knew—just knew—it was him.
“Sorry,” he said when she opened up. “Checked out of the guesthouse. Train’s not till tonight. Nowhere to go.”
“Come in.”
Relieved, he set down his sports bag.
“Hungry?”
“Wouldn’t say no.”
She bustled in the kitchen, then asked about Lydia.
“What’s to tell? Came from Cornwall. House there. Lived in York with my wife till she got sick. Doctors said move south. Sold our flat, bought a place by the sea. No kids. Her health was always shaky.”
He’d tended the garden—his wife loved the flowers. After eight years down there, she passed. Left him alone at forty-eight.
“Started renting out a room. Thought maybe I’d meet someone. But it was always young couples or women on holiday. They wanted beach boys, not some middle-aged bloke.”
Then Lydia arrived. With her daughter. Hit it off straight away. But she wouldn’t leave her job up north, and he couldn’t abandon his garage. They’d agreed to meet again this year.
“Did you call her?”
“No. Said I’d wait—no need for phone calls. She knew.”
“Maybe she’s married.”
His face fell. “Could be. When I went to ring, the note was gone. Searched everywhere. Then I broke my leg. Came up now while I could. And she’s not here.”
He brightened suddenly. “We never introduced ourselves. Andrew. Andrew Lennox.”
“Lovely surname. I’m Evelyn. Just Evelyn. Pity it’s not something more romantic—like Charlotte or Emily.”
He laughed—a warm, crinkly-eyed laugh.
After lunch, he checked his train ticket. “Proof I’m not lying.”
“I believe you.” (But she peeked anyway.)
“Why not try finding her?”
He shook his head. “If she wanted me, she’d have called. Made it up in my head.”
“You’ll meetAnd as she watched him walk away, Evelyn realized that sometimes the most unexpected turns lead us exactly where we’re meant to be.
