The morning carried a peculiar weight for Evelyn, as though something was meant to unfold. But what could it be? Everything that was supposed to happen had already happened—love, family, and now solitude. Her husband, with whom she’d shared thirty-six years, had passed two years ago. Her son, James, had his own family—two children, all healthy and well. Perhaps it was just a flicker of holiday anticipation, she realised. Tomorrow was Mother’s Day.
Then she thought of her husband. No one to bring her daffodils or tulips. But wait—what was she thinking? James would visit, surely. He always did.
They used to have a cottage—a modest little place on their allotted patch of land, bought by her parents after the financial storms of years past. While she’d still worked, she’d visited on weekends and holidays. After retiring, she’d spent whole summers there, only returning to London to stock up on groceries and bathe.
That summer had been dry and scorching. The garden demanded daily watering. Her husband arrived one Friday evening after work, pale as parchment.
“Just the heat,” he’d muttered when she asked.
“Sit in the shade. Rest. I’ll finish up,” she’d told him.
He slumped against the sun-warmed cottage wall, watching her hose the vegetable beds. When she approached him afterward, she knew instantly. He seemed asleep—but when she touched his shoulder, he toppled sideways. Gone, just like that, on the garden bench.
By autumn, she’d sold the cottage. She couldn’t bear it—always imagining him there, sitting in his usual spot. James supported her.
“Should’ve done it sooner. Why slave over a patch when you can buy everything at Tesco?”
He and his family vacationed in Spain now. She gave him the money from the sale—he had children, after all. Her pension was enough. She’d considered working again, but James talked her out of it.
“Teaching now? You’d earn pennies and lose your sanity. If you miss it, tutor the grandkids. You’ve got me if you need anything.”
So she lived alone. Of course, she missed having a man’s hands around—fixing leaks, tightening screws. But James called repairmen when needed.
The last years with her husband had been peaceful. Early on, though—rows loud enough to nearly split them. He’d stepped out occasionally, discreetly. But women always know. Once, she’d had enough, spat every bitter word, and pointed to the door. Who knew what he might bring home?
He packed a suitcase, sat on the sofa. Then James came home from school—thirteen, sharp as a tack. Saw his father’s luggage and understood. The shouting had worn him thin too.
“Will you hate me?” his father asked.
“Yes,” James said, slamming his bedroom door behind him.
Her husband exhaled, smacked his knees. “Can’t do this. Just can’t.” He shoved the suitcase behind the sofa. “Supper ready?”
She was tired of fighting. What did it matter if he left tonight or tomorrow? Better this way—let him go while they were at school. She set the table, called James. They ate in silence.
The next day, she dawdled after work. When she finally got home, she rushed to check behind the sofa. The suitcase was gone. A leaden weight settled in her chest. She undressed slowly in the hall, then glanced up—the suitcase was on the high shelf. She flung open the wardrobe: his shirts and trousers still hung there. Relief washed over her.
But when he returned, she couldn’t resist a jab: “Shame you unpacked. Might need it again.”
He never stayed late after that, always called if delayed. The rows dwindled. The final years? Perfect harmony. If only they’d had that sooner.
Evelyn clung to the good memories. Why dwell on the bad? The grievances had buried themselves with him. Sometimes loneliness surged, but it always ebbed.
Solitude had perks. She cleaned less—who would make a mess? Meals were simple. But she read voraciously, binged dramas. Her husband had hated them, glued to football and the news on the sofa while she craned her neck at the tiny telly on the kitchen counter. The kitchen was cramped—nowhere else to put it.
Now she lounged like a queen, watching what she pleased. She’d considered a cat. But the shedding! And she’d never been an animal person.
Tomorrow was Mother’s Day. Maybe a cake? But who’d eat it? James would visit. She’d bake something herself. She rifled through her recipe book.
Flowers? Her gaze swept the room. No—they’d only amplify the emptiness. Flowers should come from a man. And what was the point? Toss them in two days?
She baked chocolate-orange muffins. The grandchildren adored them. James could deliver them. Exhausted, she slumped before the telly. A familiar film played. Her eyelids drooped.
The doorbell jolted her awake. Her heart fluttered like a startled sparrow. No one visited anymore—she’d grown unaccustomed to guests. It rang again, impatient.
James? No, he had a key. He always rang first, then let himself in if she didn’t answer.
She smoothed her hair in the hall mirror and opened the door. A stranger stood there—tulips in hand. Not handsome, roughly her age. Well-dressed, silver-haired, solid but not portly. Unremarkable.
“Can I help you?” Evelyn asked.
“Could I speak to Margaret, please?” He smiled.
“No Margaret here. Never has been. You’ve got the wrong address.” She moved to shut the door.
“Wait!” He held up a hand. “This is 20 Oak Lane, flat—”
“Yes, that’s my flat. But Margaret’s never lived here.”
His smile faded. Confusion knitted his brow.
“That’s impossible.”
“It’s not. I’ve lived here for decades.”
“Must’ve mixed it up,” he said, crestfallen.
“Sorry.” She closed the door.
Silence. She peered through the peephole before opening again at the next ring.
“You again? I told you—no Margaret.”
“Please, I’m not a thief,” came the muffled reply.
“How would I know? Leave, or I’ll call the police.”
“At least take the flowers. No sense wasting them.”
She relented. He passed her the bouquet.
“I’m not lying. Margaret gave me this address. Lost the note.”
“Call her.”
“Number was on the same scrap.” He shrugged. “I’ll go.”
“There’s an inn nearby.”
He thanked her and trudged downstairs.
Strange. All evening, Evelyn studied the tulips in their vase, wondering about the mysterious Margaret.
Next morning, rain-sleet slashed the windows. The tulips had bloomed overnight.
At the doorbell, she knew instantly. “Now I’ll learn the truth,” she muttered, swinging the door open.
It was him.
“Sorry. Checked out of the inn. Nowhere else to go.”
“Come in.”
Relief washed over him. He set down his duffel bag.
“Hungry?”
“Wouldn’t say no.”
She bustled in the kitchen, then asked about Margaret.
“Not much to tell. I’m from Brighton. Had a house there. Lived in York with my wife till she fell ill. Doctors said move south. Sold the flat, bought a place by the sea. No kids. She was frail.
“I tended the garden—she loved flowers. Eight years later, she was gone. Forty-eight and alone. You understand.”
He’d rented rooms to holidaymakers, hoping to meet someone. But young women eyed beachgoers, not him.
Then Margaret arrived with her daughter. Liked her straight off. It worked—briefly. He couldn’t leave his garage job; she wouldn’t relocate. He’d waited, but she never returned.
“Did you call?”
“No. What for? Not one for sweet talk. She knew I’d wait. Then I lost the note.”
“Maybe she’s married.”
“Thought of that. Then I broke my leg. Came now while I could. But she’s not here.” He sighed. “We never introduced ourselves. Andrew. Andrew Carlisle.”
“Lovely surname. I’m Evelyn. Not Margaret, alas.”
His smile crinkled his eyes.
“More to eat?”
“No, thank you. I know how this must seem.” He fished out a train ticket. “See? Not lying.”
She glanced—his name, address. “We could search for her.”
“No. You’re right—if she wanted to, she’d have called. I imagined it all.”
“You’ll find another Margaret.”
“Not looking. Just… living.”
They sat awhile. Then he gathered his things for the station.
“You’ve time. Taxi takes fifteen minutes.”
“Need to walk. Think things through.”
He looked genuinely heartbroken. Flowers bought, hopes dashed. EitherShe watched the tulips tremble in the vase as the front door clicked shut, wondering if the sea air in Brighton smelled as bittersweet as regret.
