The morning sun cast a soft glow through the curtains as Margaret stood by the door, her hands clasped tightly together. “Good luck, my dear,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “I know you’ll do brilliantly on your exams.” Her only son, William, nodded, adjusting the strap of his satchel before stepping out into the crisp air. He was off to sit his entrance exams at a university in the neighbouring town. She had prepared his favourite breakfast—eggs and toast—and sent him on his way with a mother’s quiet pride, hoping he would seize the opportunities ahead.
“Don’t worry, Mum,” William replied, flashing a reassuring smile. “I’ll be fine. Though I doubt I’ll get a scholarship…” The door clicked shut behind him, and Margaret was left alone in the quiet house, her husband, Edward, having already left for work.
Margaret and Edward had been married for twenty-two years. In that time, they had raised William, a thoughtful and responsible young man, surrounded by love and comfort. They had travelled, built a life of modest wealth, and dreamed of nothing but the best for their son. When William was little, Margaret and Edward had worked tirelessly, leaving him in the care of his grandmother while they built their small business from the ground up. Margaret had once sold goods at the local market, but in time, their fortunes improved, and Edward insisted she stay home.
“Margaret, love, there’s no need for you to keep working the stalls,” he had said one evening. “Let me provide for us. You ought to tend to the house.”
“But I want us to have everything we need,” she protested. “And staying home all day—it’s dull.”
Edward had always held firm to his beliefs. “A wife ought to keep the home, and a husband ought to provide. You’ve always known that.”
Margaret had been raised to yield to her husband’s word, to uphold the family above all else. And so, she agreed, though a part of her missed the independence of their early years. She busied herself with the household, supporting Edward’s ventures from afar, keeping the books—justifying her degree in economics.
Then, one morning, after seeing William off to his exams, she set about baking a cake to steady her nerves. As she sifted flour into a bowl, the front door swung open unexpectedly.
“Edward? What are you doing home so early?” she asked, puzzled.
He avoided her gaze. “I’d thought you’d be at your mother’s. Didn’t you say she was ill?”
“I was going after lunch,” she replied. “I wanted to see William off first.”
Edward hesitated, then spoke plainly. “Well, perhaps it’s for the best. I’ve come to collect my things. I’m leaving you. There’s… someone else.”
The room seemed to contract around her. She stammered, but he was already packing, his movements brisk and businesslike. When she asked about William, Edward merely shrugged. “He won’t get a scholarship. Let him work a year or join the army. I won’t pay for tuition.”
Margaret pleaded, but Edward only said, “Don’t make a scene, Margaret. It’s already decided.” Then he was gone, the door slamming behind him.
She waited until William returned, his exams finished. He had, as expected, been accepted only as a fee-paying student. Sensing something amiss, he pressed her until she told him the truth.
“Father left us?” William’s voice was steady, but his hands clenched. He rang his father, who confirmed it coldly. For a long while, William sat in silence. Then, resolute, he said, “Don’t worry, Mum. We’ll manage. I’ll switch to evening classes and find work. We don’t need him.”
Margaret marvelled at his composure. She, meanwhile, scrambled to find employment. With no recent experience, she took a job at a florist’s near their home. Edward, before the divorce, had transferred half their shared assets to his mother—a betrayal she had never seen coming.
A year passed. Edward paid his share, and Margaret worked diligently at the shop. Then, the owner fell ill—cancer—and offered to sell the business to her. William encouraged her, and she took the leap.
Three years later, on a bright spring morning, Margaret stood arranging flowers when a gentleman entered. He was polite, slightly awkward, searching for a bouquet for his daughter’s birthday. “My wife passed years ago,” he admitted. “I’m afraid I’m not much good at this.”
Margaret helped him choose, struck by the kindness in his eyes. That evening, as she locked up, he returned with roses. “Forgive me,” he said, “but I wanted to give you these.”
She laughed, accepting them. “How did you know I love roses?”
“May I walk you home?” he asked.
They talked easily, as though they had known each other for years. His name was George, a cardiologist, and there was a warmth about him that made her heart lift. For the first time since Edward’s betrayal, she felt light, unburdened. The boggy ground beneath her feet had finally given way to solid earth.
Four months later, they married quietly. Margaret moved into George’s countryside home, near a lake and woods. William married soon after, and grandchildren followed.
Now, whenever she tends to her garden or arranges flowers in the shop she owns, Margaret thanks God for guiding her through the storm—and for the love that had been waiting all along.
