**A Rescue from Loneliness**
Elizabeth woke up late. Her first thought was that she’d overslept—her daughter and grandson would be up soon, and breakfast wasn’t ready. Then she remembered they’d left yesterday. She’d even seen them off at the train station herself. With a sigh, she dragged herself to the bathroom. Normally, she’d plan her day, deciding what couldn’t wait and what could. Today, all she could think about was Claire and little Oliver.
She missed them terribly. The last time they’d visited was for her father’s funeral two and a half years ago. Oliver had shot up since then, nearly as tall as her now. If they waited another three years to visit, she might not even recognise him.
If only they lived closer. How many times had she begged Claire to move back? Her divorce was final—what was keeping her in Manchester? Then again, Elizabeth understood. Claire had grown used to independence, to running her own life. Maybe she never should’ve left London in the first place.
She’d never liked Claire’s ex-husband. Quiet as a tomb. If you didn’t speak first, he’d stay silent all day. God knew what he was thinking—or hiding. A stubborn one, that man. All those wasted years, and it ended in divorce anyway. Elizabeth exhaled sharply.
Now they were stuck untangling the flat. If only Claire’s ex would just pay her share outright. They could buy a small one-bed here, Elizabeth could move into it, and Claire and Oliver could have hers. But no, the man dug his heels in, no doubt his parents whispering in his ear. *”If only Peter were still alive. He’d have sorted this in a heartbeat.”* Another sigh escaped her.
She washed her face and studied herself in the mirror. Claire was right—she’d let herself go. Stopped colouring her hair, let the grey take over. She looked older, frayed at the edges. When Peter was alive, she’d made an effort. Now? What was the point? Just the neighbours stopping by occasionally. The phone ringing snapped her from her thoughts.
Rushing to answer, she remembered Claire and Oliver should’ve arrived home by now.
*”Claire, did you get back alright? Oh, thank goodness… I know, I promise I won’t mope. But do think about moving here… No, I’m not pressuring you. Just saying, time’s slipping by—I’m not getting younger, and with me around, life would be easier for you both… Don’t shout—”*
Claire was getting prickly, and Elizabeth wasn’t in the mood for bickering. Her spirits were already low. She ended the call on a brighter note anyway.
Making the bed, she resumed the silent argument—more of a monologue. *”Always the same. Thinks she knows best. Made enough mistakes already. If Peter were here…”* Another sigh. *”Fine. Let her decide. She’s a grown woman.”*
After tea and her blood pressure pills, she resolved not to procrastinate—she’d go to the salon today. Maybe it’d lift her mood. She’d grown used to solitude after Peter’s death, but now, with the house empty again, she was barely holding back tears.
The stylist, a young woman, took her time, trimming carefully until Elizabeth nearly dozed off. But the result was worth it. A chic, short cut, ash-blonde to mask the roots—it took years off her. She couldn’t stop staring. Should’ve done this sooner. She vowed to keep it up.
At home, she lingered by the mirror, then opened her laptop. Before Christmas, she and Oliver had gone shopping for his new one. Claire scolded her for spending so much, but Oliver had been overjoyed, hugging her and handing over his old laptop. He’d set up a social media account for her, even helped pick a profile picture—a twenty-year-old snapshot of her. A selfie would do for an update, but later.
Scrolling through her feed, she noticed a message. A man named Victor—overjoyed to have found her, asking for a reply. She zoomed in on his photo. No recognition. Probably some trick, lured in by her younger photo. She nearly ignored it but asked where he knew her from.
An hour later, they were deep in conversation. Victor Woodley, an old classmate. He even sent a circled photo of their Year 11 class—him and her.
Finally, she recalled the quiet boy from school. She barely recognised herself in the photo either—hadn’t opened the album in years.
Soon, they messaged daily. Then came Sarah, another classmate. They’d shared a desk. Sarah’s profile picture was just as flattering.
Once, during a maths test, Sarah begged for help. Elizabeth obliged, then ran out of time for her own work. Sarah got an A; Elizabeth scraped a C. She never helped her again. Sarah took it personally, and their friendship crumbled.
Sarah had always been spiteful. But grudges were pointless now. Elizabeth replied. Her circle widened; loneliness faded. How had she lived without the internet?
A month flew by. Then Victor suggested meeting.
*”We’re in the same city and haven’t seen each other in decades. Let’s fix that. Ladies, pick a time and place.”*
Elizabeth hesitated. Imagined them all laughing at how time had changed them. Glad she’d tidied herself up, she suggested a quiet café. Neutral ground.
She almost wore a dress but decided against it. Not a date. Opted for trousers and a cosy jumper instead. A touch of makeup—just enough to feel presentable.
Nearing the café, her pulse quickened. *”Why did I agree to this?”* Too late now. She pushed the door open. Inside, a man waved from a corner. At the table, a blonde woman sat with her back turned—Sarah, no doubt.
Year 11, Sarah had bleached her hair to match her surname, Baker, and never looked back. She’d kept her looks, despite the extra weight. Elizabeth complimented her instantly.
Then she finally looked at Victor. Hard to believe this broad-shouldered, silver-templed man was the same shy boy.
*”You haven’t changed. Recognised you straight away. Sit.”* He pulled out a chair—tactful, letting Sarah scrutinise her instead.
Sarah, ever petty, returned the compliment thinly. Typical—stay silent if another woman outshines you in front of a man. Elizabeth relaxed.
*”Ladies, I’m thrilled to see you. You both look lovely. How about wine to celebrate?”* Victor’s gaze flicked between them.
The waiter came. Over drinks, they learned all three were single. Many classmates had passed, Victor shared. By the end, Sarah was tipsy, clinging to him as they left.
*”Call a cab. You can’t take her on the bus,”* Elizabeth said.
*”Why me? What about you?”*
*”You want me to escort her home?”*
*”We could drop her off, then I’ll walk you—”*
A taxi arrived. Sarah flopped inside, dragging Victor’s sleeve, slurring declarations of love. He freed himself, shut the door, and gave her address.
*”You know where she lives?”* Elizabeth asked.
*”Yes.”* A pause. *”She was my wife.”*
*”I didn’t know.”*
Now Sarah’s coldness made sense. Those longing looks—not just for a former classmate but an ex.
They walked the short distance to Elizabeth’s flat.
*”We married young, split a year later. She’s had two husbands since, but between them, she tries to reel me back.”* Victor stopped. *”I fancied you, back then.”*
*”We’re here. Thanks for walking me,”* Elizabeth said.
*”Invite me up,”* he blurted.
*”And Sarah?”* She smirked. *”We’ve had coffee. Call a cab.”* She slipped inside.
At home, she peered out the dark window. The street was empty. What did she expect? Him loitering like a schoolboy? At their age, he probably had arthritis, a dodgy heart. *”Some suitor.”* She resolved to ignore his messages. No need for drama—or vengeful Sarah.
Days passed before curiosity won. Victor had apologised—blamed the wine, admitted his old crush. Sarah had known and married him out of spite. If Elizabeth wasn’t interested, he’d back off.
He sounded hurt. *”Fine. Let him be. Stupid mess.”* Maybe Claire and Oliver would visit soon—no time for old flames. Let him sort out Sarah’s baggage.
Sarah, however, sent a dozen venomous texts—accusing Elizabeth of holding a grudge over that maths grade, of trying to steal Victor. *”Over my dead body.”* The vitriol stung, but Elizabeth held her tongue.
Silence followed. Two weeks later, unease crept in. She messaged Victor—no reply. A week after, she reached out to Sarah.
*Elizabeth closed her laptop softly, knowing that while some chapters fade, the story of life always finds a way to continue—sometimes in the most unexpected ways.
