She had all but given up on herself. Then fate granted her a new beginning…
William stepped into the flat late one evening, weariness etched into his face, his eyes clouded with silent conflict. Without a word, he removed his shoes, walked to the kitchen, and sat at the table.
“Will, love, would you like supper?” fussed Margaret. “I’ve roasted a duck, just how you like it—with apples. Goodness, you look dreadful. What’s the matter?”
He met her gaze squarely, no trace of his usual smile.
“Peggy, we need to talk. I can’t keep living between two homes. When will we finally be together properly? I’ve got my own place, after all.”
Margaret’s expression darkened. The moment she had long avoided had come at last.
“Very well,” she murmured. “But first, you must meet my children.”
They arranged to meet at a café. Edward and Thomas sat stiffly on one side of the table, while Elizabeth remained beside her mother. When William walked in, the children froze, mouths agape. At first, Margaret didn’t understand—until she saw the furious exchange of glances between her sons.
“Are you having a laugh, Mum?!” Edward burst out first. “Carrying on at your age?! What sort of disgrace is this?”
“Mum, we thought you had sense,” Thomas muttered. “Women your age are meant to be grandmothers, not bringing men home!”
“I’m only forty-four,” Margaret replied softly.
“Then live quietly on your own,” Edward snapped. “Tom and I will rent our own place. We’re not sharing a roof with you and your… gentleman caller.”
Elizabeth turned away without a word. For a full month, she refused to speak to her mother.
Margaret didn’t cry. She simply sat in the stillness of night, remembering how it had all begun.
Once, she had been a bright student—quiet, thoughtful, raised in a loving home where her parents dreamed she’d attend a prestigious university. But at seventeen, she fell in love. With James.
He was twenty-four—tall, rough-voiced, with strong hands and a proud gaze. Her parents took an instant dislike to him. Her father turned him away when he came asking for her hand. But Margaret wouldn’t listen. Within months, she left with James for another town.
At first, it was like a fairy tale. Their firstborn, Edward, arrived. Her parents helped, bought them a flat. Then came Thomas—and for the joy of it, they gifted them a three-bedroom house. But that was when the dream soured into a waking nightmare.
James’ family were drinkers—his brother a layabout, his parents frivolous. James began spending more time with them, disappearing for weeks. Work? Hardly. Who would hire a man who drank himself senseless every month?
Margaret carried the burden alone. Two jobs, evening classes, endless cleaning. Too proud to ask her parents for help. Meanwhile, James lay sprawled on the sofa, demanding “a cold one.”
The day she returned from the doctor—expecting their third—and heard him grunt, “No cream? Go fetch some,” she snapped. Filed for divorce. Called him a cab herself, paid the fare. He laughed, thinking she’d relent. He was wrong.
He never returned. The locks were changed. The elderly neighbour kept watch to prevent any scene. The divorce was swift. He never knew he had a daughter.
Three months later, James died in a fire—an unattended stove at his parents’ cottage. They’d been in the garden; his brother survived. James didn’t. Margaret felt guilt, but knew—she wasn’t bound to nurse him forever.
Little Elizabeth arrived. Three children. Work. Endless chores. Four hours of sleep if she was lucky.
She forgot what it meant to feel like a woman. Forgotten how it felt to be desired. Raised her children alone. Every widow’s pension went into their futures.
Romance? She crossed it out. Believed she had no right to it.
Until that rainy evening. A colleague’s birthday party, a missed bus, a downpour. Then—a car pulled over.
“Need a lift?”
An ordinary man. Warm eyes. Kind. His name was William. Turned out, they lived nearby. After that, he waited for her each morning, drove her to work, brought her home. Made her coffee in the car. Told her she was beautiful.
Margaret had forgotten compliments. But with him, it was easy. He’d divorced—caught his wife with another man. No children.
Then—he asked her to move in. And she… didn’t know what to do.
Her children turned away. Called her foolish. Told her to live alone while they found their own place.
Margaret grieved. But then—something inside her clicked.
“If that’s how it is,” she told her sons, “we’ll sell this house and split it into three flats. I’ll cover the difference. You’re grown. And I… I don’t owe you my loneliness.”
And she moved in with William.
Then came the miracle—Margaret was expecting again. The doctors warned against it. But she chose to go ahead.
William never left her side. Rushed her to doctors, kept vigil at her bedside. He was a father from the first heartbeat.
The children… vanished. No calls, no letters.
Yet on the day she left hospital, all three stood there. Flowers. Balloons. Apologies.
Now, laughter fills the house again. Little Dorothy races about, while her older siblings stay close. Elizabeth visits often. Edward brings his wife for tea. Thomas hosts family suppers.
Margaret looks at William—and her heart stills.
She could have refused. Could have stayed alone. But she chose—to live.
And now she knows: it’s never too late to be happy. Not when love finds you—true and unwavering.
