Emma Thompson stood by the window, watching the neighbor hang laundry on the balcony across the way. Morning light softened her silver hair, neatly arranged in the same style she’d worn for forty years. A cup of tea trembled in her hand, gone cold.
“Em, what are you doing over there?” called William Thompson, stepping into the room. “Breakfast is getting cold.”
She didn’t turn. In the window’s reflection, she saw her husband straighten his collar. Seventy-three, and still so particular about his appearance. His hair was thin now, but combed neatly. His trousers pressed, shoes polished.
“I hear you, Will,” she replied softly.
He moved closer, standing beside her.
“What’s on your mind?”
“Oh, nothing much. Just a strange dream.”
Emma set the cup on the sill. In the dream, she’d been young again, twenty-five, in a white dress, staring into a mirror. Her mother had fussed beside her, adjusting the veil, murmuring sweet nothings. She’d woken with damp lashes.
“What sort of dream?” William took her elbow, turning her toward him.
“Our wedding. But not the one we had—a different one. Beautiful.”
He frowned. “What do you mean, not the one we had? Ours was perfectly fine.”
“It was,” Emma agreed, but her voice was weary.
Their wedding had been at the registry office, followed by a quiet meal at a café—just her, William, and his best mate as witness. Her dress had been ready-made, practical, dove grey. In the photos, she smiled, but her eyes were hollow. As if it wasn’t really her.
“Come eat,” William said. “You’ll be late for work.”
Emma had worked at the library for thirty years. The reading room, the lending desk, the catalogue cards. Quiet, predictable. William had protested at first—”What’s the wife need a job for? I can provide.” But she’d insisted. She wanted to be among people, among books. The house stifled her.
Breakfast passed in silence. William read the paper, occasionally commenting on the news. Emma ate her porridge, lost in thought. Rain tapped against the window.
“We’ll stop by Daniel’s this evening,” William said, not looking up. “He rang, invited us for dinner.”
“Alright.”
“Sarah’s probably made something special. You know how she likes to impress.”
Daniel was their only son. He’d married Sarah three years ago—a quiet, homely girl. Emma liked her, but visits with the young couple always left her thinking of her own youth, how it had slipped away unnoticed.
At the library, the day passed as usual. Patrons came and went; she checked books in and out, reshelved them. During lunch, she sat in a corner of the reading room with a book of poetry. A line caught her eye: *”And happiness was so near, so possible…”*
“Emma, got a minute?” a young colleague, Lily, called out.
“Of course. What’s the matter?”
Lily twisted the edge of her cardigan. “Tom proposed, and I don’t know what to do.”
She sat beside Emma, eyes red from crying.
“What’s the trouble? Don’t you love him?”
“I do! So much. But Mum says he’s not good enough. His job’s nothing special, no real prospects. And there’s Mark—he’s got his own business, he’s been after me too.”
Emma studied her. Twenty-two, pretty, her whole life ahead. Facing the same choice Emma once had.
“What does your heart say?”
“My heart…” Lily sniffled. “My heart wants Tom. But Mum’s probably right. Shouldn’t I think with my head?”
“Lily,” Emma took her hand, “you should think, yes. But if you ignore your heart completely, you’ll regret it forever.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
After work, Emma walked through the park where she’d strolled as a girl. She’d met William here. He’d been on leave from the army then, visiting his parents. Handsome, tall, in uniform. All the girls had noticed him.
But she’d been in love with Alex Wright, the boy next door. Alex studied literature, wrote poems, played guitar. Evenings, they’d sit on the bench outside her house while he read her his work. They’d planned to marry, build a life.
Her mother had objected.
“Emma, have you lost your mind? That Alex—what’s he got? A student, no money, no proper job. But William—he’s steady, army man, factory job after. He’ll provide. A reliable sort.”
“But I don’t love him, Mum!”
“You’ll grow to. Love’s not what makes a marriage—it’s respect, understanding.”
William had been persistent. Flowers, cinema trips, talk of settling down. Alex… Alex was a dreamer. Believed love was enough, the rest would follow.
Emma had agonized. Her mother’s logic on one side, her heart burning for Alex on the other.
The decisive moment came on an autumn evening. William arrived to formally ask for her hand. Sat in their cramped sitting room, discussing futures with her mother. Emma stood by the window, watching Alex pace under the streetlamp. Waiting for her, as always.
“Well, Emma?” William had turned to her.
Her mother’s eyes pleaded—*say yes, don’t be foolish.*
Emma looked out. Alex stared up at the window. Even from a distance, she felt his gaze.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I’ll marry you.”
Her mother exhaled in relief. William smiled, kissed her cheek.
Alex lingered under the lamp another moment, then walked away. He never came back.
They married a month later. Quietly, no fanfare. Emma smiled through the congratulations, danced with William. Felt like she was watching someone else’s life.
Alex left town straight after the wedding. No one knew where. *Good riddance,* her mother had said. *No use dwelling.*
Life with William was steady. He was a decent husband—didn’t drink, didn’t stray, brought his wages home. They got a council flat, had Daniel. Everything as it should be.
But she wasn’t happy. There was comfort, respect, routine. But not the kind of happiness that made your heart race.
Emma blinked, pulling herself back. The park had grown dark. William would be worrying.
At home, he was pacing.
“Where’ve you been? It’s past seven!”
“Just walking. Needed air.”
“You should’ve called. I thought something happened.”
“Sorry. I forgot.”
They got ready for Daniel’s in silence. Emma put on her best dress; William wore his suit. Same as always when they visited.
Daniel and Sarah’s flat was warm, candles lit. Their son poured wine, raised a toast.
“To you, Mum, Dad. For teaching me what family means.”
Emma sipped her wine. Wondered what exactly she’d taught him. To endure? To settle? To quiet his own heart for peace?
“Mum, remember the fairy tales you told me?” Daniel asked suddenly. “About princesses waiting for their princes?”
She smiled. “I do.”
“I asked if all of them found happiness. You said, *Not all, sweetheart. Not everyone gets that luck.*”
“Did I say that?”
“You did. It used to make me sad—those princesses who didn’t get their happy ending.”
Sarah squeezed Daniel’s hand.
“But we found ours.”
He kissed her, and in their eyes, Emma saw what hers had lacked. Real, alive, unpracticed love.
“We’ve news,” Sarah said shyly. “We’re expecting.”
William banged the table. “About time! I’ll be a grandad! Emma, did you hear?”
“Could be a girl,” Sarah corrected.
“Doesn’t matter! Family’s what counts!”
Emma hugged them, congratulated them. But her mind whispered: *What life will this child have? Will they be happy? Will they break the cycle?*
They took the bus home. William chattered about nurseries, cots, toys. Emma watched the city lights blur past. Somewhere out there, maybe Alex lived still. Or perhaps he’d gone far away, made a life, forgot the girl who’d said “yes” to the wrong man.
That night, sleep wouldn’t come. William snored softly beside her. The clock ticked on, counting down a life half-lived.
In the morning, she made a decision. Once William left for work, she dug out an old address book. Found the name she needed.
Margaret—her old friend—lived a borough over. They’d lost touch after Emma married, but Margaret had known Alex.
Her fingers shook as she dialed.
“Margaret? It’s Emma. Emma Thompson now.”
“Emma! Goodness, years! How are you?”
“Fine. Listen, this’ll sound odd… Do you know what became of Alex Wright?”
A pause.”Emma hung up, smoothed her dress, and walked toward the school gates where Alex stood waiting under the same old lamppost, as if fifty years had never passed.”
