Margaret Whitmore stood by the window, watching her neighbor hang laundry on the balcony across the street. Morning light softened her silver hair, neatly styled in the same way she’d worn it for forty years. A cup of lukewarm tea trembled in her hand.
“Maggie, what are you staring at?” called William from the doorway. “Your breakfast’s going cold.”
She didn’t turn. In the glass reflection, she saw him adjust his shirt collar. Seventy-three, and still fussing over his appearance. His hair might’ve thinned, but it was perfectly combed. His trousers were pressed, shoes polished.
“I’m listening, Will,” she murmured.
He stepped closer, joining her by the window.
“What’s on your mind?”
“Oh, nothing. Just a strange dream.”
Margaret set her cup on the sill. In the dream, she’d been twenty-five again, standing before a mirror in a white dress while her mother fussed with her veil, murmuring sweet nothings. She’d woken with damp eyes.
“What dream?” William took her elbow, turning her toward him.
“Our wedding. But not as it was—something beautiful.”
He frowned.
“What do you mean, ‘not as it was’? We had a perfectly nice wedding.”
“Perfectly nice,” she agreed, but her voice was weary.
They’d married at the registry office, then shared a modest lunch at a café—just her, William, and his best mate as witness. Her dress had been sensible, grey. In the photos, she smiled, but her eyes looked empty, as if the face weren’t hers at all.
“Come eat,” William said. “You’ll be late for work.”
Margaret had spent thirty years at the library—issuing books, shelving returns, the quiet rhythm of卡片 catalogues. William had protested at first—“Why should my wife work? I earn enough.” But she’d insisted. She needed to be among people, among stories. Home felt stifling.
Breakfast passed in silence. William read the paper, occasionally commenting on headlines. Margaret stirred her porridge, lost in thought. Rain tapped against the window.
“We’re having dinner at Edward’s tonight,” William said, not looking up. “He rang earlier.”
“Lovely.”
“Charlotte’s probably cooked something special. You know how she dotes.”
Edward was their only son. He’d married Charlotte three years prior—a gentle, capable girl. Margaret adored her, but visits with the young couple always left her wistful, reminded of a youth that had slipped by unnoticed.
At the library, the day unfolded as usual. Patrons came and went; she stamped books, reshelved tattered paperbacks. At lunch, she escaped to a corner of the reading room with a poetry collection. A line leapt out: “Where happiness was once so near, so bright…”
“Margaret, got a moment?” A young colleague, Lizzie, hovered nervously.
“Of course. What’s wrong?”
“It’s just—I don’t know what to do. Tommy’s proposed, but I’m hesitating.”
Lizzie twisted the hem of her cardigan. Her eyes were red-rimmed.
“Do you love him?”
“Madly! But Mum says he’s not good enough. His job’s unstable, no prospects. Whereas Oliver Banks has his own firm—he’s been pursuing me too.”
Margaret studied the girl—twenty-two, pretty, her whole life ahead. Facing the same choice Margaret once had.
“What does your heart say?”
“My heart…” Lizzie sniffled. “My heart wants Tommy. But Mum’s right, isn’t she? I should think practically.”
“Lizzie.” Margaret took her hand. “Listen—yes, you must think. But if you ignore your heart entirely, you’ll spend a lifetime regretting it.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
After work, Margaret lingered in the park where she’d strolled as a girl. She’d met William here—he’d been on leave from the army, dashing in his uniform. All the girls had swooned.
But she’d loved Alfie Morrison, the boy next door. Alfie wrote poetry, strummed a guitar. They’d sit on his garden wall as he read her verses, dreaming of a life together.
Mum had disapproved.
“Margaret, have you lost your senses?” she’d scolded. “Alfie’s a dreamer! No money, no prospects. William’s steady—army man, soon to work at the factory. He’ll provide.”
“But I don’t love him!”
“You’ll grow to. Love isn’t what makes a marriage—it’s respect.”
William had been persistent—flowers, cinema dates, earnest promises. Alfie? Alfie believed love conquered all.
The final choice came one autumn evening. William arrived to formally propose, chatting with Mum about futures and finances. Margaret stood by the window, watching Alfie’s silhouette under the streetlamp. Waiting, as always.
“Well, Maggie?” William had asked.
Mum’s eyes pleaded—say yes.
Margaret had looked down at Alfie. Even from afar, she’d felt his gaze.
“Yes,” she’d whispered.
Mum exhaled. William kissed her cheek.
Alfie had lingered under the lamp, then walked away. He never waited by her window again.
They’d married a month later. A quiet registry affair, no fanfare. Her smile in the photos didn’t reach her eyes.
Alfie left town after the wedding. Mum said it was for the best.
Life with William was… fine. He was reliable—sober, faithful, a good provider. They’d had Edward, moved into a tidy house. Everything proper.
But happiness? That fierce, heart-thrumming joy? It never came.
Now, standing in the dimming park, Margaret shook off the memory. Time to go home. William would fret.
He was pacing when she arrived.
“Where’ve you been? It’s past seven!”
“Walking. Needed air.”
“You might’ve rung!”
“Sorry.”
They prepared for dinner in silence. Margaret wore her best dress; William, his suit. As always.
Edward and Charlotte’s flat was cosy, candles flickering. Edward raised a glass.
“To Mum and Dad—for teaching me the value of family.”
Margaret sipped her wine, wondering what lessons she’d truly imparted. Patience? Forgotten dreams?
“Remember the fairy tales you told me?” Edward asked suddenly. “About princesses waiting for princes.”
“I do.”
“You’d say, ‘Not all get their happy endings.’”
“Did I?”
Charlotte squeezed Edward’s hand. “We did.”
Watching them, Margaret saw what she’d never had—love, bright and unfeigned.
“We’ve news,” Charlotte blushed. “I’m expecting.”
William bellowed with joy. “A grandchild! Margaret, did you hear?”
Margaret congratulated them, hugging Charlotte tightly. But her thoughts spiralled—Would this child chase happiness, or settle?
On the bus home, William chatted about nurseries and prams. Margaret gazed out at the city lights. Somewhere out there, perhaps Alfie still lived. Had he married? Moved on?
That night, sleep eluded her. William snored beside her; the clock’s ticking mocked the years wasted.
By morning, she’d decided. Once William left, she dug out an old address book.
Lydia Parker—an old friend who might know Alfie’s fate.
Her hands shook as she dialled.
“Lydia? It’s Margaret. Margaret Whitmore now.”
“Goodness! How long’s it been?”
“Ages. Listen—this’ll sound odd, but… do you know what became of Alfie Morrison?”
A pause.
“He’s back in town. Teaches English at St. Mary’s. Widowed, poor man.”
Margaret’s heart hammered.
“Which school?”
“St. Mary’s Secondary. Why?”
“Just… curious. Thank you.”
Alfie. Here. Four years, and she’d never known.
At work, she misfiled books, flustered. Lizzie noticed.
“You’re miles away today.”
“Just tired.”
“About what you said yesterday… I’ve decided. I’ll marry Tommy. Love over money.”
Margaret smiled. “Wise girl.”
“Were you in love? Before?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“I listened to my mother. Married another.”
“Do you regret it?”
Margaret hesitated.
“Every day.”
That evening, after William slept, she slipped out. The bus to St. Mary’s took thirty minutes. She stood by the school gates, staring at lit windows. Somewhere inside, Alfie marked papers or planned lessons.
She left without seeing him. What would she say? “Hello, remember me? The fool who chose wrong fifty years ago?”
But she returned the next day. And the next.
Then—there*This* time, as she stood by the gates, she spotted him walking out with a worn leather satchel, his silver hair catching the evening light, and when he turned—as if sensing her gaze—she took a breath and stepped forward, ready at last to rewrite the ending.
