**Diary Entry**
Valerie stood by the window, watching her neighbour hang laundry on the balcony opposite. The morning light softened the grey in her hair, still neatly arranged in the same style she’d worn for forty years. Her hand trembled slightly around a cup of lukewarm tea.
“Val, you’ll be late if you keep standing there,” Michael called from the kitchen. “Breakfast’s getting cold.”
She didn’t turn. In the reflection of the glass, she watched him adjust his shirt collar. Seventy-three, and he still took pride in his appearance—thinning hair combed back, trousers pressed, shoes polished.
“I’m listening, Mike,” she murmured.
He stepped closer, standing beside her. “What’s on your mind?”
“Nothing important. Just a strange dream.”
She set the cup on the windowsill. In the dream, she’d been twenty-five again, wearing a white dress in front of the mirror while her mother fussed with the veil, whispering sweet nothings. She’d woken with damp cheeks.
“What dream?” Michael took her elbow, turning her towards him.
“Our wedding. But not how it really was—a proper one. Beautiful.”
He frowned. “What do you mean? Ours was fine.”
“It was fine,” she agreed, but her voice was weary.
They’d married at the registry office, then had a quiet meal at a café—just the two of them and his best mate as witness. The dress had been grey, practical. In the photos, she smiled, but her eyes were empty, as if it weren’t her face at all.
“Come eat,” Michael said. “You’ll be late for work.”
Valerie had worked at the library for thirty years. The hush of the reading room, the rhythm of checking books in and out—it was her escape. Michael had argued at first—”Why does my wife need to work?”—but she’d insisted. The house felt stifling.
Breakfast passed in silence. Michael read the paper, occasionally commenting on the headlines. Valerie stirred her porridge, lost in thought. Rain tapped against the window.
“We’re having dinner at George’s tonight,” Michael said without looking up. “He rang earlier. Gail’s cooked something special.”
George was their only son. He’d married Gail three years ago—a quiet, capable girl Valerie liked well enough, though seeing them together always made her think of her own youth, which had slipped by unnoticed.
At the library, the day unfolded as usual. Visitors came and went; she shelved books, stamped returns. During her lunch break, she opened a book of poetry and stumbled upon the line: *”Happiness was so near, so possible…”*
“Valerie, got a minute?” Her young colleague, Lucy, hovered nervously, twisting the hem of her cardigan. Her eyes were red-rimmed.
“Of course. What’s wrong?”
“It’s Rob. He’s proposed, but I’m not sure.”
“You don’t love him?”
“I do! So much. But Mum says he’s not good enough. Says his job’s dead-end, and there’s Tom—he owns his own company, and he’s keen on me too.”
Valerie studied her—twenty-two, pretty, her whole life ahead. Facing the same choice she once had.
“What does your heart say?”
“My heart wants Rob,” Lucy sniffled. “But Mum’s probably right. I should think with my head.”
“Lucy,” Valerie took her hand. “Listen to me. Of course, you must be sensible. But if you ignore your heart completely, you’ll regret it forever.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
After work, she lingered in the park where she’d walked as a girl. It was here she’d met Michael—home on army leave, handsome in his uniform, turning every girl’s head.
But she’d loved Alex Morrison, the boy next door. He’d studied literature, written poems, played the guitar. They’d sat on this very bench, planning their future.
Her mother had disapproved.
“Have you lost your mind?” she’d said. “Alex has no prospects! Michael’s steady—he’ll provide. You’ll learn to love him.”
Michael had been persistent—flowers, cinema trips, promises of security. Alex? Alex had been a dreamer, believing love was enough.
The final decision came on an autumn evening. Michael came to propose properly, sitting stiffly in their parlour while her mother beamed. Valerie had stood by the window, watching Alex pace under the streetlamp, waiting for her.
“Well, Val?” Michael had asked.
Her mother’s eyes pleaded: *Say yes.*
Valerie looked out at Alex. Even from a distance, she felt his gaze.
“Yes,” she’d whispered.
Alex had lingered a moment longer under the lamp, then walked away.
Their wedding had been a month later. Small, plain. In the photos, she smiled, but it wasn’t her.
Alex left town shortly after. Life with Michael was steady—he was reliable, a good father. But happiness? That fierce, thrilling thing? It never came.
Shaking off the memory, she headed home. Michael was pacing.
“Where’ve you been? It’s past seven!”
“I needed air.”
“You could’ve called.”
At George’s, the table was set with candles. Gail had cooked a roast. George raised a toast—”To family, to all you’ve taught me.”
Valerie sipped her wine, wondering what exactly she’d taught him. Compromise? Resignation?
“Mum,” George said suddenly, “remember the fairy tales you told me? About princesses waiting for their princes?”
She smiled. “I do.”
“You’d say, *Not all of them find happiness, son.* It used to break my heart.”
Gail squeezed George’s hand. “We found each other, though.”
Watching them, Valerie saw what she’d never had—real, unguarded love.
“We’ve news,” Gail said shyly. “We’re expecting.”
Michael beamed. “A grandchild! Val, did you hear?”
Valerie hugged Gail, her mind racing. What kind of life would this child have? Would they be brave enough to choose differently?
At home, Michael chattered about nurseries and prams. Valerie stared out the bus window, wondering if Alex still lived in the city, if he ever thought of her.
That night, sleep wouldn’t come. Beside her, Michael snored softly. The clock ticked on, counting the years she’d let slip by.
By morning, she’d made her decision. Once Michael left, she dug out an old address book and rang her childhood friend, Lydia.
“Lydia, it’s Valerie. Listen—do you know what became of Alex Morrison?”
A pause. “He’s back in town. Teaches English at St. Mary’s. His wife passed a few years ago.”
Her hands shook. “Which school?”
“St. Mary’s. Why?”
“Just curious.”
All day, her mind wandered. At work, Lucy noticed.
“You were right,” Lucy said. “I’m marrying Rob.”
Valerie smiled. “Good.”
“And you?” Lucy hesitated. “Did you ever have that kind of love?”
“I did.”
“What happened?”
“I listened to my mother.”
“Do you regret it?”
Valerie’s voice was barely audible. “Every day.”
That evening, Michael stormed in. “Peter’s wife saw you with some man at the theatre. Explain.”
“An old friend. Alex Morrison.”
“*That* Alex? You’re seeing him?”
“As friends.”
“At our age? Don’t lie to me!”
“I’m not. We talk. We go to museums.”
“You’ll stop. Now.”
Valerie stood. “No.”
“*What?*”
“I’ve spent fifty years doing what I was told. No more.”
Michael sank into a chair. “I always knew you didn’t love me.”
“You’re a good man. But I want more.”
“And if I say it’s him or me?”
“Then I choose him.”
That night, she met Alex on their bench.
“Michael knows,” she said.
Alex took her hand. “I don’t want to hurt your family.”
“It’s my choice. My happiness.”
“Are you sure?”
Above them, the same stars shone as fifty years ago.
“Alex,” she said softly, “ask me properly this time.”
He knelt right there on the path. “Marry me, Valerie. Let’s have the years we were meant to.”
She looked at him—grey now, weathered, but with the same kind eyes.
“Yes,” she said.
And for the first time in decades, it was a *yes* she truly meant.
