Margaret sat by the window, turning the delicate bouquet over in her hands. The courier had delivered it half an hour ago, and there was no mistake—the flowers were meant for her. The note tucked inside said only two words: *For lovely Margaret.* A secret admirer had emerged just after her divorce, and though she’d moved on from Andrew, the wounds still ached. It wasn’t the love she missed—it was the humiliation, the way his mother, Evelyn, had poisoned everything, and how Andrew had stood by her every cruel word.
That first bouquet had arrived the very evening she’d signed the divorce papers. Margaret had nearly thrown them out, convinced it was Andrew’s idea of a cruel joke. But no—he’d never been the sort to spend money on flowers. Yet here they were, elegant roses, arriving twice a week with the same simple note. She’d puzzled over it for weeks.
Then, in a flash, she remembered. The only time Andrew had ever bought her flowers was after a terrible row—one Evelyn had engineered.
*”You’re wasting money!”* he’d roared when he found out she’d treated herself to a manicure. *”We agreed to discuss big expenses!”*
*”It wasn’t that much,”* Margaret had argued. *”I work too, and I can spend my own earnings.”*
But Evelyn had already planted the seed, whispering in his ear about reckless spending, and Andrew had snapped.
Margaret exhaled sharply. That had been the pattern—Evelyn’s meddling, Andrew’s temper. She’d pick at everything: the cleanliness of the flat, the way Margaret dressed, even her weight. *”Look at her—no one else would want her now,”* she’d sneer, goading Andrew into another fight.
But Margaret had had enough. The final straw came when Andrew, parroting his mother, called her *”a cow”* for gaining a few pounds. She’d left for good that day.
Now, with the divorce settled, she could breathe. And then—the flowers.
At first, she hadn’t known. Until the day she ran into Lydia, Andrew’s cousin, who mentioned in passing: *”Did you hear? Evelyn and George are divorced. She found receipts—flowers he’d been buying for years. He admitted he’s in love with someone else.”*
Margaret’s heart jumped. George—Andrew’s father? The quiet man who’d never joined in Evelyn’s cruelty? Who’d once, years ago, even defended her?
That night, she called him.
*”Margaret,”* he said, warmth in his voice. *”What a lovely surprise.”*
*”It was you, wasn’t it?”* she asked, pulse racing.
A pause. Then, softly: *”Yes.”*
She didn’t love him—not then. But he’d never expected her to. *”Think of me as a friend,”* he’d said. *”Just let me send you flowers. You deserve them.”*
And slowly, without meaning to, she’d let him in. He’d fixed a burst pipe in her tiny flat, helped her choose a car, made her laugh. She hadn’t realised how light love could feel—no shouting, no walking on eggshells. Just quiet steadiness.
Of course, the backlash was swift. Andrew raged; Evelyn screeched about scandal. Even her own mother balked. *”A man twice your age?”* she’d gasped.
But George stood firm. *”If you ever speak to Margaret like that again,”* he warned Andrew, *”you’ll regret it.”*
They married quietly. The gossips whispered, then moved on.
Now, Margaret traces the petals of another bouquet and smiles. The past is just that—past. And for the first time, the future feels like her own.
**Lesson learned:** Love isn’t about grand gestures—it’s about the quiet moments, the ones where someone shows up and stays.
