Margaret gazed thoughtfully at the exquisite bouquet delivered to her doorstep half an hour earlier. There was no mistake—the flowers were meant for her. A small note confirmed it with just two words: “To lovely Margaret.”
A secret admirer had emerged just after her divorce. Margaret had struggled with the split from Andrew. It wasn’t about lingering affection but the venom his mother, Patricia, had spewed—while Andrew, now her ex, had backed her every word.
How strangely things had unfolded. That very evening she returned home with divorce papers, a courier had rung her doorbell. Seeing the lavish roses, she’d initially suspected Andrew of mocking her. Yet flowers like these cost a fortune—something her ex-husband had only indulged in once, long ago.
From then on, bouquets arrived two or three times a week, each accompanied by a brief note. Margaret puzzled endlessly over who could be sending them.
As she admired the roses, she recalled the single time Andrew had given her flowers—after a vile argument. Patricia had gone out of her way to turn him against his wife.
“You’re squandering money!” he’d roared upon learning she’d gotten her nails done at an upscale salon.
“It’s not that much,” Margaret countered. “I work, too. I have every right to spend on myself.”
“We agreed to discuss big expenses together,” he snapped. “Your nails cost a fortune! Mum told me exactly how much!”
Margaret scoffed. Of course—Patricia was behind it. She’d despised her daughter-in-law from day one, nitpicking endlessly.
Andrew never defended her. He sided with his mother, who constantly whispered poison—about smudged windows, about Margaret’s work attire (“That dress slit? Her male boss must love it—probably twisting for a promotion!”).
The final straw had been a fight over her nails. Andrew called her a gold-digger.
“Can’t you hear yourself?” she shot back. “I earn more than you!”
It was true. Andrew had job-hopped for months, complaining about pay or conditions. He’d never contributed to groceries, barely covered utilities. That day, he’d exploded over rent.
“We can’t pay bills, and you waste money on nails!”
“Maybe earn properly, then! I buy everything—groceries, petrol, even your clothes!”
“You live in my flat, yet dare throw money in my face?” he seethed. “Mum’s right—let a woman in, and she thinks she owns the place.”
Patricia had convinced him the flat was his domain; his wife merely a tolerated guest. When Margaret refused to cower, he sneered, “If you want to waste cash, get out!”
He never expected her to pack up and leave. She had a tiny flat from before marriage—shabby but livable.
Panicked, Andrew ran to Patricia. “I yelled at her, and she just left!”
“Good riddance!” she scoffed. “A decent wife wouldn’t abandon her husband—especially after stealing from the household!”
“Stealing?” interjected John, Patricia’s usually silent husband.
John rarely contradicted his wife. But this—berating a woman over manicures—was beyond shameful.
Patricia ranted on, but John shook his head. Later, when Andrew lamented that Margaret wouldn’t return, John pulled him aside.
“Margaret’s one in a million. Don’t be a fool—fight for her.”
“But how?”
“Be a man. Buy flowers—proper ones. Apologise. Treat her right.”
Desperate, Andrew followed his father’s advice. A grand bouquet won Margaret back—briefly. Within weeks, Patricia’s whispers revived Andrew’s cruelty. The end came when he mocked her weight (“Mum says you’re a cow now—lucky to have me!”).
Margaret walked out for good.
She felt only relief when the divorce finalized. That same day, a courier delivered roses from a mystery sender. Soon, bouquets became routine.
Then Patricia discovered floral receipts in John’s pockets.
“You’re cheating?” she shrieked.
John admitted it—he’d fallen for another woman years ago. He moved out, leaving her the flat but taking his car and cottage.
Weeks later, Margaret bumped into Andrew’s cousin, Emma.
“John and Patricia divorced!” Emma gasped. “Aunt Pat found receipts—he’s been sending flowers to some woman anonymously!”
Margaret’s pulse raced. She remembered—John had never joined in their cruelty. He’d even defended her.
That evening, she called him.
“Was it you?”
A pause. Then, softly, “Yes.”
“But why?”
“Because I love you.”
She froze.
“I’ve loved you since you first walked into our home,” he admitted.
“You never said a word.”
“How could I? You were my son’s wife.”
“And you were married.”
“In name only,” he sighed. “I stayed out of duty.”
Margaret confessed she didn’t love him—but John only laughed softly. He’d never expected reciprocation. The flowers? Just a wish to see her happy.
“Let me be your friend,” he offered. “Or an older cousin. And—let me keep sending roses. Andrew never did.”
Touched, Margaret hung up, flustered.
Soon after, a pipe burst in her shabby flat. Frantic, she called John. He guided her calmly, then arrived to fix it—charging only a cup of tea.
They grew close. He helped her shop for a car, became her confidant. Slowly, Margaret realised something: love could be easy. A man could ease burdens, not add to them.
When their relationship became public, outrage followed. Andrew seethed; Patricia screeched about disgrace. John silenced them—threatening Andrew with consequences for insults, reminding Patricia the flat wasn’t fully hers.
Margaret’s parents were worse.
“A disgrace!” her mother wailed. “Dating an old man!”
“He’s not old,” Margaret said.
“Twenty years older! How do I face people?”
“Maybe don’t, if they judge your daughter.”
At first, the scorn stung. But for the first time, Margaret felt truly supported—not by parents nor ex-husband, but by John. He shielded her, spoiled her, made life joyful. Eventually, the gossip faded.
They married quietly, surrounded only by those who accepted them. A mortgage on a new flat—funded by selling John’s cottage—secured their future.
Margaret learned a priceless lesson: love isn’t about enduring torment. It’s about finding someone who turns life’s storms into quiet, sunlit days.
