Margaret gazed thoughtfully at the beautiful bouquet the courier had delivered half an hour ago. There was no mistake—the flowers were meant for her. The note tucked inside said just two words: “To lovely Margaret.”
Ever since her divorce, she’d had a secret admirer. The split with Andrew had been hard, not so much because of lost love, but because of the venom his mother had poured over her—and the way Andrew had backed his mum up instead of defending her.
That first evening, when Margaret had come home with the divorce papers, the doorbell rang. Seeing the extravagant roses, she’d almost laughed—was this Andrew’s idea of a joke? Though he’d never been one to splurge, not even once in their marriage, apart from that single bouquet years ago.
But from that day on, flowers arrived two or three times a week, always with a short note. She’d racked her brains trying to guess who the sender might be—until today.
As she admired the roses, she remembered the one time Andrew had ever given her flowers. It was after a terrible row—one his mother had expertly engineered.
*”You’re wasting money!”* he’d shouted when he found out she’d gotten her nails done at an expensive salon.
“They’re not that expensive,” she’d argued. “I work too, you know. I have a right to spend on myself.”
*”We agreed to discuss big expenses! Do you know how much this nonsense cost? Mum told me!”*
Margaret had scoffed. Of course—his mother, Veronica, had never liked her from day one. Always nitpicking, always whispering poison in Andrew’s ear.
And Andrew? He’d never once stood up for her. He’d take his mother’s side every time. Veronica would drop by unannounced, wrinkle her nose at the *”filthy windows,”* and Andrew would later scream at Margaret for being a *”slob.”* Once, she’d even convinced him Margaret was *”up to no good”* at work because of her *”scandalous dress.”*
The final straw had been when Andrew called her *”a fat cow”*—a remark inspired, no doubt, by his mother. Never mind that Margaret was perfectly healthy—just not as thin as Veronica would’ve liked.
She left for good that day.
And on the very evening she’d signed the divorce papers, the first bouquet arrived from her mysterious admirer.
Little did she know then that flowers would keep coming—or who was sending them.
It wasn’t until she bumped into Andrew’s cousin, Emily, that the pieces fell into place.
*”You’ll never believe it,”* Emily said. *”William and Veronica are getting divorced.”*
*”What? But they’ve been married thirty-five years!”*
*”Turns out Aunt Veronica found receipts for dozens of bouquets—and Uncle William admitted he’s in love with someone else.”*
Margaret’s pulse raced. *No. It couldn’t be.*
Then she remembered—William had never joined in when his wife and son berated her. In fact, he’d even quietly defended her a few times.
That night, she couldn’t sleep.
The next time flowers arrived, she called him.
*”William… it was you, wasn’t it?”*
Silence. Then, softly—*”Yes.”*
*”But… why?”*
*”Because I love you,”* he admitted. *”I have for years.”*
Shock. Disbelief.
*”But you never said anything!”*
*”You were married to my son,”* he said gently.
She didn’t love him—not then. But when her flat’s pipes burst weeks later, he was the one who rushed over to help. And as they talked over tea, something unexpected bloomed.
What started as friendship became love—quiet, steady, unshaken by the outrage of family. Andrew hurled insults; Veronica screeched about *”scandal.”* Even Margaret’s own mother accused her of *”shaming the family.”*
But William stood by her.
They married quietly, bought a home, and built a life where she finally knew what it meant to be cherished.
And every week, without fail, fresh flowers still arrived at her door.
