**The Third Attempt**
Jane slipped into her white coat, settled behind her desk, and leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes to steady herself before the day’s work. A knock at the door. *Who on earth could that be?* she thought irritably. *Can’t they give me a moment to breathe?*
When she didn’t answer, the door inched open, and a man’s face appeared in the gap.
“Mind if I come in?”
She shot him a stern look. “Appointments start at two,” she snapped, picking up a file as if it demanded her full attention.
A minute later, she glanced back. The man was still there.
“I *just* told you—” she began, but he cut her off.
“It *is* two,” he said, nodding toward the clock between the windows.
Sure enough, the minute hand hovered over twelve, poised to begin its cycle. Time to begin. Her already sour mood darkened further.
“Come in, then,” she sighed.
The man stepped inside, and her practiced eye assessed him as he approached. No sign of illness—trim, well-kept, clean-shaven, his broad face free of the strain of pain.
“Name?” she asked, reaching for the stack of patient cards.
“Johnson. Michael Thomas.”
He dropped into the chair across from her, lounging as if he owned the place. *Bloody cheek*, she thought.
She found his slim file. Just two notes from an optician.
“What brings you in?” she asked coolly, already preparing to dismiss him.
“Can’t sleep, doc. Yawning all day at work, out like a light when I hit the pillow—then wide awake at three in the morning, staring at the ceiling till dawn.”
“How long?”
“Two months. Since my wife came back. Left me for some bloke, just as I was getting used to peace—then swans back in. Can’t kick her out, either. We’ve got a daughter.”
“Spare me the details. Here’s a referral for an X-ray and blood tests. Come back when they’re done.”
“Really? All that for insomnia?”
“You’ve not had a check-up in years, have you? Might as well get it over with.”
“And what do I do about the sleepless nights?” He twisted the stack of referrals in his hands.
“Cut the stress. Leave her. You slept fine without her, didn’t you?”
“Easy to say. The flat’s too small to split. She won’t go, and I won’t leave my kid. Parents are gone. Not about to rent at my age. Just give me some pills, yeah?”
Reluctantly, she pulled out a prescription pad.
“You single?” Michael asked suddenly. “You look rough—troubles of your own?”
Her pen froze mid-stroke. *The bloody nerve.*
“None of your business,” she snapped.
“Just asking. Doctors are human too. Husband left you?”
She wanted to say yes—ten years ago, for a younger woman, leaving her with three kids. The eldest was in Germany now, married, no plans to return. The daughter had fled to London last year. And the youngest—her last hope—had followed just this morning, deaf to her protests. Fifty years old, staring down retirement and solitude. No friends, no parents, no one to complain to.
She blinked back to the present.
“Here’s your prescription. Get those tests done.” She slid the paper toward him.
“Cheers.” He took it but didn’t move.
“Anything else? People are waiting.”
“Right, right.” He stood, hesitated at the door, glancing back. She hadn’t looked away fast enough.
An elderly woman shuffled in—the sort who treated the clinic like a social club—and Jane braced herself for another hour of listening to complaints about aches no pill could fix.
—
That evening, shrugging off her coat, she remembered the empty flat waiting for her. The despair rolled in like fog. She bit her lip, refusing to cry, and stepped outside.
“Dr. Smith!”
Michael stood there, holding a takeaway cup. “You looked so miserable earlier. Thought you might want coffee. Just to talk.”
She stiffened. “What gave you that idea?”
“Come off it. I’ve been around. Not all women are like my ex. Let’s sit. No ulterior motives.”
She nearly told him to sod off.
“Fine,” she muttered.
He chatted about the weather, the coming winter, while she walked beside him, certain this was a mistake. But the coffee warmed her. His terrible jokes made her laugh. Then came the wine—why not? It loosened the knot in her chest.
Before she knew it, she was confessing: the fight with her son, the emptiness, the grandchild in Germany she’d never met. His sympathy nearly broke her.
Later, leaning on his arm as they left, she let him hail a taxi. At her door, she dismissed him—though not before seeing the hope in his eyes.
—
The next day, he was outside the clinic with flowers.
“Are you *mad*?” She glanced around. “People will talk.”
“I don’t care.”
She stormed off, leaving him bewildered.
For days, he didn’t appear. Then, on the fifth, he was there—no flowers this time.
“I don’t want a relationship,” she said.
“I’m not asking for one. I just… missed you.”
That night, he kissed her at her door. Soft, tentative. She didn’t stop him.
“Whose slippers?” he asked in the hallway.
“My son’s.”
In the kitchen, the kettle boiled. She poured tea, watching him across the table.
“You hoping to sleep with me?” she asked bluntly.
He swallowed. “Well… are you against it?”
She laughed—then he kissed her properly.
For half a year, they lived together in quiet contentment. Then, one evening, he slid a ring box toward her.
“Try it on.”
It fit perfectly.
“You’re still married,” she said, taking it off.
“Not anymore. Bought this the day after we met. Didn’t want to give it to you while I was tied to her.”
At fifty, love felt different—not the reckless passion of youth, but something deeper.
They booked the registry office. The night before, they drank too much and missed the appointment. The second time, her dress wouldn’t zip. The third—well. Fate relented.
Now, when the door knocks, she answers with a smile. Happiness might be on the other side.
And who knows? Maybe the children will remember her one day.
