**Loneliness Out of Hours**
On a February morning, Margaret stood by the window, gazing at the wet pavement peeking through melting snow. The weather was grey and still, the quiet pressing down like a weight. Her eyes drifted over the yard, the playground where she’d once waved her son off to service and her daughter to school. Now, those were other people’s children, other people’s lives.
“I suppose this is it,” Margaret whispered. “Old age. Quiet, unplanned, and lonely.”
The vast dining table in the hall stood empty. The very one where she and Peter had dreamed of weekends filled with grandchildren, Sunday roasts, and family gatherings. But Peter had left too soon. And the grandchildren—they existed, but they were far away.
Louise, her daughter, had moved abroad years ago—better prospects, a different life. She’d never asked Margaret to join. Paul, the younger one, lived across town in a posh neighbourhood. He visited. Sometimes. Once a month. A brief weekend tea, a chat with the kids. He had twins, Oliver and Sophie, already in Year One.
Margaret’s heart ached not from age but from emptiness. She picked up an old album. A wedding photo: Peter, young and dashing in a crisp white shirt, holding a guitar. Oh, how he used to sing. How she’d loved him. How different it all had been—alive, bright, full.
A sharp ping from her phone ripped her from the memory. A message from Marianne, an old school friend:
*”Margaret, hello! I’m throwing a reunion for our class—you must come!”*
She hesitated. What would she even say? Home, pension, the occasional call from the kids. But she went. It was a reunion, after all. An occasion.
Seven classmates. Warmth, laughter. Marianne, ever the hostess, bustled between the kitchen and the sitting room—snacks, toasts, stories. Margaret helped, smiling. They reminisced about camping trips, bonfires, school pranks. Then—a knock at the door.
“Oh, Andrew! You made it!” Marianne cried, rushing to let him in.
A man stepped inside—tall, with distinguished silver hair, a well-groomed moustache, and an easy confidence. He shook hands with the men, then turned to Margaret with a grin.
“Hello, Maggie! Blimey, it’s been ages.”
She stared, bewildered. Then—recognition.
“Goodness, it’s you! Andy! We shared a desk from Year One to Five!”
Margaret laughed. She remembered now—the rowdy little troublemaker her father had begged the teacher not to seat her beside. They’d stayed side by side for five years anyway. Now, he was different. Calm, interesting, with a quiet warmth.
They talked all evening. He’d lived up north, taught at a university, divorced—his wife had left him for a friend. His son was grown, stayed there. He’d come back home, he said. Missed it.
As guests began to leave, Marianne slyly suggested, “Maggie, stay and help me with the washing up.”
“Oh, no, I should head home. It’s just round the corner.”
“I’ll walk you,” Andrew offered.
And so they went. Margaret slipped her arm through his, and together they walked through the February evening, snowflakes dancing under streetlamps.
“It’s a mild winter,” he remarked.
“It is,” she agreed, smiling.
“I thought it’d be cold here. But it’s warm. Know why?”
“Why?”
“Because you’re here.”
They reached her building. Lingered by the doorstep, chatting, laughing. It felt light, strangely bright—like being young again.
Inside, her phone buzzed once more.
*”Fancy the cinema tomorrow, Maggie?”*
She clutched the phone to her chest and smiled.
Loneliness no longer had a place in her life.
