When the bus broke down, life—against all odds—started up again.
Margaret White was on her way back from her cottage with her grandchildren. The August sun blazed mercilessly, the children were fussy, and the bus, unable to withstand the midday heat, suddenly stalled right in the middle of the road. A murmur of irritation rose through the cabin—passengers grumbled, fanned themselves with newspapers, and swore at the driver. But Margaret only had eyes for her two exhausted little ones, and she knew: waiting for the next bus would be torture. She’d have to call her son to come pick them up. As she reached for her phone, a car pulled up beside them. The window rolled down slowly, and when she peered inside, her breath caught.
But this story had begun long before that scorching afternoon…
Margaret hadn’t married for love, nor even for security—but out of sheer circumstance. At twenty-five, in her village, she was already considered “left on the shelf.” Then came William—a handyman, clever with his fingers but just as quick with a pint. Her parents pressed her, her friends were all married with children… so she relented.
At first, they tried to make it work. She tried to love him; he never bothered to be loved. Their marriage dissolved into mere coexistence. Then came their son, Andrew, and two years later, their daughter, Lily. With children to feed, William spiraled. He took odd jobs—fixing roofs, mending fences, taking whatever payment villagers could spare. But when they moved to the city, into his inherited flat, everything fell apart.
William couldn’t hold down work—a factory here, a market stall there, never for long. Margaret took a job as a nursery assistant just to keep her children fed. Money was tight, the ’90s were brutal, and despair settled in. The cottage in the village had long been sold. And William never missed a chance to remind her: *It’s my flat. Walk out if you want—but where would you go?*
And where *could* she go? Margaret endured—for the children. There wasn’t a shred of love left, just bitterness and regret. But time changed things. She landed a steady job in HR, started earning properly. William tinkered in a garage. They had enough for food, but happiness never came.
When Andrew got into college and Lily was only fourteen, William was gone—a heart attack. Margaret wept, of course, but not with grief. To her, he had always been a stranger. Burying him left her alone with the children. She was only forty-five, yet she felt ancient—no love, no dreams, no hope.
She poured herself into her children. Didn’t pry, didn’t meddle. She knew too well the misery of a loveless life. She never pressed for grandchildren—time would tell. But when Andrew and Lily married, when they gave her grandchildren, her heart swelled with a joy she’d never known.
Her children looked after her now, and she spent her summers at the cottage with the little ones, peaceful at last.
Life had settled into its rhythm—no surprises, no upheavals. Margaret had long resigned herself to the idea that romance had passed her by. She tried sometimes to recall a happy memory from her marriage—but there were none. She had never loved him.
And then came that fateful afternoon. The broken-down bus. The sweltering heat. The fussy children. Just as she pulled out her phone to call Andrew, a car stopped beside them.
The driver, a man her age, rolled down his window. “Trouble?”
“Yes,” she sighed. “This dreadful heat…”
“Are these yours?” he asked, nodding at the children.
“My grandchildren. I was about to call for a ride.”
“Let me take you. No arguments—you can’t stay out here.”
She nearly refused, then nodded. His name was Robert. He, too, had been returning from his cottage—but he had a car. They talked easily on the drive. A widower, also with grandchildren, an engineer, self-sufficient.
And then—a feeling she’d never known. A flutter. A warmth. *Butterflies*, like in the novels she’d never quite believed.
When they arrived, he carried her bags inside. She offered him tea. The children played; they talked—about life, the past, their families. The evening slipped away. Only when Andrew arrived did she realize how quickly time had flown. Robert left with an awkward goodbye. And—they hadn’t exchanged numbers.
The regret hit her like a blow. She was ashamed—what was she thinking, at her age? Maybe he’d just been polite. Maybe she’d never see him again.
Days passed. She told herself to forget it—just a chance encounter. Then, one evening, as she reached for the teapot, the doorbell rang.
There stood Robert. With a bouquet of roses and a box of cake.
“Forgive the intrusion,” he said. “But I didn’t take your number. And I couldn’t forget you.”
Margaret smiled through tears. “I’m so glad you came.”
She was nearly sixty. Her hair was grey, her knees ached by dusk. But for the first time in her life, she felt like a woman—desired, cherished, *loved*.
This is how it happens. When the bus breaks down, but the heart—against all odds—starts up again. When life, after years of pain and disappointment, offers one last chance—at love. Real, quiet, steady—like an English summer evening.
And if you think your story is over? Wait. The best part might still be ahead.
