Margaret always woke before the alarm, as if her body kept perfect time. She rose, washed her face, and made breakfast. By the time her husband entered the kitchen—clean-shaven, smelling of aftershave—the table was set with scrambled or soft-boiled eggs, sliced bread, cheese, and ham, alongside a steaming mug of strong coffee. Margaret herself settled for just coffee and a few bites of cheese.
They had lived together for thirty years. In that time, they had learned to read each other so well that words were rarely necessary, especially in the morning. “See you tonight,” “I’ll be late,” “Thank you…” A glance, a footstep, even silence spoke volumes. Why waste breath?
“Thanks,” said Robert, draining his coffee before standing.
When they were first married, he always kissed her cheek before leaving for work. Now, he simply thanked her and walked out. He worked as an engineer at a railway factory, leaving early to beat the traffic across town.
Margaret cleared the table, washed the dishes, and got ready herself. She taught at a university just two stops from their home, walking there in all weather—rain, wind, even snow. Tall and lean, she wore trousers and blazers year-round, usually in grey pinstripe, with pastel blouses underneath.
Her once-dark hair had gone silver. She never dyed it, instead twisting it into a thin braid coiled at the nape of her neck. No makeup, no jewellery except her wedding ring.
As a lecturer, she spoke enough during the day. At home, she preferred quiet. Robert didn’t mind; he liked the peace. To most, they seemed the perfect couple—no arguments, no drama.
He was two years older and still handsome. Margaret had long grown used to women noticing him. She’d been jealous once, but with age came indifference. “Where would he go?” she told herself. “No one will feed him like I do.” And she cooked divinely.
They had a daughter, now married to an army officer and living abroad.
Students found Margaret intimidating. She rarely smiled, always composed, never cruel. Even in exams, she was fair—if a student admitted they didn’t know an answer but had studied, she’d guide them to a pass. But cheat, and she’d fail them without mercy.
She kept to herself, never engaging in departmental gossip.
One day, in the canteen, she overheard two freshers chatting behind her.
“That chemistry lecturer? Total spinster. If not for the wedding ring, I’d think she’d never married,” one said.
“She’s got a husband, actually. Quite good-looking. And a daughter, already married,” the other replied.
“What does he see in her? And how do you even know?”
“Live in the same neighbourhood. She’s alright, really.”
“Alright? Dresses like a man. Doubt she’s even got—”
Margaret finished her meal, stood, and turned to face them.
“Sorry,” they squeaked, flushing red.
“A spinster. That’s what they think of me.” In the staffroom mirror, she studied herself. “Well. What *does* Robert see in me?” The bell rang, and she headed to class.
At home, she started dinner—slow-cooked beef in clay pots, timed to his return. Everything was ready. She glanced out the window. Robert always parked below, but tonight, the spot was empty. Then the front door clicked open.
Margaret frowned as she stepped into the hall. “No car? Did it break down?”
“No, parked it elsewhere.”
She didn’t ask why. Back in the kitchen, she pulled the pots from the oven. Robert followed, sitting at the table.
“Margie, sit down, please.”
She set aside the oven mitt and faced him, fingers interlaced. His gaze was distant, tense.
“Listen. I’ve fallen in love with someone else. I’m leaving.” He wiped his sweaty palms.
Her grip tightened till her knuckles ached.
“Sorry. I’ll pack my things.” He stood and left.
Margaret stayed rooted. *Go after him. Stop him.* But she didn’t move. She heard the wardrobe open, hangers clinking, drawers sliding. The suitcase zipper. Silence. Then the wheels thudded over carpet, clicked on tile.
He took forever with his coat and shoes. *He’ll come back. Say he changed his mind.* But the door shut. The lock snapped.
She sat staring blankly before burying her face in her hands.
That’s why he hadn’t parked below—so the neighbours wouldn’t see. Or had *she* been waiting in the car? Margaret splashed her face at the sink. *The beef.*
Her first instinct was to bin it—pots and all. Instead, she wrapped them in foil and took them to the elderly couple downstairs.
A young woman answered.
“Hello. Are the—” Margaret realized she didn’t even know their names.
“The Wilsons? Sold the flat. Their son took them in. We just moved in yesterday. I’m Sarah, my husband’s Jack. Smells amazing!”
“For you. Housewarming gift.” She managed no smile, handing the pots over before leaving.
That night, she cycled between tears and pacing, arguing with an imaginary Robert. *Why now? Why not when we were younger? What do I do?* *Didn’t you always know? I fell in love…*
Morning came as always—before the alarm. Coffee, then her walk to work. That evening, for the first time, she didn’t cook. She stared mindlessly at the telly until the doorbell rang.
*Robert? No, he has a key.* She answered to find Sarah holding a plate of cake.
“You treated us last night. The beef was incredible! Jack insisted I get the recipe. Thought I’d return the favour. First time baking—be honest.”
“Come in.” Margaret put the kettle on.
“Just you? Husband at work?”
A shrug.
“Jack and I married two months ago. I’m thirty-six—first time! Last-chance saloon, really. Lived with Mum till now, so I’m hopeless at cooking. Jack’s divorced,” Sarah prattled.
She caught Margaret’s sharp look.
“Think I stole him? Nah. His wife left *him* three years ago. Took their daughter. Broke him. Drank himself ragged. Mum warned me off, but… he’s kind. Quit the booze. Hands like gold—ask if you need fixes.”
“Cake’s too sweet,” Margaret said.
“Yeah, I know. Teach me to cook? I’ll do your hair—shorter would suit you.”
“No.”
“Just saying—”
“*No.*”
Sarah left. Margaret studied the mirror. *Maybe… a change?*
Days later, she agreed.
“You’ll look smashing! Like Dame Judy Dench!”
“Who?”
“Never mind. Weekend?”
Saturday, baking a pie, she answered the door to Sarah, who marched in with a kit.
“Ready? Mirror’s perfect. Chair?”
Margaret had forgotten.
“Smells good!”
“Pie’s in.” Oddly, Sarah’s chatter didn’t grate.
“Great! Colour first, tea after, then the cut.”
The chair in place, Sarah draped her, mixed dye, then—*snip*—lopped off the braid.
“Trust me. Thin, grey—no loss.”
Margaret surrendered, avoiding the mirror. Over tea, she sat turbaned, while Sarah raved about the pie.
Eyes shut during the cut, her mind raced. *If I’d done this sooner, would he have stayed? Nonsense. He left because I aged. This was a mistake.*
“Done! Look.”
Margaret barely recognised herself—stylish, younger.
“Just brows, mascara, lipstick—”
“Now?”
“Tomorrow!” Sarah beamed. “Like it?”
“Love it.”
They became friends. Evenings spent chatting, Margaret sharing recipes, Sarah scribbling notes. No friends since school, then Robert—no need. Now Sarah filled the void.
Margaret grew fond of her reflection, bought new dresses, wore lipstick. Compliments rolled in; she passed on Sarah’s number.
“Jack adores me. Goes mad for your pies!” Sarah grinned. “Husband away?”
Now, the truth came easily. “He left.”
“From *you*?”
Spring arrived. Buds swelled. Margaret walked home, dress fluttering, scarf loose. A car door slammed.
“Margie.”
Robert—thinner, ragged—stared. “Your hair…”
“You back for the rest? Why wait outside?”
“Dunno.”
“Come up.”
Inside, he glanced at the coat rack.
“Thought I’d have company? Why come?”
“I want back. If you’ll have me.”
“Why?”
“Miss you. Mistake. She can’t cook. Sick of takeaways. Gut’s wrecked.”
“I don’t cook much now. For one.”
“I know I don’t deserve it. Nowhere else. You told Lily?”
“No. It’”But this is your home too—stay, try to sort things out, and if it doesn’t work, we’ll sell the place and move on.”
