“Mum, what on earth have you done?” Emily Bennetts voice crackled through the phone, half amused, half horrified. “A rescue dog? And not just any rescue dogsome ancient, poorly thing? Youve lost the plot! Couldnt you have taken up line dancing instead?”
Margaret Bennett stood by the bay window, watching snowflakes whirl and settle over the rooftops and tree branches of Cheltenham. It had become a habit lately. Once, shed waited like this for her husbandexhausted, hoarse-voiced, stumbling in late. The kitchen would glow softly, dinner laid out, conversation humming over cups of tea
Gradually, the conversations dried up. He came home later, avoided her gaze, and answered in grunts. Then, one evening:
“Margaret, I need to tell you Ive met someone. I want a divorce.”
“Divorce? And what about me?” A sharp pain stabbed between her shoulder blades.
“Come on, were adults. The kids are grown. Weve had thirty yearsbut were not dead yet! I want something new.”
“So Im the old model, then,” she muttered, staring at her hands.
“Dont be dramatic. But yes, I want happiness. Forgive me.” He kissed the top of her head and vanished into the shower, washing away three decades while Margaret slumped under the weight of it all.
Betrayal. Was there anything crueller?
Time blurreddivorce papers, his new life, her hollow routine. Shed lived for the children, for him. Now? She lingered at the window, flipping open her grandmothers compact mirror. A sad-eyed woman peered back, a stray tear caught in the crows feet, silver threads at her temples.
The hallway mirror remained untouched.
“Mum, you need a hobby,” her daughter chirped, the phone line buzzing with impatience.
“Like what, love?”
“Reading? Zumba for the over-fifties? Gallery hopping?”
“Ah, yes. The over-fifties club.” Margaret sighed. “How thrilling.”
“Sorry, gotta dash!”
Her son, Oliver, understood better. “Mum, well visit at Christmas. Bring Sophie. Youll love her.”
Margaret adored her childrenbut oh, how different they were.
Then, scrolling Facebook one night, an ad caught her eye: “OPEN DAY at The Paws Inn Rescue! Bring donationsblankets, towels, old bedding.”
Margaret squinted. “Ive boxes of that junk”
Ten days later, she arrived by taxi, arms full of sacks. Volunteers bustled about, guiding visitors through kennels, each dog with a sob story.
Margaret trudged home, legs aching. “Shower. Supper. Sofa. Think later.”
But “later” never came. Those eyeshaunting, warymirrored her own in the compact.
One dog stood out: a greying, silent lurcher named Duchess.
“Twelve years old. Abandoned when her owner moved abroad. No one wants the old girls,” the volunteer sighed.
Duchess didnt stir as Margaret crouched beside her. So she sat on the concrete in her gardening jeans and talked. About the empty house. The divorce. The crushing quiet.
An hour passed. Slowly, Duchess laid her head on Margarets knee.
“Ill take her,” Margaret blurted later.
The volunteer hesitated. “Shes poorly. Costly vet bills”
“I raised two teenagers. Ill manage.”
That evening, she carried Duchess home in a tartan blanket. “Right, Duchess. New life. Lets figure it out.”
Vets. Pills. Pee pads. They walked at dawn and dusk, avoiding gossipy neighbours.
Then came The Call.
“MUM. A DOG? A SICKLY OLD MONGREL? ARE YOU MAD?”
Margaret sipped her tea. “Darling, Im fifty-three, fit, and fabulous. This is what strong women do.”
“But”
“No buts. Your father left me for a woman younger than his golf clubs. Respect my choices.”
Oliver, though, was delighted. “Bloody brilliant! But can you handle it?”
“Ollie, I survived your GCSEs. Ill cope.”
She didnt mention the man shed met on their midnight walks. David. Divorced. His wife had run off to Marbella with a yoga instructor. His rescue greyhound, Bertiea former racer, dumped when he slowed downsniffed politely at Duchess.
At New Years Eve, the doorbell rang. Oliver and Sophie tumbled in, only to freeze at the sight of David and Bertie sipping sherry by the tree.
“Mum, meet Sophie. Were having a baby. And” He grinned. “We want a rescue pup. Maybe after the nappy phase?”
That night, no window in Cheltenham looked lonely. Laughter bubbled into the frosty air, and even back at The Paws Inn, the dogs wagged, sensing hope.
So heres to fresh starts, waggy tails, and second chanceswith love from Bertie, whos currently snoring on my slippers. May your 2024 be full of both biscuits and joy!
