Alright, so heres the story, all dressed up proper for English tastesnames, places, the lot. Picture this:
Im Edward, sixty-one this year. Lost my wife eight years back, and since then, lifes been a bit like waiting for a train that never comes. The kids pop round now and then with a bit of cash in an envelope, drop off my prescriptions, and off they go againalways in a rush, like theyve got a bus to catch.
Thought Id made my peace with being on my ownuntil one evening, scrolling through Facebook, I spotted a name I hadnt seen in decades: Margaret Hartley.
Margaretmy first love. The girl I swore Id marry someday. She had hair like ripe wheat and a laugh that stuck in your head like a favourite tune. But life had other plans. Her family packed up and moved to Scotland overnight, and before I could even say a proper goodbye, she was married off to someone else.
When her photo popped upstreaks of silver in her hair but that same soft smileit was like someone had turned back the clock. We started chatting, swapping stories, long phone calls, then meeting for tea in little cafés. Felt like no time had passed at all.
So there I was, at sixty-one, marrying my first love all over again.
We kept it simple. I wore a tweed jacket; she wore a cream dress. Our friends said we looked like a pair of lovestruck kids. For the first time in years, I felt proper alive.
That night, after everyone had left, I poured us each a sherry and led her upstairs. Our wedding nightsomething Id thought was long behind me.
But when I helped her out of her dress, I noticed something odda scar near her shoulder, another on her wrist. I didnt mind the marks themselves, but the way she tensed when I touched them? That got me.
Margaret, I said gently, did he hurt you?
She went still. Her eyes dartedfear, then shameand then she whispered something that near stopped my heart.
Edward my name isnt Margaret.
The room went dead quiet. My pulse hammered in my ears.
What dyou mean?
She looked down, hands shaking.
Margaret was my sister.
I stumbled back. My head spun. The girl Id carried in my heart for forty yearsgone?
She died, the woman said, tears rolling down her cheeks. She died young. Our parents buried her quick, no fuss. But everyone always said I sounded like her, moved like her I was her shadow. When you found me online, I I couldnt help myself. You thought I was her. And for once in my life, someone looked at me the way they used to look at Margaret. I didnt want to lose that.
The floor might as well have dropped out from under me. My first love was long gone. The woman in front of me wasnt herjust a reflection, wearing Margarets memory like a borrowed coat.
I wanted to shout, to ask how she couldve lied like this. But when I looked at hertrembling, shatteredI didnt see a liar. I saw a woman whod spent her whole life standing in someone elses light, never quite seen.
Tears stung my eyes. My chest achedfor Margaret, for the years we lost, for the rotten twist of it all.
I croaked out, So who are you, then?
She lifted her face, wrecked.
My name is Beatrice. And all I ever wanted was to know what it felt like to be loved. Just once.
That night, I lay awake beside her, staring at the ceiling. My heart was split right down the middlebetween the ghost of the girl Id loved and the lonely woman whod worn her name.
And I realised then: love when youre older isnt always a blessing.
Sometimes, its a testone sharp enough to remind you that even an old heart can still crack.
