15th October 2024
Dear Diary,
Blythe had always been certain of everything. At thirtytwo she wasnt the type to pretend she didnt see the cracks in her own life. Shed grown weary of dragging that solitary load through the endless days, wondering why love seemed to pass her by while everyone else was tangled up in their own affairs the boisterous, the thin, the heavydrinkers, the handsome, the plain. Everyone had someone, and she had none.
One rainy afternoon she confessed to Lucy, Why am I always the odd one out? Is it something about me? Am I a bore, a clingy sort, or perhaps I simply dont give enough affection? Lucy, perched on the edge of her battered armchair, leaned in and whispered of an old folk tale that her greataunt used to mutter a crown of spinsterhood.
Are you serious? Blythe scoffed, Were not living in the Middle Ages, are we?
Lucy, eyes bright, shot back, Youll see. My cousin Nadine knows the full story. Ill call her right now. She fumbled with her phone, pinching the tip of her tongue as she dialed.
Oi, Nadine, love, hows it going? Still planning to get hitched? And what about Gareth? Did he finally kick you out? Lucy jabbered, halflaughing. Right, Im off to the place where they said the crown was taken. Ill send you the address. Fancy a trip?
Blythe shrugged. Why not. She set off, but the old woman whod warned her about the crown a selfstyled wisewoman who lived in a cottage on the outskirts of Manchester turned her away at the gate. You have no crown, she muttered. You never did, darling. First bloke left you when he realized you were pregnant. He promised the world, but he was already married.
Was he my type? Blythe asked, halfsmiling. What about the second? The third?
The crone chuckled. None of them were meant for you. The third? He wont even appear. As for the one who will, hell show up when you stop looking for him. Hell be yours, but not entirely yours a woman cant have a man wholeheartedly without a bit of compromise. Trust him; hell bring you the happiness you crave. Patience, love, patience.
She also sent Blythe a note about a friend who needed to see a doctor Give her the herbs, tell her to stop poking around, the old woman says.
Those words haunted Blythe for years. Desperate, she visited the crone repeatedly, each time hearing the same prophecy. When the third man finally entered her life, shed forgotten the old womans counsel entirely. He was kind, treated her daughter kindly, but something always seemed to pull him away, as though an unseen force whisked him off at the slightest hint of contentment.
It wasnt until she met George that things began to shift. The flat next door had been empty for ages. When Blythe moved in with her little girl, the neighbour Aunt Kate mentioned the former tenant roamed about at night, checking in on his mother. One evening Blythe, curious as any woman, peeked through the ajar door and saw a man wallpapering his new home. She slipped away quietly, assuming the owner had simply returned.
Their first real encounter was in the hallway a week later. The doors in that old council block were odd: if one swung open, the other refused to budge unless the first was shut. Blythe, hurrying to work, found herself stuck. The neighbour, apologising, closed his flat and rushed off, his footsteps echoing down the stairwell. The next time, Blythe blocked his exit, and he laughed, a warm, unguarded laugh that made her feel oddly at ease.
They met on the communal garden bench, where George let her be the first to open the gate. Later, he helped Kristine lift her bicycle, and Blythe baked scones and delivered them to his doorstep. In the park, Georges son a lad about Kristines age raced him on the swings, and the two families quickly fell into easy camaraderie.
Six months later George asked Blythe out for dinner, then introduced her to his family. He opened up about his past, his voice steady: Blythe, Im no twentyyearold lad. Im a man with my own opinions and habits. I promise you fidelity, Ill do the work, I dont drink or smoke, and I have no nasty vices. Ill respect you, cherish you, though love may not come in the blaze I once imagined. Im not a rock, but I do feel something for you.
He confessed his earlier failed romance with a girl named Emma, how she had only ever seen him as a friend, and how hed spent years trying to push those feelings out. When Blythe asked if he should have spoken to Emma, he sighed, I tried. She told me shed always been a friend, even though she loved me in her own way. I realized I could not live with a love that was not mutual.
Georges honesty struck a chord. He told her hed married before, that love had felt more like a sentence than a gift, that he sometimes felt a broken soldier unable to give happiness. Yet he also told her to decide for herself whether she could live without the fireworks, whether a steady, unremarkable love could satisfy her.
Blythe thought it over. A week later she walked into Georges bustling household, greeted by laughing relatives and her daughters delighted squeals. She feared being seen as a replacement, that people would pity her, but the warmth she received quelled every doubt. She never regretted saying yes to George. He proved reliable, solving her problems, and she learned to quiet the wild fantasies of passion that once haunted her. Occasionally, shed catch a fleeting glance from George that seemed to wander toward an old memory, but it never disturbed the rhythm of their life.
Now, as spring light streams through the kitchen window and George hums while washing the dishes, I watch him glance over at me, his smile as bright as the first day we met. He steps into the room, pauses, and with a mischievous grin says, Love, youve got to wait for it to find you, even if its hiding behind an ordinary day.
I realize now that the crones words were not a curse but a counsel: patience, not desperation, brings the most lasting peace. Ill carry that lesson forward: trust the timing of life, let love arrive in its own shape, and cherish the steady comfort over fleeting flames.
Good morning, dear reader. May your love, if it has yet to arrive, find its way through a crack in the ordinary, and if its already there, hold it close.
Arthur Whitaker, reflecting on Blythes journey.
