Emily had been a mistressunlucky in love, shed lingered in spinsterhood until thirty before finally seeking a man. At first, she hadnt known Paul was married, but soon enough, he stopped hiding it once he saw how attached shed grown.
Yet Emily never reproached him. Instead, she cursed herself for the affair and her own weakness. She felt flawed, as if time had slipped through her fingers while other women found husbands. Not that she was unappealingno beauty, perhaps, but pleasant-looking, softly rounded in a way that added years to her appearance.
The relationship led nowhere. Emily refused to stay a mistress yet couldnt bring herself to leave. The thought of solitude terrified her.
One afternoon, her cousin Simon dropped by unexpectedly, passing through London on business. They shared a meal in her tiny kitchen, chatting like children about life and its twists. Between bites of toast and ham, Emily confessed her tangled love life, tears spilling freely.
Just then, her neighbor popped in, beckoning Emily to admire some new purchases. She slipped out for twenty minuteslong enough for the doorbell to ring. Simon answered, expecting her return, only to find Paul on the threshold. One glance at the bloke in joggers and a vest, chewing lazily, and Paul froze.
“Emily in?” he managed.
“Bath,” Simon lied smoothly. “And you are?”
“Her husband. Civil partnership, for now.” Simon stepped closer, gripping Pauls collar. “You wouldnt be that married dandy shes been mooning over, eh? Listen sharpshow your face here again, and Ill toss you down the stairs. Clear?”
Paul fled.
When Emily returned, Simon recounted the encounter.
“Whatve you done?” she cried. “He wont come back now.” Sinking onto the sofa, she buried her face in her hands.
“Good riddance. Enough moping. Got a proper bloke for youwidower back in my village. Women flock to him, but hes not bitten yet. Pack a bag when I return. Well visit for my Lucys birthday.”
Emily balked. “A stranger? Suddenly trotting offhow shameful!”
“Shames bedding a married man, not meeting a free one. No ones dragging you to his bed. Come along.”
Days later, they arrived in the village. Simons wife, Lucy, had laid a picnic by the garden shed. Neighbors and friends gathered, including Simons matethe widower, Alfie.
The evening passed warmly, though Alfie spoke little. “Still grieving, poor soul,” Emily mused privately. “A rare, tender heart.”
A week later, her doorbell rang unexpectedly. There stood Alfie, clutching a bag.
“Passing through,” he mumbled. “Thought Id drop by.”
She invited him in, suspicion dawning as she brewed tea.
“Get all your shopping done?” she asked.
“Aye.” He pulled a small bunch of daffodils from the bag. “These are for you.”
Her eyes sparkled. They sipped tea, chatting of rain and rising prices, until Alfie lingered awkwardly at the door.
“If I leave without saying…” He hesitated. “Emily, Ive thought of you all week. Rushed here today.”
She flushed. “We barely know each other.”
“Doesnt matter. Unless… you find me foul?” He fidgeted. “Ive a daughtereight. At her grans now.”
“A child! How lovely,” Emily breathed. “Ive always wanted a girl.”
Encouraged, Alfie kissed her. When they parted, tears glistened in her eyes.
“Did I offend you?”
“Quite the opposite. I never thought… It felt right. No stolen moments.”
They met every weekend thereafter. Two months later, they wed, settling in the village. Emily found work at a nursery; within a year, she bore a daughter. Now two girls bloomed in their homeboth cherished, both adored.
Alfie and Emily grew younger with joy, their love deepening like aged whisky. At gatherings, Simon would wink.
“Eh, Em? Told you Id find you a proper man. Glowing like a rose, you are. Never doubt your brother. And shed laugh, squeezing his hand, the lines around her eyes soft with gratitude. The past faded like old ink, no longer a wound but a scar she could touch without flinching. Every morning, waking to the sound of childrens laughter and Alfies steady breath beside her, she felt the quiet miracle of belonging. Time, at last, had found hernot in stolen glances or whispered lies, but in toast shared at the kitchen table, in calloused hands held firm, in a love built wide enough for ghosts to rest.
