If only he’d known how it would all unfold…
The bus bounced over potholes, the driver muttering under his breath as he swerved around waterlogged craters, sometimes veering into the opposite lane. Few passengers rode at this hour—midday, when most were at work.
James stared out the window at the grimy, half-melted snow. Soon it would vanish entirely, and summer would creep in. The bus lurched again, and the driver cursed vividly.
“Bloody roads’ll shake the wheels right off.”
At last, the cemetery gate loomed ahead, rows of headstones darkening behind the iron fence.
Every visit filled James with the same heavy sense of inevitability—the fleeting nature of life. The thought that he, too, would rest here one day made his skin prickle. He didn’t come out of longing, but obligation. It was expected—certain dates demanded remembrance. Guilt twisted in his chest, and he exhaled sharply.
The bus stopped. The doors hissed open, and passengers stepped out, stretching stiff limbs. Most headed straight for the rows of plastic flowers lining the fence. James moved slower, searching for something real. The waxen petals, garish and unreal, made his eyes ache. At the end, he spotted an elderly woman with a bucket of red carnations.
He bought four and passed through the gates. The paths were half-submerged in slush. He picked his way carefully, but icy water still seeped into his old winter boots. Too late for regrets now.
Near the tree line, he turned left. His wife’s grave stood out by its wooden cross. *Time for a proper stone. Or wait—maybe our son will arrange it later for both of us?* The temporary markers around hers had all been replaced. The city of the dead had grown since his last visit in autumn.
He stepped over the low fence, sinking into wet snow. His toes were numb.
“Hello, Lillian.”
The faded photo in its frame smiled back at him. He loved that picture—her at thirty-six, frozen exactly as he remembered.
He recalled her birthday. He’d rushed out early for flowers, returning to find her awake, dressed in a new frock. He’d given her gold earrings. She’d put them on immediately, beaming—he’d snapped the photo just then. Like it was yesterday…
“Happy birthday. You’d have been fifty-six today.” He hesitated, deciding where to place the carnations.
The grave was crowded with plastic blooms, still unnervingly bright. He bent, plucked a single yellow flower from the snow near the cross, and tucked it at the foot. In its place, he laid the carnations. The frozen earth wouldn’t yield—frail stems would snap. The snow would melt, and the flowers would fall. They looked meager beside the gaudy synthetics. But alive.
“Miss you. Can’t come often. Don’t be angry. *I* deserved to lie here, not you. But life doesn’t play fair.”
He spoke at length, sharing news, watching her face until his feet burned with cold. Now and then, crows cawed, sharpening the lonely silence.
“Better go, love. Wore these old boots—soaked through. No one to scold me now. I’ll come back after Easter, when it’s dry. Clean up properly, bring a new photo. You’re too lovely here. Forgive me.” He sighed, stepped over the fence, and left without looking back.
A handful of people waited at the stop. By the time the bus arrived, his toes were numb.
Home was a blur. He peeled off wet boots and socks, boiled the kettle, drank two honeyed teas, pulled on dry woolens, and collapsed onto the sofa. A film droned on the telly. The warm drink dragged him under…
***
Mary joined their construction site fresh from college—bright-eyed, freckled, with a smile like spring sunshine breaking through clouds. James couldn’t look away. Married, with a son in primary school, yet he was bewitched. What was he to do? Avoid her?
One evening near Christmas, they met at the bus stop. Mary huddled into her coat collar, streetlamps glinting in her wide eyes. James stole glances. When the bus came, he elbowed through the crowd to sit beside her.
“Evening, Mary. Heading home?”
“Yes. You?”
“Same.” A pause. “Tree up yet?”
“No. Dad always bought a real one. Left it on the balcony till the thirtieth, then we’d decorate together. The smell—like Christmas bottled.” She laughed, and James was lost.
“It *is* the thirtieth. Got a pine waiting?”
Mary giggled. “Parents live miles away. Mine’s artificial. I’ll unpack it tonight, hang sweets—like Mum used to. Tea and tinsel.” Another laugh.
James pictured it—the flat, the tree, Mary stretching to place a bauble, the kettle humming in the kitchen…
“Can I come? Help decorate.” The words slipped out.
Mary blinked. “Why?”
“To help. Then tea.” Heat rushed to his face. What must she think? He rambled, “You described it so well. My wife and son did ours weeks ago. Just… wanted to *feel* it again.”
“Alright,” she said simply, eyes searching his.
At her flat, they assembled the tree, laughing as they tangled the lights. It felt like they’d known each other forever. The tea was drunk too quickly. He left reluctantly.
On New Year’s Eve, he returned. The lie to his wife slid out easily—too easily. Lillian’s knowing glance haunted him, but he was powerless. Mary was a whirlpool, and he stopped resisting.
Soon, he visited often. Mary never asked—only sometimes, he caught sadness in her eyes. The same sadness he saw in Lillian’s when he came home.
One evening, resolved to confess, he stepped inside to find Lillian in tears.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, bracing for the storm.
His mother was in hospital—critical. Suddenly, his confession felt trivial.
Later, with his mother bedridden at home, Lillian quit her job to care for her. A hired nurse was caught drunk—dismissed immediately.
James went to Mary to end it. Apologized for leading her on, for not wanting to wreck Lillian’s life—or hers. “You’re young. Find someone free.”
In the hallway, Mary pressed against him. They stood like that, silent, until she pushed him away.
Walking home, he hated himself. At work, they exchanged stiff nods. Then he saw her with a young intern—bespectacled, handsome. Jealousy lanced through him. Days passed like walking underwater. Soon, Mary married the glasses-wearing boy.
Three years later, his mother died—just before New Year’s. After the funeral, Lillian rested a month, then returned to work. A medical exam revealed a tumour. Surgery. Chemo. More surgery.
One day, he bumped into Mary at the bus stop.
“You look awful. Trouble?” she asked, worried.
“Mother first, now Lillian. My fault. That day I meant to leave her—then Mum fell ill. Punished for loving you.”
Mary paled. “Then I’m punished too.”
“How?”
“For loving a married man. I can’t have children. My husband left me.” She turned away.
“Sorry,” James whispered.
On the bus, they sat together in silence.
At home, Lillian faded daily—thin, shuffling along walls. James couldn’t meet her eyes. Why her? Why not him?
“Want anything?” He took her brittle hand.
“Just sit with me.” She breathed heavily. “I knew about her. Waited for you to leave. Feared it, too.”
“She’s gone. Long gone. Why didn’t you say?”
“Why? I loved you. I wished misery on her—but it found *me*. I even… welcomed your mother’s illness. It kept you.” Her voice broke. “You *were* going to leave?”
“No,” he lied.
“Doesn’t matter now. If I’d known… When I’m gone, go to her.”
“Don’t say that—” His voice cracked.
Watching her slip away was punishment enough.
Two days later, she was gone.
***
James woke gasping—as if he’d relived his life in a dream, every detail razor-sharp.
He drank water at the sink, heart hammering, and stared at the night-cloaked city. What’s worse—loneliness, or guilt that won’t fade? Awake or asleep, the past gnawed at him.
He wouldn’t seek Mary. Two broken souls don’t mend each other. That chapter was closed.
His son offered to share his home. James refused. Didn’t want to intrude.
We chase passion, blind to consequences. Then the bill comes due. What’s better—to die young, paying for your sins, or to live on, drowning in regret?
*We don’t ask for happiness—just a little less pain.*
